47 | ☕A Sign of Twins to Come ☕
For the first time in what felt like forever, Anya didn't wake up puking.
No burning in her throat. No cold sweat slicking her temples. No desperate scramble to the bathroom before her stomach turned inside out.
She lay still, blinking up at the ceiling, her body tense and waiting for the familiar wave of nausea to slap her in the gut like it always did. But... nothing came.
Just the golden spill of morning light slipping through the sheer curtains, painting gentle patterns across the bedspread.
The sheets beneath her were fresh and cool, scented faintly with lavender and sunshine.
And beside her, Atlas was curled under the covers, one arm tossed over his head, snoring softly—completely unaware of the miracle unfolding inches from him.
Her brows furrowed. Slowly, she propped herself up on one elbow, holding her breath as if moving too fast might jinx it. Still no nausea. No headache. No dizziness. Just... peace.
"Oh my god," she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips as her fingers rubbed gently on her big tummy. "I feel... normal?"
She sat up fully, stunned by the absence of pain. There was a lightness to her limbs she hadn't felt in weeks, maybe months. As if someone had lifted a weight off her shoulders, off her chest, off her very soul.
She laughed under her breath—half disbelieving, half giddy—and covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes prickled unexpectedly. Tears? Really? Just because she wasn't nauseous? But it wasn't just that.
Behind her, Atlas shifted in his sleep and murmured her name, groggy and low. She turned toward him slowly, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and awe.
"Atlas," she said, a soft smile blooming on her face. "I think... I think it's finally over."
And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
Downstairs, Kaia practically burst through the penthouse door the moment Anya called. The elevator hadn't even fully opened before she was pushing through, hair half-clipped, sunglasses still perched on her head like she hadn't even paused to finish getting ready.
"No more morning sickness?!" she gasped, wide-eyed and breathless, like the news was too good to be true.
Anya stood barefoot by the kitchen island, a piece of toast in one hand and the other cradling her now very round belly. She grinned like she'd just won the lottery.
"Gone," she said triumphantly. "Like, completely. I even ate toast with butter this morning. Just toast. No sardines. No marshmallows. No peanut butter pickles."
Kaia froze mid-step, blinking like Anya had just recited a foreign language. "Wait. You're telling me... you didn't want to dip that toast in pickle juice?"
"Nope."
"Or top it with chocolate chips and hot sauce?"
"Didn't even cross my mind."
Kaia's mouth dropped open. She walked slowly toward her, like she was approaching a wild animal that might disappear if she moved too fast. "You're... cured?"
"Doctor finally gave me meds that worked," Anya said, rolling her shoulders back in a delicious, satisfied stretch. "And get this—I haven't craved anything weird all day. No dry ramen noodles. No cold spaghetti. I feel like I could run a marathon."
"Or at least go shopping?" Kaia offered, grinning, her voice rising with excitement as she wiggled her brows.
Anya laughed, her eyes sparkling like they hadn't in weeks. "Exactly. I want to wear something cute and go out in public and not immediately throw up in the nearest potted plant."
Kaia rushed forward and threw her arms around her. "Finally! I've missed you, you hormonally unstable goblin."
Anya snorted. "Rude. But fair."
They both laughed, clinging to that rare feeling of normalcy like it was a gift wrapped in sunshine.
Atlas watched them leave from the balcony, one hand casually resting on the railing, the other holding a delicate white espresso cup. He looked every bit the picture of calm sophistication—except for the subtle gleam of purpose in his eyes.
Anya's laughter floated up from the street, followed by Kaia's dramatic "shopping war cry."
He couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
It was the first time in weeks Anya had sounded like herself again.
Light. Free. Untethered from the weight of morning sickness and fatigue.
He took a slow sip of his espresso, then pulled out his phone like a man on a mission.
Full dad-mode: engaged.
He'd been planning this quietly, behind the scenes, ever since the first doctor's appointment confirmed there were two heartbeats.
He didn't want to overwhelm her, not when she was already battling nausea and exhaustion on a daily basis.
But now... now the timing was right. She felt good.
She felt hopeful. And he wanted to meet that hope with something tangible.
His fingers flew across the screen as he sent off a flurry of messages.
The designers he'd consulted weeks ago were already on standby, just waiting for the green light.
Delivery schedules were confirmed. Mood boards approved.
Installations ready to go. By the time Anya got home, everything would be in motion.
Atlas tucked the phone into his back pocket and made his way down the hall, espresso still in hand. He paused outside the guest room—the one that had slowly transformed from storage overflow to hope-filled blueprint.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder.
The morning light filtered in through sheer cream curtains, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor.
Samples were spread everywhere—wooden crib spindles resting beside velvet throw pillows, paint swatches fanned out like fallen autumn leaves.
Pale sage, gentle oat, a muted gold. No bright pinks.
No cartoon chaos. Just warmth. Serenity.
A kind of calm that whispered welcome home.
Atlas stepped carefully between the piles, his gaze drawn to the sketch taped up on the far wall: the early design of a cloud mural, each one hand-painted in soft gradients.
Some floated lazily across a dusky twilight sky; others stretched out like sleepy giants, their edges feathered and glowing.
Tiny, hand-drawn stars danced between them, scattered like secrets.
In the corner, beneath the wide bay window, a half-assembled reading nook waited—plush cushions in ivory and cream, a miniature shelf holding the beginnings of a library: a copy of Goodnight Moon, a collection of fairy tales Anya had loved as a child,
and a worn-out book Atlas had found in a box marked "Atlas, Age 6."
He didn't remember how it ended, only that his mother had read it to him every night until she didn't.
His chest tightened.
He crouched down, setting his espresso carefully on a low bench, and picked up a folded muslin blanket. It was soft as a whisper. He rubbed it between his fingers for a moment, thinking of tiny hands, sleepy eyes, the weight of someone small and trusting resting against his chest.
He stood slowly, hands in his pockets, letting his eyes sweep over everything one last time.
Two cribs. Two heartbeats. Two lives already threading themselves into the fabric of his own.
"Let's build their world," he thought to himself.
He left the room with purpose, espresso forgotten on the bench, already thinking about where the glider chair should go.
They'd be home in a few hours. And when they walked through that door, he wanted her to feel it—that they weren't just having babies.
They were already giving them a home.
The boutique was the kind of place you either loved or feared—soft music drifting through the air, dried lavender bundles hanging from the ceiling beams, and every item perfectly folded, fluffed, or balanced just so.
It was designed to calm you. To convince you that your child deserved a hand-woven baby alpaca onesie and a mobile made of ethically sourced moonstones.
Anya stood at the entrance, blinking against the golden light filtering through gauzy curtains. She could smell chamomile and sandalwood. She could feel her wallet already sighing.
Kaia, however, had already disappeared behind a rack of miniature jackets that looked like they belonged on woodland creatures attending a forest tea party.
"Kaia," Anya called, "we came here for like... one thing. Just a glider chair."
Her best friend's voice drifted out from behind a display. "And we're getting that, obviously. But while we're here..."
Kaia emerged, holding up a lemon-printed sunhat roughly the size of a grapefruit. "Tell me this doesn't scream vintage cottage core vibes."
Anya arched a brow. "That hat screams seventy dollars."
Kaia pouted. "Okay, but one of your babies is gonna wear this, take a photo in a wildflower field, and go viral. I can feel it."
Anya snorted. "You're unhinged."
"You love it."
She kind of did.
They wandered deeper into the store, their footsteps muffled by thick cream rugs.
Anya ran her fingers over shelves lined with swaddles in soft hues—sage, wheat, fog blue.
Her eyes softened at a mobile made of felt clouds and tiny stitched stars.
It was gentle. Dreamy. It made something ache in her chest.
Kaia, meanwhile, was juggling a stack of onesies with snarky slogans.
"Okay—this one says I cry. A lot. That's honesty. That's branding."
Anya smirked. "Babies don't need branding."
"Everything needs branding."
"You're the worst."
Kaia grinned and dumped the pile into their shared basket anyway.
They paused in front of a wall of tiny shoes. Anya picked up a pair of soft booties, thumbing the knit.
"This all feels... real now," she said softly. "Like, before—when I was so sick—I couldn't think about this stuff without wanting to crawl into a hole. But today? I don't know. I feel like I want to do this. Like I can breathe again."
Kaia quieted. Her playful energy shifted, mellowed. She bumped her shoulder lightly into Anya's.
"I'm glad you waited. To let yourself enjoy it. You deserve that joy."
Anya looked down at the booties in her hands. "What if I mess it up?"
Kaia didn't laugh. She didn't tease.
She just said, "You won't."