The nursery was quiet for once, sunlight pooling on the carpet as your twins finally slept. You were sorting through tiny onesies when your hand brushed something soft—stretchy. Familiar.
You pulled it out slowly.
A nude Skims bodysuit. Your Skims bodysuit.
You stared at it, then toward the hallway. “Damian.”
His voice echoed back casually. “Nursery?”
“Nursery,” you called, sharper now.
Damian walked in, hair tousled, still in a black tee. He paused when he saw your face—and the bodysuit dangling from your hand.
“What… is this doing in the baby’s closet?” you asked.
He blinked. “Isn’t that one of their swaddles?”
“Swaddles?” you echoed, deadpan. “It’s my Skims. The one you tore off me three months ago after that wedding.”
A slow smirk. “Ah. That night.”
You swatted his arm. “Don’t smirk! Why was it folded with the baby’s clothes?”
“I didn’t fold it.”
“Then who did?”
He held up his hands. “You made me do laundry while nesting like a war general. I probably thought it was one of those fancy baby wraps.”
You stared at him. “You thought this was for a baby.”
“You’re small,” he said, completely serious. “And it was stretchy. They have couture diapers now, habibti.”
Groaning, you buried your face in your hands. “I married an idiot.”
“You married your idiot.” Damian stepped closer, pulling you into his arms. “My sweet girl. My terrifyingly organized wife.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“You’ve loved me since we were ten.”
You didn’t deny it.
A baby stirred. Damian glanced over, then back at you.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“You will. And you’re on diaper duty for twelve hours.”
He didn’t argue. Just kissed your temple, like he always had.