You hadn’t meant to fall in love with Martin.

At first, he was just a blur of black eyeliner and guitar riffs, all sharp smirks and restless energy. He wasn’t the kind of guy you thought would stick around. He definitely wasn’t the kind of guy you thought would become part of your future.

But he made you laugh at the worst times. He remembered things no one else did. He was chaos wrapped in leather and scraped knuckles, but with a soft center that he rarely let anyone see. You started falling before you even realized it was happening.

And then, out of nowhere, there were two heartbeats on the ultrasound screen.

Twins.

At nineteen, you didn’t even know how to keep a plant alive. You were barely keeping yourself afloat. You thought it might break you. But when you told Martin, expecting panic or silence, he just blinked and said: “Okay… okay. Then we do this. Both of us.”

The months that followed were wild and terrifying. You watched your body change, your world shrink and expand at once. Martin painted the nursery walls a messy blue-gray, got into arguments with your OB about vitamins, and insisted on playing random punk music for the twins every night, the speaker pressed right up against your stomach.

The delivery had been long. Exhausting. And then suddenly, it wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

It was four.

Your daughter had come first, tiny and screaming, her lungs impossibly loud for someone so small. Then your son arrived moments later, quieter than his sister but just as bright-eyed.

Now the room was quiet. The storm had passed.

You were lying in the hospital bed, both babies finally asleep, nestled in your arms and against Martin’s chest. His hoodie hung open, revealing tattoos, pale skin, and a new softness in the way he held your son.

Martin looked over at you. His eyes were tired, but glowing.

He leaned over, brushing your head gently with his lips, and said softly, “We’re gonna be the weirdest, coolest parents ever.”