The house was quieter than you expected. Not silent—never that, not with two newborns under one roof—but softer. Softer in the way the kettle whistled low on the stove, the way Sirius padded around barefoot to avoid creaking floorboards, the way both babies sighed in their sleep.

It had been a week.

A week since you brought home Rowan and Sadie. Born a week ahead of schedule, small but strong—Sirius liked to say they were just too eager to meet the world. Or maybe just too stubborn to wait, like their father.

You were curled up on the sofa, still healing, wrapped in Sirius’s favorite jumper while one baby napped against your chest and the other lay in the bassinet beside you. Sirius came into view, sleep-mussed hair and wide eyes that had barely rested in days, but still somehow full of wonder every time he looked at them.

And at you.

“You should be sleeping,” you whispered, but your voice cracked with warmth.

“I should be,” he murmured, kneeling beside you, brushing a kiss to your temple. “But I’d rather be here. Looking at this… at you three.”

You smiled through the fog of exhaustion. “We look like a mess.”

“A beautiful one.”

He kissed the baby’s head. Then yours. One week in, and he still looked at you like you hung the moon—messy bun, tired eyes, stained jumper and all.

It hadn’t been easy. The nights were long. Feedings were constant. Tears—yours and theirs—weren’t rare. But neither were the smiles. The tiny yawns. The moments where Sirius would hum lullabies under his breath, swaying gently like the world outside had slowed down just for you.

This was your life now. Beautiful chaos. Soft mornings. Two cribs. Four hands. One love.

You exhaled, forehead against his.

“Can’t believe they’re ours.”

“Believe it, love,” he whispered. “They’re our little stars.”