The third trimester arrived quietly but decisively.
Ivie felt it in the weight of her body, in the careful way she moved now, one hand always instinctively resting over her belly. The twins were no longer just heartbeats on a screen—they were constant reminders, kicks and rolls and small rebellions that made her breath catch.
Femi noticed everything.
"You're tired," he said one evening, guiding her gently toward the couch.
"I'm pregnant," she corrected with a small smile. "It comes with the territory."
"Then let me carry the weight that isn't yours," he replied.
She watched him as he knelt to remove her shoes—slow, careful, reverent, as if she were something fragile and sacred. The moment wasn't dramatic. It was quiet.
And somehow, that made it everything.
Her siblings moved into the estate officially a week later.
Their rooms were prepared with thoughtful precision—not extravagant, but warm. Books, study desks, sunlight. Stability.
"This feels unreal," her sister whispered.
"It's real," Ivie replied, blinking back tears. "And it's ours."
Femi didn't hover. He didn't dominate. He simply showed up—to school meetings, to meals, to late-night questions and laughter drifting down the halls.
One night, Ivie found him helping her brother with homework, brows furrowed in concentration.
"You don't have to do this," she said softly.
"I want to," he replied without looking up. "They're part of you."
Her chest ached.
Despite the calm, fear crept in at night.
What if something went wrong?
What if love failed again?
One evening, Ivie woke from a dream gasping for breath.
Femi was there instantly.
"Hey," he murmured, steady hands grounding her. "I'm here."
She pressed her face into his chest. "I'm scared."
"I know," he said. "So am I."
She pulled back slightly, surprised. "You?"
"I've never had something to lose like this," he admitted. "And I refuse to fail you."
Tears slid down her cheeks.
"You won't," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead, lingering. "Rest. I'll keep watch."
The nursery came together slowly.
Soft colors. Two cribs side by side. Tiny clothes folded with care.
One afternoon, Ivie stood in the doorway, overwhelmed.
"They're really coming," she said.
Femi wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "And they'll never doubt that they're wanted."
She leaned into him. "Neither will I."
Later that night, as rain tapped against the windows, they sat together in silence.
"I used to think control was strength," Femi said quietly. "Now I know love is."
She smiled softly. "Love is terrifying."
"Yes," he agreed. "And worth it."
Outside, thunder rolled—distant, warning.
The calm before the storm.
And inside the house, two people who had survived hate, lies, and fear held onto something real—ready to face whatever came next.
Together.