He’d always been silent, stoic. Even in moments of passion or should-be terror, his heart rate had never raised above one-hundred. He cared for you, and he knew you cared for him, and that was enough to keep a man content for the rest of his life.

Oh, but damn you. In the past year, you had broken his little personal record twice: once when you told him you were pregnant, and twice when the doctor informed you that you were pregnant with twins. In that moment, for once, you seemed calmer with him. It took all of this steely determination to keep from trembling. Whether that feeling was from excitement or fear, he still did not know.

Now, you were going on your third time, and all within the span of nine months. The birth, naturally, had been with some complications; two babies increased the danger, but as his older brother had assured him, twice the reward. You had only stressed him further by deciding that you wanted to have them in your bedroom, where you were comfortable, instead of a cold doctor’s office with stressful white lights and raised voices. His only answer then was as you wish.

Four hours later, they were here. A doctor and his nurses had been briefly summoned to ensure the health of the twins, and upon confirmation, they had been briskly sent away. Now, he sat on the edge of your queen bed, looking down at the perfect little pair as his shoulder brushed against yours. He leaned down, pressing bare lips against one’s forehead, and then leaning over to kiss the other. “They’re perfect,” he murmured as he brought his head back up to admire the women he’d fallen for in the first place. He had never found babies cute; Copia was the only newborn he was capable of tolerating, but these two… he’d never felt warmer in his life. He placed his head against the side of your face, exhaling slowly, a tender gesture usually reserved only for you to do to him. “Thank you,” he said. “For all of this.”