Page 7 of When the Sky Falls

I grab a packet of chamomile and curse the universe for stealing coffee from me. My kingdom for a triple shot iced mocha with oat milk and a mountain of whipped cream. But no. Now it’s all ginger root and probiotic blends and teas with names like Peaceful Womb and Nurture the Nest.

Yay.

The kettle shrieks like a banshee, and I don’t bother to hush it. Let it scream. Someone should.

While the tea steeps, I settle at the breakfast bar with my laptop and open Reese’s content calendar. Being her social media manager means I get a front row seat to influencer chaos—and the privilege of pretending like my life isn’t crumbling like a stale muffin.

I schedule her next TikTok. Draft captions with emojis that mask my existential dread. Respond to brand emails with chipper professionalism while my heart tap dances on the edge of a panic attack.

Because life doesn’t stop for heartbreak. Or pregnancy. Or men who flinch when you tell them they’re going to be fathers.

My stomach twists—or maybe it’s just nerves—and I rest my hand over it like I’m expecting to feel something. A flutter. A sign. Proof I didn’t imagine all of this. Maybe if I press hard enough, I’ll wake up from the stress dream where I’m pregnant and alone and the universe has a sick sense of humor.

Except this isn’t a dream. It’s real. They’re real.

And Fletch?

He might not be ready, but I am.

Sort of.

Maybe.

No.

Not really.

But I will be.

Because I have to be.

Because they deserve better than a beginning wrapped in silence and slammed doors.

And if he can’t show up?

I will.

The second Reese’s face appears on my screen, she’s already sniffling, and I know I’m toast.

“You showed them to me and didn’t warn me?” she wails, wiping her nose with a sleeve that’s way too cute for snot duty. “You ambushed me with their little gummy bear bodies and big heads, Mya! That’s so evil—so evil.”

I blink back tears of my own, which is stupid because I’ve already cried enough today to fill a freaking bathtub. My head hurts from crying. My nose is pink. My heart is all over the damn place, like someone scooped it out with an ice cream spoon and left it to melt.

“They’re perfect, Reese. Like, weirdly perfect.” I hold up the ultrasound picture again because apparently I like watching my best friend sob like she just finished The Notebook on a loop.

She gasps. Loudly. “Oh my god, look at them! Those little blobs are actual babies! Thor, that’s two!”

A blurry hand enters the frame and Thorin leans into view, his expression twisted in this mix of awe and straight-up panic, like he’s trying to process how his wife’s best friend is suddenly growing two humans. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “They look like aliens.”

Reese elbows him so hard he nearly drops the phone.

I laugh, even though my chest feels like it’s been set on fire with a flamethrower of feelings I didn’t order.

“Tell us everything,” Reese sniffs, eyes wide and glassy. “How was the appointment? Are they okay? Are you okay?”

“They’re good,” I say, and my voice comes out soft. Wobbly. “Both of them have strong heartbeats. One kept kicking like they were in a mosh pit and the other just… floated. Like they’re already total opposites.”

“Twins,” Thorin says, like it’s still sinking in. “You’re really doing this.”