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OMIR

“ Y o! Chill with that box—it’s marked ‘fragile,’ not ‘toss this shit like it owes you money!’” I barked across the room, watching a mover practically launch a box onto the entryway rug.

Dude flinched, mumbled something like “My bad, boss,” and adjusted his grip.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck, glancing around our new home. Boxes stacked like Tetris in the hallway. Furniture half-assembled. Baby gear everywhere. It looked like chaos—but it felt like peace. We’d done it.

Eighteen months ago, none of this was guaranteed. Back then, we were just two people trying to find our way back to each other. Now? We were a family. Two kids deep, his and hers sinks, and matching bathrobes.

The house smelled like new beginnings—fresh paint and soft jasmine from one of Lennox’s candles. Sunlight poured through the bay windows we both said yes to the second we stepped foot in here. We didn’t even care about the price tag. It felt like ours the moment we saw it.

“Omir!”

I turned to the front porch just in time to see her struggling to carry two car seats, one in each hand, diaper bag slung across her shoulder, hair twisted up in a messy bun. And God, she was still beautiful as hell.

“I told you to wait for me,” I said, jogging over and grabbing both carriers before she dropped a child.

“I did. You were too busy yelling and pretending you’re the box police.”

I laughed and kissed her forehead. “You good?”

She exhaled, heavy and dramatic. “I’m starving, I can’t feel my arms, and if I don’t find that blender in the next hour so I can make a virgin pina colada, I might snap.”

“I’ll find the blender, woman. You go sit down and feed my babies.”

She gave me that look. The one that said she was trying to stay irritated but was secretly softening. “You really gonna spoil me every day?”

“Every day until they bury me.”

She shook her head, smiling like she didn’t want to. “You better.”

By the time the movers were done, the sun had dipped behind the trees. Everything was everywhere—cribs still unbuilt, boxes labeled ‘Bathroom???’ in the wrong room. But I didn’t care. The house was messy and real. Just like us.

I sank onto the porch steps with a glass of whiskey in my hand, muscles sore, eyes heavy. And I thought about everything Lennox had been through. Everything we’d been through.

Her pregnancy with the twins felt like the universe throwing us into the deep end—no floaties. Shit was hard. Her body changed fast. Her moods changed faster. She cried over losing her abs. Over a dropped cookie. Over a TikTok of a puppy reunion. Then she’d cuss me out for breathing too loud.

She swelled up. Couldn’t see her ankles. Couldn’t shave without help. Couldn’t sleep unless my hand was on her stomach. And still—she showed up to Zoom meetings. Rocked presentations. Secured her bag from the couch while propped up on pregnancy pillows, laptop balanced on her belly.

She’d work a full day, then cry in my arms because she didn’t feel “like herself.” And I’d kiss on her and tell her she was everything. I’d rub her feet while she drifted off to sleep, one hand on her stomach, feeling them kick.

Watching her carry our twins made me fall in love with her all over again. Made me realize love wasn’t just in the romance—it was in the sacrifice. The discomfort. The quiet way she endured for us. For them.

The porch door creaked open, and Lennox stepped out with our daughter in her arms—swaddled, sleepy, cheeks full and round. She sat beside me, her body folding into mine like she belonged there. Because she did.

“Still thinking about the boxes?” she asked, teasing.

“Nah,” I said, staring at our daughter. “Thinking about your pregnancy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s random.”

“I watched you go through a lot, baby. I truly fucking love you.”

She blinked quickly, and I saw the tears she tried to hide. “You know,” she said, “I used to think love meant ease. The movies make it look so smooth.”

I scoffed. “Movies don’t show the two a.m. bathroom breakdowns. The I-hate-my-body days. The ‘I don’t know how to forgive you but I’m trying’ fights.”

She looked up at me, eyes full of memory. “But we made it.”

“We did.”

“No matter how hard it gets,” she said quietly, “I’ll never stop choosing you.” I took her hand, and she leaned in, kissing me slow and deep. Not rushed. Not out of lust. Out of knowing.

Because we’d been through the fire and came out better after the smoke cleared. As we sat there under the stars, we didn’t say much else. We didn’t have to. The life we built said it for us. This love wasn’t perfect, but it was permanent, and we were just getting started.