Page 104 of Filthy Rich Daddies
And that’s just to get to the parking lot.
The nurses are sweet but clearly trying to shuffle us out of the room like we’re loitering in a VIP suite. Fair. Tic checks every strap on every carrier three times. Dean does a final scan of the discharge paperwork like he’s auditing the Constitution. I double back twice to make sure we didn’t leave Thalassa’s lip balm.
Thalassa?
She’s the calmest one here. Sitting in the wheelchair with both girls bundled up against her chest, looking like a goddess and a little high on whatever post-birth hormones are still coursingthrough her system. She smiles the whole way out, like this is just a normal day. Like she didn’t push two humans out of her body less than forty-eight hours ago.
The woman is a fucking miracle.
I trail behind her as we wheel out to the car, loading the last of our over-prepared luggage into the SUV. The nurses wave goodbye, and someone tells us to get sleep “while we can.”
Too late. I haven’t slept since the labor started.
But somehow, I don’t even feel it. Not really. I’m too wired. Too full of whatever this is—terror, awe, love, all mixed together and poured into my bloodstream like rocket fuel. Way better than Red Bull.
Once we get home, it’s like the babies know they’re supposed to be here.
I swear I’m not making that up. They settle almost immediately. Aurelia fusses once when Dean moves her bassinet too fast, but Calla sleeps like she’s been here for months. Thalassa feeds them in the glider we moved into the nursery, her hair braided back, her face peaceful in a way I haven’t seen since before the final trimester hit her like a freight train.
Tic disappears and returns with fresh water, extra pillows, and a warm blanket. Dean checks the thermostat twice. I just hover like a glorified emotional support tech bro.
It’s not glamorous. But it’s perfect. For the first time, I believe we can actually do this.
Then night falls.
And everything changes.
I thought I was prepared for the birth. I was wrong. Watching her go through it—watching her fight, sweat, cry out,push—and knowing I couldn’t do a damn thing except hold her hand and murmur encouragement…it did something to me.
Broke something open.
I’ve always loved her. I knew that already. But now? Now it’s something worse. Or maybe something better.
It’s consuming. I can’t stop checking on her.
Every time she shifts in her sleep, I sit up straighter. Every time she sighs, I worry it’s pain. I keep wandering into the nursery, just to make sure the babies are still breathing, that the monitors are working, that the temperature’s right, that nothing’s wrong.
It’s not logical. Iknowit’s not logical. But logic left the building the moment she looked at me with tears in her eyes and whispered, “They’re here.”
Around two in the morning, I walk past the kitchen and find Tic sitting in the dark. He’s at the table, hands steepled, staring into a baby monitor like it’s a live feed from a combat zone. His shoulders are stiff. His eyes are bloodshot.
“Hey,” I say softly, stepping inside. “Didn’t think I’d find you off-duty.”
He doesn’t look up. “I heard Aurelia grunt.”
“She hiccupped,” I say. “I was there.”
He finally glances my way. “She’s loud.”
“She’s perfect.”
“She’s small.”
“They’re both small,” I say, pulling out a chair. “That’s what babies are.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at the screen.
I sit with him in silence for a while.
