Together.
The word still felt like grace I hadn’t earned.
We drove home with the ultrasound photos propped on the dash like a trophy. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other on her thigh, needing the contact. She hummed along to whatever was on the radio, foot tapping, occasionally glancing over at me with that soft, secret smile that was mine alone.
Ashgrove House welcomed us with warm light spilling from the windows. Henry’s truck was in the drive; Lucia’s little Fiat beside it. They’d insisted on dinner tonight. Lucia had declared that we needed a Valentine’s tradition, apparently, now that the house wasn’t a haunted mausoleum anymore.
We walked in to the smell of Lucia’s lasagna and garlic bread. Henry met us in the foyer, eyebrow raised at the dazed looks on our faces.
“Well?” he demanded.
Chrissy pulled the ultrasound strip from my grip and handed it over without a word.
Henry studied it for half a second before his eyes widened.
“Two?”
“Two,” I confirmed.
He let out a low whistle, then — shockingly — pulled me into a quick, fierce hug.
“Congratulations, son.”
The word son hit harder than the twins news. I hugged him back, throat tight.
Lucia appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, apron on, wooden spoon in hand.
“What’s all the—” She caught sight of the photos in Henry’s hand and shrieked, dropping the spoon with a clatter. “Dio mio! Due bambini!”
She launched herself at Chrissy, then at me, kissing both our cheeks, tears already flowing. “We need more yarn! And a bigger table! And?—”
Dinner was chaos in the best way. Lucia toasted with sparkling cider for Chrissy and whiskey for the rest of us. Henry kept staring at the ultrasound like he couldn’t believe it. Chrissy glowed, laughing at Lucia’s rapid-fire plans for the nursery.
I sat back and watched them — my family, loud and alive and real — and felt something settle deep in my chest.
Later, after the dishes were done and Henry and Lucia had gone home with promises to return tomorrow with paint swatches, I carried Chrissy upstairs. She protested half-heartedly that she could walk, but her arms stayed looped around my neck.
In our bedroom — the master suite that used to feel too big and too empty — I laid her gently on the bed and knelt between her legs, pushing her hoodie up to expose her stomach.
Two babies.
I pressed my lips to her skin, right over where they were growing.
“Hey in there,” I murmured, voice rough. “It’s your dad. You’ve got the best mom in the world, you know that?”
Chrissy’s fingers threaded through my hair.
“They can’t hear you yet, caveman.”
“Don’t care.”
I kissed her belly again, then again, moving slowly upward until I reached her mouth. The kiss started soft, grateful, but turned hungry fast. Eight weeks pregnant meant we’d been careful lately, but the doctor had cleared gentle intimacy, and I’d been dying for her.
She arched into me, tugging at my shirt.
“Ben…”
“I know.”
