Chapter 6: Nursery Planning in Chaos
The sun was a relentless spotlight on the empty spare room floor. Jasper traced the edge of the doorframe with his fingertips, the wood grain smooth under his skin. His mint scent, always sweet, carried a new, creamy undertone these days—like mint leaf crushed in warm milk. It made the alphas’ cedar notes cling closer, a constant, settling presence.
Rowan was on his knees, not in reverence this time, but with a metal tape measure snapped taut against the baseboard. The zzt-zzt of the retracting blade was the only sound. His brow was furrowed in concentration. “We need to move the outlet,” he muttered, more to the wall than to Jasper. “Code says thirty-six inches from the crib. And we’ll need blackout curtains.”
Jasper smiled, a soft, private thing. “We need to buy a crib first. And, you know, everything else a tiny human might possibly require.”
Rowan sat back on his heels, the tape measure clattering to the floor. His hazel eyes found Jasper’s, serious. “First, we need to know how many tiny humans we’re shopping for.” He said it carefully, the planner laying out the foundational data. “Multiples run in my family. Heavily.”
A flutter, not quite nervous, stirred under Jasper’s ribs. He nodded, his hand drifting to rest low on his abdomen. The firmness was undeniable now, a subtle curve his old jeans couldn’t accommodate. “They run in mine, too. My grandmother was a triplet. I just… happened to be a single.”
The door burst open, hitting the stopper with a thud. Flint strode in, his phone held aloft like a torch. “Okay, I’ve been researching. Do we want a crib that converts to a toddler bed, or just commit to the crib and deal with the bed later? Also, what’s our stance on wipe warmers? Controversial, but I’m pro-warmth.” He finally looked at them, registering the solemn atmosphere. “What? We have to start somewhere.”
“I said we need to wait for the ultrasound,” Rowan said, his voice firm but lacking its usual edge. He was trying to leash his own anticipation.
“You started a registry?” Jasper asked, amused.
“Started? It’s categorized. I have a notes app section on developmental milestones.” Flint scrolled, grinning. “Should I add a second crib? You know, just in case? They’re on sale.”
Ember appeared in the doorway, a silent shadow leaning against the jamb. He’d been listening. His chestnut hair was loose today, framing a face of calm appraisal. “Let’s wait for the ultrasound before we panic-buy an entire daycare,” he said, his tone dry. “One appointment. Then we know what we’re working with.”
Jasper laughed, the sound bright and a little nervous in the empty room. “It’s not panic-buying. It’s… strategic preparation.”
“It’s panic-buying,” Ember and Rowan said in unison.
Flint shrugged, unrepentant. “I’m a strategist with a credit card. Sue me.”
The clinic waiting room smelled of antiseptic and anxious omega sweat. Jasper sat stiffly in a padded chair, flanked by Rowan and Ember. Flint paced the perimeter, examining the generic landscape prints as if they held secret messages.
Jasper’s palms were damp. He focused on the sensations: the cool air conditioning raising goosebumps on his arms, the faint, clean scent of Ember’s cedar to his left, the solid, radiating heat of Rowan to his right. He wore loose sweatpants and one of Flint’s soft old band tees. The fabric was kind to his sensitive skin.
A nurse called his name. They all stood as one unit, a pack rising. The nurse, a beta woman with kind eyes, blinked at the three broad-shouldered alphas. “Uh, only one back with him for the scan, usually.”
“We’re all going,” Rowan stated, no room for debate. His protective aura was practically buzzing the fluorescents.
The nurse glanced at Jasper, who gave a small, confirming nod. “Okay then. Follow me.”
The room was dim, dominated by a large machine with a screen and a padded exam table. The gel, when the technician squeezed it onto Jasper’s lower abdomen, was shockingly cold. He flinched.
“Sorry, it’s always a bit chilly,” the tech said cheerfully. She was a plump, efficient omega named Gail. “Just relax.”
Relax. An impossible request. Jasper felt three pairs of eyes locked onto the blank screen. He stared at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling, counting the holes. Rowan’s hand found his, their fingers lacing tightly. Flint had stopped pacing and now stood rigid at the foot of the table, his knuckles white where he gripped the rail. Ember had taken up a post near Jasper’s head, his gaze steady on Jasper’s face, monitoring him first, the machine second.
The transducer pressed down, gliding through the cold gel. Static rustled from the speakers. Then, a rhythmic, rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filled the room.
“Ah, there’s the heartbeat,” Gail said, smiling. “Nice and strong.”
A single, tight breath escaped Rowan. Flint’s grip on the rail loosened, his shoulders dropping an inch. Jasper felt the sound in his own chest, a wild, beautiful echo. His eyes burned.
“Good,” Gail murmured, moving the wand. “Measuring looks perfect for your dates. And let’s just… see what else we’ve got in here.” She tilted the wand, pressed a little firmer to one side. The whoosh-whoosh continued. Then she shifted the angle slightly.
A second, distinct, synchronous whoosh-whoosh-whoosh joined the first.
The room stopped.
Gail’s smile widened. “Well, there we go. That explains the strong hormone levels.”
Jasper’s head lifted from the table. “What?”
On the screen, grey and white shapes resolved from the static. Two dark, ovular pools. Within each, a tiny, flickering grain of light—a heartbeat. Two separate, perfect rhythms, dancing side-by-side.
“You’ve got twins,” Gail said brightly, pointing with the cursor. “Baby A, and Baby B. Both measuring right on track. See?”
Silence, thicker and more profound than any that had come before, swallowed the room. The only sounds were the dual heartbeats, a relentless, miraculous percussion.
Rowan made a sound like he’d been gut-punched. His hand tightened convulsively around Jasper’s. He was staring at the screen, his face utterly blank, wiped clean by sheer astonishment.
Flint whispered, “Oh my god.” It was reverent. Awe-struck. He leaned closer, his grey eyes wide, drinking in the two flickering lights. “Two. Two of them.”
Ember, from his post, let out a long, slow breath. When Jasper twisted to look at him, he saw not shock, but a deep, settled confirmation in his brown eyes. A suspicion verified. He reached down and brushed Jasper’s hair back from his forehead, his touch unbearably gentle.
“Twins,” Jasper echoed. The word was too small. It didn’t encompass the reality on the screen, the two rhythms now seeming to pound in his very bones. Two. A pair. His mind raced—double everything. Double cribs. Double car seats. His body, already changing, would have to stretch for two. The fear was a cold splash, immediate and pragmatic.
But under it, rising like a tide, was a wave of emotion so potent it stole his breath. Twins. Their twins. A complete set, born of that single, transformative heat in the attic. His free hand covered Rowan’s where it clutched his, and he looked back at the screen, tears blurring the two tiny pulses of light into starry halos.
“Are they… okay?” Rowan’s voice was rough, scraped raw. The planner needed data. Safety metrics.
“They look perfectly healthy,” Gail assured, clicking to take measurements. “Strong heartbeats, good positioning. You’re doing great, Jasper.”
Flint found his voice again, a hushed, excited rush. “So… one crib or two? I’m voting two. They need their own space. Also, do twins run on the same schedule? What if one’s a night owl and one’s an early bird? We might need to sleep in shifts.”
A wet laugh hiccupped out of Jasper. Rowan finally tore his gaze from the screen to look down at him. The blank astonishment had melted into something else: a fierce, overwhelming tenderness that made Jasper’s heart clench. Rowan leaned down, ignoring the technician, and pressed his forehead to Jasper’s temple. His cedar scent was a storm.
“Two,” Rowan whispered against his skin, the word a vow.
The rest of the appointment was a blur of printed images—grainy black-and-white photos labelled A and B—and instructions about prenatal vitamins and next steps. Jasper moved through it feeling buoyant and heavy all at once.
They walked back into the blinding white afternoon light of the parking lot, a silent pod of four holding a world-shaking secret. Jasper held the thermal printout photos in a trembling hand.
They stopped by the truck. No one moved to get in.
Flint was the first to break. He turned to Jasper, his fiery energy compressed into something quiet and intense. “Can I?” he asked, gesturing to Jasper’s abdomen.
Jasper nodded.
Flint stepped close, carefully, and placed both of his hands over the slight curve. He closed his eyes, his smoky cedar scent wrapping around them. He wasn’t just touching Jasper; he was listening, feeling for the echo of those two heartbeats through layers of skin and muscle and bond. A single tear traced a clean line down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
Rowan watched, his own emotions a visible tempest behind his eyes. He opened the passenger door. “Get in. You need to eat. Protein. For them.”
Ember took the ultrasound photos from Jasper’s loose grip. He studied them, a small, private smile playing on his lips. “A matched set,” he said softly. He looked at Jasper. “How do you feel?”
Jasper slid into the truck seat, his body thrumming. “Full,” he said honestly. Then he met Ember’s gaze. “And happy. Really, really happy.”
The drive home was quiet, but the silence was different now. It was saturated, thick with the future. Jasper stared out the window, the images burning in his mind. Two flickering lights. Two heartbeats where, just weeks ago, there had been only his own.
When they pulled into the driveway, the empty spare room upstairs seemed to call to them, no longer a question mark but a promise with a definite, staggering shape.
Flint helped Jasper out of the truck, his hand lingering. “So,” he said, his voice back to its normal, loud volume, though it wavered just a bit. “Two cribs. Definitely. And we’re knocking out that wall to the next room, right? They’ll need space to crawl.”
Rowan, coming around the hood, didn’t immediately shoot the idea down. He just looked at the house, his planner’s mind already drawing new blueprints. “We’ll see,” he said, but it wasn’t a no.
Ember pocketed the ultrasound photos. “First,” he said, placing a hand on the small of Jasper’s back to guide him inside, “we tell the pack. Officially. Then we tell your parents.”
Jasper’s stomach dipped at that. His parents, with their quiet, medical understanding of omega life. Their single grandson, pregnant with twins by three alphas. That conversation was a cliff edge waiting at the end of the week.
But for now, he walked into the house, surrounded by the cedar scent of his alphas, the proof of their future held in Ember’s pocket and growing in his own body. The fear was still there, a whisper at the back of his mind. But it was drowned out, completely, by the relentless, echoing whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that now seemed to be the only sound in the world.
But it was drowned out, completely, by the relentless, echoing whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that now seemed to be the only sound in the world.
They moved through the next day in a haze of soft celebration. Rowan cooked a breakfast absurdly high in protein. Flint presented a onesie he’d secretly bought months ago, small enough to fit in a palm, printed with tiny axes. Ember just kept touching him—a hand on his shoulder, fingers through his hair—as if verifying a miracle.
The ultrasound photos were stuck to the refrigerator with moon-shaped magnets. Jasper found himself pausing there, staring at the grainy blobs. Baby A. Baby B. His throat would get tight every time.
The call came the next morning.
Jasper’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, an unknown clinic number. He snatched it, his mint scent spiking sweet. “Hello?”
“Jasper, it’s Gail, from the imaging center.” Her voice was professional, but a thread of something urgent ran beneath it. “I was looking over the ultrasounds from yesterday in more detail.”
“Is everything okay?” Jasper’s free hand went to his stomach. Rowan, who was loading the dishwasher, went still. Flint looked up from his cereal. Ember set his book down.
“The images are okay, but my count wasn’t.” Gail took a steadying breath he could hear through the line. “Jasper, there’s four babies. Not two.”
The world didn’t just stop. It folded in on itself. The kitchen tiles, the morning sun, the scent of coffee—all of it receded to a pinprick. “What?”
“I see four distinct gestational sacs. Three are definitely female. I’m unsure about the last one’s sex, it’s tucked behind.” She spoke quickly, clinically. “On the next scan I’ll be recounting again. There might end up being six to seven pups, but I’m not sure yet. They’re tiny, so one might get absorbed by another.”
Silence roared in his ear. He could feel the alphas’ eyes like physical weights.
“Four,” he repeated, the word numb on his tongue.
Rowan’s plate slipped from his hand and shattered in the sink.
“I’ll advise no lifting anything above five pounds,” Gail continued, her voice gentling. “And since you’re only five feet, please rest more than you think you need to. This is a significant multiple pregnancy. We need to see you weekly. Can you come in tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.” Jasper’s voice belonged to someone else.
“Okay. I’ll send the notes to your doc. Breathe, Jasper. They all have strong heartbeats. That’s what matters today.”
The line went dead.
Jasper lowered the phone. He looked at the three faces frozen around him, their expressions suspended between confusion and dawning horror. He opened his mouth. No sound came out.
“Jasper.” Rowan’s voice was a blade, sharp and clean. “What did she say?”
“Four,” he whispered. The refrigerator hummed. “She saw four. Maybe… maybe more. Later.”
Flint’s chair screeched backwards. “What the fuck.”
“Four babies.” Ember stated it, his calm finally cracking into pure disbelief. He stood, his book tumbling to the floor. “Four.”
Jasper nodded, a jerky, mechanical motion. “Three are girls. One they can’t tell. She said… they’re so small, one might get absorbed.” He flinched at his own words, a strange, dark grief for a possibility already piercing him.
Rowan walked around the island. He didn’t run. His movements were precise, deliberate, like a man disarming a bomb. He took Jasper’s face in his hands. His own were bone-white. “Listen to me. You are not moving. You are sitting down. Now.” He guided him to a stool, his touch firm.
“I need to see,” Flint babbled, grabbing Jasper’s phone. He pulled up the clinic number, his thumbs flying over the screen. “I need her to send the images. I need to see them. Four. How did we miss two? How?”
“They’re tiny,” Jasper said, echoing Gail. His mind was a white static. Four heartbeats. Four sets of needs. His body, his small body, was supposed to house and grow and birth them. The pragmatic fear that arrived with twins multiplied exponentially, a crushing, physical weight. “She said no lifting. Five pounds. I can’t carry my own backpack.”
“You won’t be carrying anything,” Rowan said. He was already scrolling through his own phone, his planner’s mind kicking into a terrifying new gear. “We’re dropping classes. All of us. We need full-time jobs. Now. A bigger vehicle. A new house. We need—” He stopped, his breath hitching. The sheer scale of it hit him, and for the first time Jasper saw true, unvarnished panic in Rowan’s hazel eyes.
Ember knelt in front of Jasper, placing himself in his line of sight. He took Jasper’s cold hands. “Breathe. Just for a second, just breathe with me.” His deep brown eyes were anchors. “She said strong heartbeats. That’s the focus. One thing at a time.”
“One thing?” Flint laughed, a ragged, hysterical sound. He was pacing again, a caged animal. “It’s four things, Ember! It’s a whole litter! This isn’t what happens! This is—this is stats class from hell!”
“Flint.” Rowan’s voice cracked like a whip. “Shut up. Now.” He wasn’t angry. He was terrified, and terror made him brutal.
The sound broke the paralysis in Jasper. He looked from Rowan’s pale, set face to Flint’s frantic pacing to Ember’s forced calm. They were shattering, each in their own way, under this news. And they were looking to him. The omega. The one with the body currently hosting a seismic event.
He placed his hands over his abdomen, over the firm, still-subtle curve. Four. A sudden, bizarre image flashed in his mind: the attic during his heat, the three of them moving around and within him, a perfect, overwhelming synergy. Of course it was more than two. The bond had been so deep, so total. It made a terrible, beautiful sense.
“Okay,” Jasper said. The word was quiet, but it cut through the chaos.
They all stared at him.
“Okay,” he repeated, stronger. He looked at Rowan. “We are not dropping out. Not yet. We’ll figure out the money.” He looked at Flint. “Stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy.” Finally, he looked at Ember, squeezing his hands. “You’re right. Strong heartbeats. That’s today.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his mint scent flooding the space, a deliberate calming signal. “We’re having four babies. Maybe more. That’s the reality.” His voice only wavered once. “We’re scared. I’m terrified. But we’re a pack. We planned for one, adjusted for two.” He managed a fragile, wobbly smile. “So we’ll adjust for four. Or seven. Whatever it is.”
Rowan’s rigid posture softened, just a fraction. He sank onto the stool next to Jasper, his broad shoulders slumping. He didn’t speak. He just leaned his forehead against Jasper’s shoulder.
Flint stopped moving. He walked over, his energy spent, and slumped to the floor at Jasper’s feet, resting his head against Jasper’s knee. “A whole litter,” he whispered, but the hysteria was gone, replaced by a dazed wonder.
Ember released Jasper’s hands and stood. He walked to the refrigerator and slowly, carefully, took down the two ultrasound photos. He stared at them for a long moment. “We need a new fridge,” he said, his tone almost normal. “A bigger one. For all the pictures.”
A real laugh, tinged with mania, bubbled out of Jasper. It broke the remaining tension.
Rowan lifted his head. He looked at the empty space on the fridge, then at Jasper, then at the wall as if he could see through to the spare room. His planner’s mind was visibly recalibrating, scaling up every blueprint tenfold. “We’re not knocking out one wall,” he said, his voice hollow with realization. “We’re buying the house next door and connecting them.”
The phone on the counter buzzed again. A text from Gail, with the new, annotated images attached.
Jasper didn’t reach for it. He looked at the three alphas, his pack, in their states of shock and devotion and fear. The echoing whoosh-whoosh was gone from his ears. In its place was a new, profound silence—the quiet before the storm of their forever changing. He placed a hand on Rowan’s head, another in Flint’s hair, and met Ember’s watchful gaze.
“Together,” Jasper said. It wasn’t a question.
It was the only plan that mattered now.