49 | ☕ Double Trouble and Wedding Hustle ☕
The hospital suite had become its own tiny universe.
A bubble of warm, white noise and swaddled love. Soft beeps from the monitors, the rhythmic hum of the breast pump in the corner, the occasional rustling of nurses moving in and out. Dim lighting coated everything in a hushed glow, like the world outside had no business interrupting.
Anya was queen of this little realm. A very sore, very stitched, utterly exhausted queen.
Wrapped in a pale lavender robe, her hair braided messily to one side, she reclined in the adjustable bed like it was a throne forged of heated blankets and crushed ice packs.
Her goals, in those fragile, sleep-deprived early days, were simple in theory—but felt monumental in practice.
First, she needed to heal—not just from the delivery, but from the surreal, overwhelming whirlwind that had brought two tiny humans into the world.
Then came the emotional part: not bursting into tears every time she looked at them.
Because every coo, every yawn, every wrinkled little stretch somehow cracked her heart wide open.
And finally, the most elusive of dreams—finding enough time and strength to take a real, honest-to-goodness shower.
Not a quick rinse or a splash of water at the sink, but a long, hot, blissful shower that made her feel human again.
Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. But soon. Hopefully.
The nurses were saints. Angels in crocs, moving through the room with the quiet grace of seasoned warriors and the tenderness of lifelong caregivers.
They handed Anya warm compresses like sacred offerings, their timing uncannily perfect, as if they could sense each fresh wave of discomfort before it even hit.
Painkillers arrived in her palm like salvation, just when she thought she couldn't take another breath through the ache.
And through it all, they made sure Zion and Colette were never more than a heartbeat away—always within reach, never beyond help.
They spoke in calming tones, adjusted swaddles like origami masters, and treated every moment, no matter how chaotic, like it was part of something sacred.
Anya didn't know their names, but she'd remember their kindness for the rest of her life.
Zion was... dramatic.
He cried like the universe had done him dirty every time his pacifier hit the floor or his swaddle dared wrinkle out of place.
Theatrical didn't even begin to cover it—this was baby Shakespeare-level despair.
Anya would watch him with equal parts amusement and exasperation as he launched into a full-body tantrum, flailing tiny limbs like he was staging a protest.
Then, mid-wail, he'd hiccup—an indignant little sound that seemed to catch him off guard—and look utterly betrayed by the betrayal of his own body.
As if even his lungs were conspiring against his righteous fury.
Colette, by contrast, was an enigma.
She didn't cry much—rarely fussed, rarely moved.
She just... observed. Lying in her bassinet with eyes too wide and too knowing, she stared into space with the eerie composure of a child who had already seen some things.
Anya would often catch her blinking slowly, brows drawn together like she was deep in silent judgment—or quietly unravelling the mysteries of the universe.
"She looks like she knows something," Anya whispered one morning, cradling her ginger tea like it was her last defence against madness. "Like... how this ends. Or who survives."
Kaia, passing by with a burp cloth and a bag of chips, peered into the bassinet and nodded solemnly.
"She's definitely plotting. That baby has seen past, present, and future—and she is not impressed."
The nurse passing by chuckled, pausing at the door with a knowing smile. "Some babies just come out like that. Old souls."
"Or tiny bosses," Anya said, sipping her tea as she leaned over the bassinet, squinting at Colette's furrowed brow. "She's the CEO. Zion's the intern."
From across the room, Zion let out a startled squawk, as if he somehow knew he was being demoted.
Colette didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just kept staring into the great beyond like she was scheduling meetings with the universe.
Across the room, Atlas was a sight. Still wearing the same slightly rumpled designer shirt from two nights ago—though someone had at least convinced him to roll up the sleeves—he sat in the corner chair with Zion bundled in his arms like a fragile artifact on loan from a very powerful,
very angry museum.
He stared at Zion.
The baby stared back.
Hard.
Atlas slowly raised one hand and signed, "He's staring at me like I owe him rent and back pay."
Anya snorted into her tea. "Well, technically, you did provide room and board for nine months."
Zion responded with a very loud fart.
Atlas didn't blink. "And now he's invoicing me."
From the doorway, Kaia breezed in, a tote bag full of snacks slung over her shoulder and a mischievous glint in her eye. She took one look at Atlas—dishevelled, bleary-eyed, clutching Zion like the baby might recite legal demands—and grinned.
"That's because you do," she said, dropping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "Eighteen years of allowance. Possibly college tuition. Definitely bribes to keep them from dating axe murderers."
Atlas blinked. "I just realized I'll be paying for two weddings."
Kaia casually tossed a granola bar at his head. "First things first, dad. Learn to change their diapers without panicking, and then we'll stress about floral arrangements."
Despite the exhaustion weighing on him like bricks—two sleepless nights, a whirlwind of emotions, a constant undercurrent of are we doing this right?
—Atlas's face softened every time his eyes landed on the bassinets.
Every time one of the babies squeaked. Every time Anya stirred in bed, instinctively reaching toward them with a sleepy, half-lidded smile.
He was unravelling in the best possible way—thread by thread, knot by knot—until all that was left was love.
That night, Atlas gently picked up Colette, his movements slow and careful, as though he were handling something fragile, something sacred.
The baby didn't make a sound. She simply blinked up at him, yawned once, and then settled into his shoulder with a quiet ease that made it seem like she'd been doing this her whole life.
From the bed, Anya's laughter was soft but genuine, despite the fatigue in her voice. "Zion's your karma. Colette is mine."
Atlas smiled to himself, looking down at the tiny, peaceful face tucked against his shoulder. The world was chaos, but somehow, in this moment, everything felt perfectly in place.
Propped up with pillows, the dim lights casting soft shadows across her cheekbones, Anya watched in awe as the man she loved cradled the daughter they'd created.
Her body still ached in ways she hadn't expected—unfamiliar, raw. The stitches in places she hadn't thought to feel tugged when she shifted, and her hormones swung from joy to tears with the clumsy grace of a drunken acrobat.
But watching Atlas hold Colette, his face a mix of wonder and responsibility, made everything else fade into the background.
"You look like you just realized you're responsible for two whole humans," she said softly, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
Atlas turned to her, his expression one of wide-eyed realization. "Two humans... who both poop at the same time."
Anya's lips twitched. "Double blessings."
He gave her a small, incredulous smile. "Double chaos."
He moved toward her then, Colette swaddled gently against his chest, and bent to press a soft kiss to Anya's forehead. His lips lingered for a moment longer than necessary, then he pulled back, his expression full of tenderness. He signed with one hand, his movements slow and deliberate.
Anya's heart fluttered at the simple yet profound words.
She closed her eyes, letting the feeling of his love wash over her, the weight of her exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
There was something so pure and intimate in the way he communicated with her, like no words were necessary when their hearts spoke the same language.
Anya was back on her feet—well, sort of.
The soreness had faded enough for her to move around the penthouse like a half-functioning human.
Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that had long since lost its shape, dark circles under her eyes, and the faintest hint of a limp in her step.
But she didn't care. Not really. She had two tiny humans—bundled up in pastel onesies—that thought she hung the moon.
And even though the exhaustion still clung to her like an old friend, she found herself smiling at the tiny bundles in her arms.
Zion was the loud one. Always crying, always needing something—whether it was milk, comfort, or just an audience for his newest wail.
Colette, on the other hand, was the stare-into-your-soul type.
She would sit, all big eyes and furrowed brows, and look at Anya like she had just solved the mysteries of the universe and wanted to share them... but only when she was ready.
Zion's wail pierced through the air like a high-pitched siren. Anya winced but didn't falter. She knew what he needed.
She'd been in this rhythm for a while now.
Zion wanted his bottle. Colette wanted... well, she wanted whatever Zion didn't have at the moment. Always. She was the type of baby who knew what she wanted before anyone else had a clue.
Anya sighed, reaching down to pick up Zion from his play mat where he had started his protest. "You just ate, buddy. What is it now?" she muttered under her breath.
He wailed again, his tiny fists flailing in frustration.
Anya adjusted him gently in her arms, feeling the familiar warmth of his body against hers.
As she stood there, rocking him lightly, she could feel the weight of the world in her chest, but there was something else too—something warmer.
Something that made the exhaustion seem worth it.
"Okay, okay," she said softly, pulling him closer to her. "I get it. You want attention. You want my undivided focus."