"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.
