The mornings had begun to feel different. Not in the sudden, startling way that marked the early weeks of pregnancy, when Oliver had stumbled through nausea and bone-deep exhaustion, but in the subtler, steadier rhythm of his body learning a new language. Each day carried its own kind of shift, sometimes as small as a new ache in his back, sometimes as undeniable as the firm weight pressing outward against the front of his shirt.

Five months had passed, and Oliver no longer had to wonder if anyone could tell. The twins announced themselves without hesitation. Shirts that had once hung loose across his stomach now curved, stretched, and refused to hide the rounded slope beneath. Even the softest fabric seemed to emphasize how his body was changing. Oliver had taken to wearing oversized sweaters at home, partly for comfort, partly to ease his own self-consciousness when he caught glimpses of himself in mirrors or windows.

This morning, though, he hadn’t reached for one. He stood in the kitchen wearing a plain cotton tee, staring into the sunlight spilling across the countertop, one hand braced absentmindedly under his belly. The gesture was instinctive now. Protective, steadying. like he needed to remind the world, or maybe himself, that he was carrying more than just weight.

The twins had been quiet since dawn, but as Oliver shifted to pour water into the kettle, a sudden flutter rippled low in his abdomen. He froze, mug halfway lifted, heart thudding as the sensation returned, not a faint brush this time, but a deliberate push, as though one of the babies had stretched a limb with determination.

He set the mug down quickly, palm pressing flat against his stomach. “Hey,” he whispered, half startled, half smiling. “Was that you?”

There it was again, a second nudge, stronger, followed by a softer roll from the opposite side. A laugh bubbled out of hi- quiet, disbelieving. “Both of you, huh? Couldn’t let your sibling take the spotlight?”

The kettle clicked on, filling the silence with a low hum. Oliver leaned back against the counter, eyes closing as he focused on the rhythm within. For weeks he had felt flickers, gentle shifts that could be mistaken for anything — digestion, nerves, imagination. But this? This was different. Solid. Real. His children weren’t just possibilities; they were there, responding, stretching, insisting on being known.

He stayed there longer than the water needed to boil, hand steady on his belly, until the twins quieted again. Only then did he push away, reaching for the mug and dropping a tea bag into it with shaking fingers.

The rest of the morning carried a sharper awareness. Every step reminded him of the twins’ presence, each bend or twist tested the space they occupied. Even sitting at his desk to log into his remote work came with adjustments: pushing the chair back farther, finding a pillow to wedge at the small of his back, shifting his laptop so it didn’t press against him when he leaned forward.

Oliver typed slower now, distracted by the memory of those movements. When he stopped for lunch, he paused with a hand on his belly again, waiting, wondering if they’d stir at the sound of his voice.

“I’ll have to get used to this, won’t I?” he murmured aloud, setting a sandwich on a plate. “You two making sure I don’t forget you’re there.” His smile softened. “As if I could.”

The twins didn’t answer, of course, but there was a comfort in the one-sided conversation. It filled the silence of the apartment, making it feel less like an empty space and more like a home preparing for its next chapter.

By late afternoon, Oliver decided to go for a walk. The September air in North Bridge had cooled enough that he could leave the windows cracked without the apartment stifling. Outside, the streets were lined with trees shedding early hints of gold and orange, the breeze crisp against his face.

He moved slowly, careful of the new tug at his lower back, but he relished the change of scenery. A few blocks down, he passed a small park where families gathered, children chasing one another across the grass, parents lounging on benches with coffee cups. Oliver slowed, caught between wanting to avoid staring and the quiet ache of imagining himself there one day.

A father crouched to tie his daughter’s shoe, his other child clinging to his arm. Oliver looked away quickly, heart squeezing. He didn’t envy the man exactly,  but he envied the ordinary certainty in his movements, the way he seemed to know without hesitation how to steady both children at once.

Could Oliver do that? Could he balance twins in both arms, keep them safe, teach them to laugh without fear? The doubt edged in, quiet but persistent. He stopped at the edge of the park, hands pressed to the curve of his belly, grounding himself.

“You’ll teach me,” he whispered, glancing down. “We’ll figure it out together.”

For a moment, the reassurance was enough. He breathed, let the thought settle, and turned back toward home.

That evening, as twilight spread soft blue across the apartment, Oliver curled onto the couch with a blanket draped over his lap. The twins stirred again, subtle but insistent, and he rested both hands over them, focusing on the rhythm of their movements.

He thought about the months behind him, the long nights of nausea, the difficult goodbye to his old life, the move to North Bridge. He thought, too, of the months ahead: the appointments, the classes, the preparations that would demand more than he felt ready to give.

Yet here, in this quiet moment, the weight of it didn’t feel crushing. It felt… grounding. Anchoring.

“I want you,” Oliver said softly, the words catching at the edges of his throat. “Don’t ever think I don’t. I want you both more than anything.”

The twins shifted again, as if in reply.

Oliver closed his eyes, leaning back, letting the quiet stretch until sleep threatened to take him.

For the first time in weeks, his last thought before drifting wasn’t about what he feared- it was about what he longed for. 

A family.