All Chapters of PREGNANT WITH THE CEO'S TWINS: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

BRABRA Three days after the hospital, Andriy is still here more often than he isn't, moving through my small apartment with an ease that surprises me every time I notice it — learning which cabinet holds the mugs, which floorboard by the window creaks, exactly how I take my tea now that ginger has become the only thing that settles my stomach some mornings. Tonight he's cooking, or attempting to, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel thrown carelessly over one shoulder, frowning at a pot of soup like it's a hostile negotiation he's slowly losing. "You're burning it," I say from the couch, watching him with quiet amusement. "I am not burning it." He stirs harder, as if that might fix things. "I am encouraging it." "That's not a thing." "It is tonight." I laugh, and the sound surprises me a little, easy and unguarded in a way that still feels new most days. He glances over at me, something soft moving across his face at the sound of it, and turns the burner down before the soup c

ANDRIYIt happens almost by accident, the way most of the important things about her have.The nursery folder has become something of a ritual between us these past few evenings, an easy, ordinary task that lets us sit close together without the weight of bigger, unanswered questions pressing down on the room. She still hasn't given me an answer about moving in. I've stopped asking, mostly, trusting that the answer will come when it's ready to.We're at her kitchen table, going through the folder of nursery furniture options I brought over, when my phone rings, an unfamiliar number I almost let go to voicemail. I answer out of habit, half listening, and freeze when the woman on the other end introduces herself as a caseworker from a family services office, asking to confirm a callback number listed on an old form."I think you have the wrong person," I say carefully, glancing at Brabra, who has gone very still across the table, her eyes fixed on nothing."My apologies," the woman says

BRABRAMy coworker finds me at my desk Friday morning, her phone already in her hand, her expression carefully arranged into something she's trying hard to keep neutral."You need to see this," she says, sliding into the chair beside mine. "Before someone shows it to you the wrong way."She turns the screen toward me. A gossip website, the kind I've scrolled past a hundred times without ever clicking, loads a photograph across the top of the page. My stomach drops before I've even fully processed what I'm looking at.It's us. Outside the hospital, the night I collapsed. Andriy carrying me through the emergency entrance, his face twisted with fear, my body limp and pale in his arms. The headline above it reads: CEO Andriy Seen Rushing Mystery Woman to Hospital — Company Insiders Speculate.My hands go cold around the edge of my desk. I've seen myself in a hundred unflattering moments these past months — pale in the bathroom mirror, exhausted in the elevator glass — but never like this.

BRABRA Andriy shows up on Saturday with empty boxes, cheerful in a way that makes it hard to stay annoyed with him for very long. "I thought we could start slow," he says, setting the flattened cardboard against my kitchen wall. "Just the things you're sure about. No pressure to decide anything else yet." I still haven't given him an answer about moving in, not fully, but somewhere over the past week the question has quietly shifted from if to when, and neither of us has said so out loud yet. Sorting through what's mine feels like a smaller, safer step than committing to the whole decision at once. We work through the hall closet first, easy things — winter coats-----66------___"'bjh$$#34&-- I haven't worn in months, a box of mismatched kitchen supplies I'm happy to consolidate. Andriy hums something under his breath as he works, more relaxed than I've seen him in weeks, sleeves rolled up, a smear of dust already on his forearm that he doesn't seem to notice or mind. "You'd t

BRABRAAndriy doesn't come by the next day, or the day after, though his message sits at the top of my phone screen every time I unlock it, patient and waiting, exactly the way he promised he would be.I read it more times than I'd like to admit. Not to push. Just to listen, if you ever want me to. There's no pressure folded into it anywhere, no reminder that he's waiting, no second message following up when I don't respond right away. Just the one, sitting there, patient the way he said he'd be.I don't reply right away. I need the space more than I expect to, sorting through the tangle of anger and guilt and old, exhausted grief the journals stirred loose in me. By the third evening, the silence has stopped feeling like protection and started feeling like something closer to loneliness, and I finally pick up the phone and call him."Hey," he answers, careful, like he's not sure which version of me he's about to get."Can you come over?" I ask. "I think I'm ready to talk. Not about e