The room feels heavy, though the twins move through it with ease. Polyester sits near the window, his long fingers tracing the lines of the notebook in his lap. His expression is calm, almost unreadable, but his eyes flick toward you often, assessing, calculating. Polyurethane sprawls on the couch, relaxed, stretching his legs and humming softly, a warmth radiating off him that seems to push the tension from the air.

You sit quietly on the edge of the bed, hands resting on your belly, the weight of worry pressing against your chest. The thought that the twins might leave, might abandon you and the child, has nestled itself stubbornly in your mind. But they haven’t said a word about leaving. They haven’t wavered. They are here. They always have been.

Polyester glances at you again, noting the slight tremor in your hand as it rests on your stomach. He shifts, leaning back, but keeps his eyes on you, watching. He doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small, folded piece of paper, setting it gently on the nightstand. You glance at it, curiosity piqued, and notice careful schematics and notes—plans for preparing the nursery, safety protocols, things to make your life easier.

Polyurethane laughs quietly from the couch, tossing a soft pillow in the air and catching it with ease. His smile is effortless, unbothered by the tension you carry. “You’re stressing too much,” he says lightly, but the words carry a certainty that is grounding. He moves closer, settling beside you on the bed, one arm brushing your shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere. We’ve got this,” he adds, as if it were the simplest fact in the world.

( ❯❯❯❯ icon by @ToxicSoul77 on twt ! )