The apartment was quiet, still cradled in that sleepy hush of mid-afternoon. Golden sunlight slipped through the curtains, casting soft patterns over the wooden floor. Oliver sat on the couch with a blanket draped loosely over his legs, both hands gently cupping his belly. The twins were quieter today—more rolls and stretches than kicks—as if they sensed his need for peace.He exhaled slowly.

There were still boxes against the walls, kitchen drawers half-open, shelves waiting for books and frames.The weight of it all hadn’t left him entirely. The stress, the fear, the echo of decisions that had unraveled everything. But here—in this small, quiet moment—he could feel something like relief blooming in the cracks. Not joy, not yet. But the possibility of it.

A knock sounded at the door.

He startled slightly, then stood carefully, easing upright with the practiced caution he was beginning to learn. When he opened it, he found a familiar face standing there—John, the neighbor he’d met during his first day in North Bridge. The same man who also delivered my pregnancy vitamin, whose quiet steadiness had stuck in Oliver’s mind long after their conversation ended. John held up a small paper bag with a sheepish grin. “There’s this little café down the street. They make amazing muffins. I got a few extra, thought you might like some.” Oliver blinked, surprised but warmed. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t feel right eating all six by myself,” John said, tone light. “Besides… figured I’d check in. Settling in okay?”Oliver nodded, stepping aside. “Yeah. Still unpacking. Still figuring it out. But… it’s good. Better than I thought it would be.”

John entered quietly, glancing around the apartment with a respectful kind of curiosity. He didn’t stare at the stacks of boxes or the half-assembled crib by the wall. He just smiled and offered the bag. “Blueberry and banana nut. They were still warm when I left.” Oliver took one and sat back down on the couch, gesturing for John to join him. They ate in silence for a while—comfortable, unforced.

Then John asked, softly, “How are you… really?”Oliver hesitated. Then, he told the truth. “Tired. Still scared sometimes. But… I’m here. That counts for something, right?”John nodded. “It counts for everything.”

They sat there, muffins in hand, while the sunlight shifted and the apartment breathed around them. No pressure. No questions that pried. Just a quiet moment, and Oliver knew John was a good person. And somewhere in Oliver’s chest, beneath the worry and worn-out strength, a tiny flicker of hope caught flame. Not a promise. But a maybe. And right now, that was more than enough.Every now and then John would stop by with food, desserts, or just to help me bring in the groceries.

One Month Later 

Oliver found himself reflecting on his life, he thought about John. So far they have only ever made small talk. Oliver barely knew anything about him. 'we talk but... not about ourselves. He tells me about his work, his friends or the new gossip happening in town.' Thought Oliver as he looked over at the decaf coffee in front of him on the coffee table. ' I should've known when in a small town everything is known and shared. There's barely any privacy but... This town is warm and inviting but most of all, everyone helps each other out.' Oliver breathed slowly, Knowing he didn't have that type of support, but now that he does, he feels content almost happy. Knowing his babies will meet and be surrounded by good people.

Oliver sat curled up on the couch, one hand resting on the swell of his stomach, the other clutching the blanket draped over his shoulders. The apartment had grown quiet as the day progressed — only the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the faint shuffle of neighbors in the hallway broke the stillness. It was a different kind of quiet than he’d known before moving to North Bridge. Not the silence of loneliness, but of pause. A space wide enough for him to breathe, to think, to feel without someone watching him or pulling his choices into question.

He tilted his head back, eyes wandering over the faint shadows stretching across the ceiling. The twins shifted beneath his palm — a gentle nudge, then another, almost as if they were testing the edges of their small, growing world. He smiled softly, a soundless laugh trembling at the corner of his mouth.

“You two have good timing,” he murmured. His voice was hushed, as though sharing a secret. “Always reminding me you’re here when I need it most.”

The words surprised him. He hadn’t meant to say them out loud, but once they were spoken, they felt right. The babies responded with another faint kick, and Oliver closed his eyes, swallowing against the lump that rose in his throat. He imagined them listening, as if each word painted colors and shapes on the inside of his womb, filling their world with something brighter than silence.

“I don’t know if I’ll get everything right,” he whispered, thumb tracing absent circles over his stomach. “But I promise… I’ll be steady. You won’t have to guess if you’re loved. Not like—” He cut himself off before finishing the thought. His chest tightened, memory threatening to slip in like an unwelcome draft. But this early on in the evening, he didn’t want the past. Today, he wanted only this moment, warm and fragile, real enough to hold.

His gaze drifted toward the small bookshelf he’d managed to set up by the wall. He kept himself busy with organizing a stack of children’s books rested on the lowest shelf, their bright spines out of place among the muted covers of his own novels and reference manuals. He hadn’t bought them for himself, but when he saw them in the store earlier in the week, something in him refused to walk past. Maybe, when he had the courage, he’d start reading aloud. Let the twins know his voice, not just his heartbeat.

The thought lingered with him, filling him with an odd comfort.

When the knock came at his door, Oliver startled — his whole body tensing, his hand protectively tightening over his belly. He wasn’t expecting anyone. It was late, far too late for neighbors to be casually dropping by. For a heartbeat he wondered how much time had passed while he was in deep thought, the past whispered again, telling him to be careful, to retreat. But he inhaled slowly, forcing his muscles to ease. This wasn’t before. This was now.

He rose, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders, and padded toward the door. The hallway light spilled in as he opened it just enough to peek out.

There stood John.

He was dressed casually, a hoodie tugged over his frame, the faint trace of night air clinging to him. He offered a small, apologetic smile, holding up a paper bag.

“Hey. Sorry for dropping by unannounced,” John said, voice low, respectful of the hour. “I, uh… baked earlier. Ended up with more than I can eat, and I thought—well, maybe you’d like some?”

Oliver blinked, caught between surprise and something warmer he didn’t have a name for yet.

Oliver hesitated only a second longer before opening the door wider. The scent of something warm drifted from the bag John held — cinnamon and butter, soft and sweet, the kind of smell that belonged in kitchens filled with laughter and early morning sunlight. Oliver hadn’t realized how much he missed that sort of thing until now.

“Thank you,” he said, voice quieter than he intended. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” John replied simply, his smile small but steady. “But I wanted to. It feels wrong to let perfectly good bread sit when someone else might actually enjoy it.”

Oliver stepped aside, an unspoken invitation. John entered carefully, as though mindful not to disturb the calm Oliver had carved into his space. The bag was set down on the counter, and for a moment, silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable, but searching, like both were waiting for something they couldn’t quite name.

Oliver folded the blanket tighter around himself, suddenly self-conscious, but John didn’t look at him with judgment. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the bookshelf, lingering on the row of children’s books at the bottom.

“My mom used to read Goodnight Moon to me every night until I could recite it back to her,” John said suddenly, a nostalgic laugh in his voice. “I haven’t thought about that book in years. Funny how one glance can take you back.”

Oliver blinked. He hadn’t expected John to notice the books, much less bring up his own memory. Maybe, ... he's opening up to me. He cleared his throat softly, his hand brushing instinctively over his stomach. 

“I bought those a few days ago,” he admitted. “I haven’t… read any yet. I was just thinking tonight that maybe I should start. So the babies hear my voice.”

The words slipped out before he could second-guess them, and for a split second, he braced himself for awkwardness, for pity, for the kind of smile people gave when they didn’t understand. But John didn’t flinch. His expression softened instead, the edges of his features gentling into something Oliver hadn’t seen in a long time: sincerity, without expectation.

“That makes sense,” John said, nodding slowly. “When my sister was pregnant, I remember she used to play music to her belly — old jazz records, the kind her dad loved. She swore the baby kicked in rhythm.” His eyes warmed at the memory, and then his gaze flicked back to Oliver. “It’s… kind of the same idea, isn’t it? Giving them something familiar before they even open their eyes.”

Oliver felt his chest tighten, but in a good way — as if someone had reached in and placed a weight there, not to drag him down, but to anchor him. He hadn’t expected John to understand, let alone to mirror his exact thought from earlier.

“Yeah,” Oliver murmured, almost to himself. “That’s exactly it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It hummed, quiet but alive, like the brief pause before a song’s chorus. Oliver realized he was looking at John longer than he meant to, studying the way the dim light caught the curve of his jaw, the quiet steadiness in his eyes. And for the first time in months, he didn’t feel alone in the room — not really.

It wasn’t attraction. Not yet. It was recognition. A click, like two puzzle pieces finding their edge.

 Oliver lingered by the counter while John carefully untied the knot at the top of the paper bag. A faint steam curled upward as he pulled out a loaf, the crust golden and uneven in a way only homemade bread could be. The smell filled the apartment, chasing away the chill that often settled in Oliver’s chest during quiet nights.

“You baked this?” Oliver asked, genuinely surprised.

John nodded, looking a little sheepish. “Yeah. It’s a… kind of therapy for me, I guess. I started after my dad passed. He used to bake on Sundays, and I thought maybe if I learned, I could keep a piece of that alive. Now it’s just… habit.”

Oliver froze. His heart squeezed at the word passed. He hadn’t expected John to offer something so personal so easily. The air between them shifted again, softer now, more delicate.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said quietly.

John gave a small shrug, but his voice stayed steady. “Thanks. It was a while ago. Still—there are days it feels fresh, like I’ll hear him call me from the next room. Baking… it’s the one place where that doesn’t feel like a loss. More like a conversation that hasn’t ended.”

Oliver’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, his hand unconsciously rubbing the curve of his stomach. He hadn’t told many people about the ache that lived inside him — not just from Lucas, but from the weight of doing this alone, of wondering if he’d be enough. But now, listening to John, something inside him unlocked.

“I think I understand,” Oliver murmured. He let out a slow breath. “For me, it’s the twins. Talking to them — it’s not just for them, it’s for me too. A way to remind myself that I’m not… entirely alone.” His voice cracked, soft but audible. “Some days it feels like I’m speaking into the dark, but then they kick, or shift, and it’s like they’re answering back. Like they’re saying, we hear you.”

John’s gaze softened in a way that made Oliver look away for fear of unraveling.

“That doesn’t sound like the dark,” John said gently. “That sounds like light. Small, steady, but real.”

Oliver blinked at him, startled by the phrasing. It was such a simple sentence, yet it hit deep — deeper than he expected. He let out a shaky laugh, part relief, part disbelief.

“Light, huh? Haven’t thought of it like that.”

“Well,” John said, his mouth quirking just slightly, “sometimes you need someone else to hold the flashlight for a bit.” The words settled between them, warm and grounding. Oliver realized then what this moment was — that little click, the kind you couldn’t plan or force. Not attraction, not yet, but a recognition. A knowing. The kind that made you think: you see me, and I see you.

For the first time in a long while, Oliver didn’t feel like he was carrying everything by himself. John glanced at the loaf, then back at Oliver. “Mind if I cut this open? It tastes better warm.”

Oliver nodded, almost relieved at the shift. He pulled two mugs from the cupboard, setting them on the counter. “I can make tea,” he offered, his voice steadier now.

Soon, the kettle hissed softly on the stove, and the bread was sliced into thick, uneven pieces. When Oliver carried the mugs into the living room, John was already seated on the couch, waiting but not presuming. Oliver settled across from him, the blanket still draped around his shoulders, and placed the mugs on the coffee table between them.

For a moment, they both focused on buttering bread, sipping hot tea, the simple rituals grounding them after heavier words.

“You know,” John said after a quiet stretch, “I used to burn everything I touched in the kitchen. My sister banned me from using her pans after I nearly set her apartment on fire with a grilled cheese.”

Oliver chuckled softly, surprised by the sound of his own laughter. “A grilled cheese? That’s supposed to be the easiest thing to make.”

“Exactly,” John said, mock-offended, though his smile betrayed him. “Which is why she’s never let me live it down. I had to get better just to reclaim my dignity.”

Oliver shook his head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “I’m not much better. I stick to things that come in boxes with instructions.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” John replied easily. “Sometimes the simple things taste the best anyway.”

The conversation wandered from there — small stories, bits of memory, the kinds of exchanges that didn’t feel forced but unfolded naturally, like stepping stones across a river. Oliver felt himself loosening, inch by inch, as though John’s presence made space for him to simply exist without carrying every thought like a burden. The twins shifted faintly beneath his palm, as if listening in.

And as the night stretched on, Oliver realized he wasn’t counting minutes anymore. He wasn’t watching the clock, waiting for silence to return.

For the first time in weeks, he let it linger.