Chapter 12
Miles
Emma's been walking around the house all day holding the ultrasound pictures and occasionally whispering "twins" like she's testing if the word sounds real. I've been doing the same thing. We're both slightly unhinged.
It's been twenty-four hours since Dr. Martinez delivered the news that fundamentally changed our preparation timeline. One baby became two. Our carefully researched plans became instantly obsolete.
I'm in the nursery staring at the single crib we assembled last week with such pride. Now it looks ridiculous. Like showing up to a gunfight with one bullet.
Emma appears in the doorway, still clutching the ultrasound photos.
"We need another crib," she says.
"Already ordered. Arrives Wednesday."
"What about the car seats?"
"Ordered two. At 3 AM."
She blinks. "You were up at 3 AM ordering baby furniture?"
"I was up at 3 AM having an existential crisis about spatial logistics. Ordering furniture was therapeutic."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"This is fatherhood."
She walks to the crib, running her hand along the rail. "Do you think they'll fit? In here? Two cribs, two car seats, two of everything?"
I pull out my phone, showing her the nursery layout I've been revising. "I measured. If we angle the cribs like this and move the changing table here, we can fit everything with approximately six inches of clearance."
"Six inches."
"It's very efficient."
"It's claustrophobic."
"It's what we have." I zoom in on the layout. "Unless you want to convert the guest room too."
"For what?"
"Storage. Supplies. A place to hide when we're overwhelmed."
She starts laughing. Not gentle laughter. The slightly hysterical kind that comes from shock and sleep deprivation and realizing your life just became exponentially more complicated.
I start laughing too, because apparently that's contagious.
We're standing in the half-painted nursery laughing like maniacs while holding ultrasound pictures of our twins.
"We're losing it," Emma manages.
"Completely lost it."
"I need food," she announces suddenly. "Comfort food. Something terrible for me."
"Pickles?"
"Besides pickles. I want pizza. With extra cheese. And maybe ice cream after."
"That's very specific."
"I'm eating for three now. I can be specific."
We order pizza—extra cheese, pepperoni, all the things Dr. Martinez would probably frown at but we're having a crisis so nutritional guidelines can wait. While we wait for delivery, Emma spreads out all the ultrasound photos on the coffee table like she's conducting an investigation.
"Look at them," she says, pointing at the grainy images. "Two tiny humans. Just hanging out in there."
"Baby A was doing flips during the scan."
"That's your son. Already showing off."
"And Baby B was completely still. Your daughter. Already judging everyone."
Emma grins. "She gets that from me."
The pizza arrives. We eat directly from the box like civilized adults who definitely have their lives together. Emma's on her third slice when she stops mid-bite.
"Miles."
"Yeah?"
"Ryan's dinner tomorrow. We're telling everyone about the twins."
Right. Friday dinner. The family already knows about the pregnancy—that disaster of a breakfast where they all thought Emma had cancer. But they don't know it's twins.
"Brennen's going to hyperventilate," I say.
"Ryan's going to start calculating dual trust funds before dessert."
"Sophie and Julie will combust with baby shower excitement."
"Two showers. They'll insist on two."
"That's excessive."
"That's absolutely what's going to happen."
The pizza disappears. Emma demands ice cream—rocky road, specifically, which we don't have, so I make a late-night grocery run while she continues her ultrasound photo investigation.
The store is nearly empty at nine PM. I grab rocky road, then find myself in the baby aisle staring at tiny clothes. Everything comes in pairs now. Two onesies. Two sleepers. Two of those little hats that make babies look like garden gnomes.
I grab several sets. We're going to need them.
At home, Emma's moved to the nursery floor, sitting cross-legged with ultrasound photos arranged in a semicircle around her.
"I brought ice cream," I announce.
"My hero." She doesn't look up from the photos.
I settle beside her, handing over the rocky road and a spoon. She eats directly from the container while staring at images of our children.
"What if we can't handle two babies?" she asks quietly.
Her voice cracks on the question, and I know this isn't just exhaustion talking. This is real fear.
"Then we'll be terrible at it together," I say.
She looks up, startled. "That's not reassuring."
"It's honest. Emma, nobody knows what they're doing with one baby, let alone two. We're going to mess up. Constantly. But we'll figure it out."
"What if I'm a terrible mom?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that."
"I know you. That's enough."
She sets down the ice cream, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. There's vulnerability there. And fear. But also something else—heat, want, need.
"Miles," she says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I need you. Right now. I need to feel close to you. Need to feel like us before everything changes completely."
My heart rate kicks up. "Everything's already changed."
"I know. But right now, right here, I need it to be just us." Her hand finds mine. "Please."
I pull her to her feet, guiding her to our bedroom. She's trembling slightly—whether from emotion or anticipation, I'm not sure. Probably both.
In our room, I close the door and turn to find Emma already pulling her shirt over her head. Twenty weeks pregnant, starting to show, and absolutely beautiful.
"Emma—"
"Don't overthink this," she says, reaching for me. "Just be with me."
I cross the room in two steps, cupping her face and kissing her—slow and deep and everything we've needed for weeks. She makes a sound against my lips, her hands already working at my shirt buttons.
We undress each other slowly, carefully. When Emma's down to just her underwear, I can see the bump where our twins are growing. I rest my hand there gently.
"Our babies," I whisper.
"Our babies," she confirms. "But right now, I need my husband."
I guide her to the bed, settling her against the pillows. She's watching me with dark eyes, her breathing already uneven.
"I'm going to be gentle," I tell her.
"I'm not fragile."
"You're carrying our babies."
"I'm still me." She pulls me down beside her. "Miles, I need you to touch me like I'm your wife, not like I'm made of glass."
I kiss her again, letting my hands explore—her shoulders, her sides, the curve of her hip. She arches into my touch, making soft sounds that go straight through me.
"More," she breathes.
I slide my hand lower, and she gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Yes," she whispers. "Like that."
I work her slowly, watching her face as pleasure builds. She's beautiful like this—uninhibited, vulnerable, completely mine.
"Miles—" Her voice breaks. "I need—please—"
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. Now."
I shift over her carefully, mindful of the bump between us. Emma wraps her legs around my hips, guiding me closer.
"Gentle," I remind her.
"Or what? You'll stop?"
"Emma—"
"Shut up and kiss me."
I do, sinking into her slowly while she gasps against my mouth. She's tight and warm and perfect, and I have to force myself to stay controlled.
"Okay?" I manage.
"So okay." Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer. "Don't stop."
I find a rhythm—slow and steady, careful not to put weight on her stomach. Emma's making sounds that are driving me insane, her body moving with mine.
"Faster," she breathes.
"Emma—"
"I'm pregnant, not broken. Faster."
I increase the pace, and she moans, her nails dragging down my back.
"Yes," she gasps. "Like that. Don't stop."
She's tightening around me, her breathing turning ragged. She's close. I slide my hand between us, and she cries out.
"Miles—oh god—Miles—"
She comes apart beneath me, gasping my name, and the sensation pushes me over the edge. I follow her with a groan, careful not to collapse on her as I roll to the side.
We lie there catching our breath. Emma's trembling slightly, her face buried in my neck.
"You okay?" I ask.
"So okay." Her voice is muffled against my skin.
She settles back against my chest, one hand resting on her stomach. Within minutes, her breathing evens out. She's asleep.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow night, we tell Ryan and Brennen it's twins. They already know about the pregnancy—survived that breakfast where they all thought Emma was dying. But twins? That's going to restart the panic.
I pull out my phone, careful not to wake Emma, and open my nursery layout spreadsheet. Two cribs. Six inches of clearance. The measurements are accurate, but looking at them now, it seems impossible.
How do people do this? How do you prepare for two babies when you barely understand how to handle one?
I add a new line to my supply spreadsheet: "Sanity - quantity needed: unknown."
Emma makes a soft sound in her sleep, burrowing closer. Her hand is still on her stomach, protecting our twins even unconscious.
Four months. Maybe less.
I update the spreadsheet title: "TWINS - Everything Times Two."
Then I lie there in the dark, holding my sleeping wife, trying to calculate if our lives can actually fit two more people.
The math doesn't look good.
But we're doing it anyway.