Life slowed after the twins arrived.
Not in pace—but in meaning.
Days blurred into nights filled with soft cries, warm bottles, and whispered reassurances. Ivie learned the weight of her children by heart—the way her son curled his fingers tightly, demanding the world, and how her daughter slept with one hand fisted near her cheek, peaceful and observant.
Motherhood grounded her.
And Femi… surprised her.
He woke at night without complaint. Learned how to soothe cries. Held them with a reverence that bordered on awe.
"I didn't know love could be this quiet," he murmured one night as their daughter slept against his chest.
Ivie watched him from the bed, heart full and aching. "It's loud in its own way."
Weeks passed.
Femi canceled meetings without hesitation. Boardrooms waited. Investors adjusted. Nothing outranked the fragile lives that now depended on him.
He attended every pediatric appointment. Memorized feeding schedules. Took notes.
"You're overdoing it," Ivie teased gently.
"No," he said firmly. "I'm catching up."
One afternoon, she found him in the nursery, rocking both twins gently, humming something low and unfamiliar.
She leaned against the doorframe, eyes burning.
"You never sing," she said softly.
"I never had a reason," he replied.
Late one evening, when the house finally slept, Ivie joined him on the balcony.
"I used to think you loved the idea of control," she said quietly.
"I did," he admitted. "Because control felt safe."
"And now?"
"Now I know love isn't safety," he said. "It's risk. And I choose it."
She turned to him. "You don't owe me anything."
"I owe you everything," he replied without hesitation.
The city lights reflected in his eyes—no arrogance left, only certainty.
Days later, a small envelope appeared on Ivie's nightstand.
Inside was a boarding pass.
Paris.
She looked up at him, startled.
"Just a change of air," he said lightly. "When you're ready."
She smiled slowly. "You're planning something."
He shrugged. "Maybe."
But his hands trembled just a little.
That night, Ivie lay between her sleeping twins, listening to their breaths.
For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like she was surviving.
She was living.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, love settled—not loud, not painful, not desperate.
Just sure.