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Shane rests in the oversized recliner that used to be my mother’s, his head tilted back and eyes closed. Since he’s only wearing a pair of black joggers, his tattoos are on display—well…mostly. Two tiny bodies hide Shane’s artwork, getting some much-needed skin-to-skin time with Daddy.

After nursing our daughters and handing them to my husband, I stole away for a quick shower and to refill the reusable water bottle which is my constant companion—besides our twins, of course.

“I’m not asleep,” he grumbles.

“I know.” I cross the room to run my fingers through his hair. “You’d never let down your guard enough to fall asleep while they were in your care.”

Unable to help myself, I bend down to place a gentle kiss on Iris’s and Daisy’s small heads. Iris releases a shuddered huff, and my heart darn near explodes. Both of them have a light dusting of copper hair, just like their father.

When I sniffle, Shane glances up at me, shifting our babies into one arm to interlace his fingers with mine.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I say, chasing the streaming tears away from my cheeks.

“Hormones. Lack of sleep. Absolute mind-blowing joy. Take your pick.”

A watery chuckle leaves my mouth as I squeeze his fingers.

I glance at the tattoo spanning the inside of his left wrist. Though our couple name never took off, Shane insisted I design our monogram and had it inked before our wedding. I still remember sliding his wedding band back on his finger during the ceremony and seeing our initials peeking out beneath his cuff. Shane has asked me to create a monogram with the girls’ initials to have tattooed beside it.

“Do you want to paint a little while they nap?”

“Honestly?” I sit on a nearby footstool and stretch my back. “Not really.”

After finishing my commission two months before the girls’ scheduled c-section, I went into hardcore nesting mode. I haven’t felt the urge to create after giving birth six weeks ago, though I’m sure it will come back once I’m not sleep deprived and hungry all the time. Nowadays, I’m more interested in what delectable concoctions Gabriel makes than mixing colors.

The painting I finished when we discovered the happy-yet-shocking news that we were pregnant with twins was a companion piece to the one I made of Piper years ago. That first piece ended up in Jennifer Aniston’s collection after she learned about it while having coffee with Mallory. I’d expected Delilah to be upset about the megastar wanting the painting of her daughter, but my best friend acted like I was crazy.

“If Jennifer Aniston wants your painting, you freaking sell it to Jennifer Aniston!”

If I thought carrying five grand around in a briefcase was ludicrous, when fifty thousand hit my bank account, I nearly fainted. After that, I’ve had a steady stream of commissions, creating pieces I’m truly excited about. With the team of business professionals coordinating everything behind the scenes, all I had to worry about was which brush to use.

Occasionally, I painted something just for me.

Or in the case of the painting hanging in our living room, of me wearing my husband’s jersey, for Shane.

“Do you want to nap before our company gets here?”

I shake my head.

“I know they say to sleep while the babies sleep, but I don’t feel like it. I think I’d like to do my makeup, though.”

Shane tilts his chin up for a kiss before I leave him with the girls. On my way out, I glance at the two baseballs with our daughters’ newborn footprints on them. The nurse gave us a strange look when we asked to press their tiny feet in between the red stitching instead of onto a piece of paper. To us, they’re the perfect keepsake.

“I’m not kidding,” Delilah says, hours later, while pinning up my hair. “Piper had a full breakdown. Door slamming. Screaming. The whole nine. Over me washing her favorite hoodie.”

My best friend takes one look at my Yeesh face and apologizes. “I shouldn’t be scaring you with teen drama. Just…just be sure to snuggle those sweet innocent babies while you still can, okay?”

“To be fair, mine scream and throw up on you.”

Delilah laughs, placing the last crystal bobby pin in my hair. The deep-navy pins match my loose-fitting sequined dress perfectly. I’ve paired both with my favorite Doc Martins because I’m six weeks postpartum and hosting a New Year’s Eve party. I get to wear whatever the heck I want.

Shane knocks on the bathroom door frame before catching sight of us and stopping short. A muttered curse escapes his mouth. Then he rises to his full height, adjusting the cuffs to his suit jacket.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Delilah whispers to me before crossing to the doorway. “Big Papa,” she says, heartily patting Shane on the back.

“I thought you told her I don’t want to be called that.”

I shrug. “Delilah is going to do whatever she wants to do. You know this.”