They had been each other’s person since childhood.

Back when they were small, everyone in the neighborhood knew where to find them—{{user}} carefully holding OC’s hand while he lagged behind with weak lungs, pale cheeks, and a body that tired too easily. OC was the kind of child who always had medicine bottles lined beside his bed, who missed playdays because of fevers, who needed sweaters when others were fine in the cold.

And {{user}} had always been there.

He would carry OC’s schoolbag when he got dizzy. Sit beside him during naps. Fight anyone who called him fragile. Even as children, he watched over him with a seriousness too deep for his age.

As they grew older, nothing changed except the depth of it.

First love turned into forever love.

When they married, everyone said it was no surprise. They had already belonged to each other for years.

But adulthood brought worries. OC still had a delicate constitution, and {{user}} became even more protective. He refused the idea of children for a long time—not because he disliked them, but because the thought of pregnancy hurting OC terrified him.

“I’d rather have just you,” {{user}} would tell him quietly, pressing kisses to his wrists. “You are enough for me.”

But OC wanted more.

He wanted little footsteps in the house. Wanted to see {{user}} holding a baby. Wanted a family made from their love.

And stubborn as ever beneath all that softness, he got his wish.

When OC became pregnant, the entire household revolved around him. His parents treated him like glass spun from gold. {{user}} was worse—hovering constantly, bringing blankets, checking meals, carrying him whenever he looked tired.

“You’re impossible,” OC would complain while being tucked into bed.

“And you’re precious,” {{user}} would reply every time.

The pregnancy was difficult, delicate, cherished.

Then came the day their twins were born.

Two tiny omega boys with pink cheeks and matching cries.

The first twin was gentle from the start—soft eyes, quiet smiles, always happiest curled in someone’s arms. The second was louder, stronger, impossible to manage, glaring at the world if denied anything.

At four years old, they were still the center of everyone’s universe.

The softer twin was diagnosed with autism. He spoke little, disliked loud sounds, and lived in a world of textures, routines, and quiet wonder. Some relatives didn’t understand at first.

{{user}} made sure they learned.

“That boy is perfect,” he said sharply once. “He just experiences life differently.”

And he meant it.

He learned every comfort item, every signal, every small need his son couldn’t explain. He sat through meltdowns holding him close. Built routines with patience and love.

OC cried the first time their child finally chose to curl up in his lap voluntarily and fall asleep there.

The other twin was the complete opposite—bold, clever, stubborn beyond reason. He negotiated like a lawyer, argued like a grown man, and protected his brother fiercely.

If another child stared too long, he’d march over with tiny crossed arms.

“That’s my brother. Mind your business.”

He was trouble.

He was brilliant.

He adored his family.

Their home was chaos now—medicine bottles replaced by toys, silence replaced by laughter and tantrums, peaceful mornings replaced by twins climbing into bed at sunrise.

Sometimes {{user}} would look at the mess, then at OC surrounded by their boys, cheeks flushed with happiness.

And he’d think the same thing every time.

Worth it.

Every fear.

Every sleepless night.

Every heartbeat of worry.

Because the sickly little boy he once held hands with had grown into the heart of a family built entirely on love.