Born of the Sea, Held by Fire

We stayed abroad longer than planned. The days bled into each other—sunrises over the Ionian Sea, candlelit dinners, and endless, fevered nights where even my swollen belly couldn’t keep us apart. Time slowed down in Corfu, and before I knew it, labor crept in like a soft tide.

It was a quick and almost shockingly easy birth. One moment, I was brushing my hair as he was teasing my pussy with his mouth on the terrace as the sun dipped low behind olive trees, and the next, I was gripping Matthew’s hand, my legs spread wide in a whitewashed birthing suite that smelled of citrus and sea. He never left my side. Ioannis came first, calm and wide-eyed. Christos followed—louder, pinker, but just as perfect.

The nurses said it was rare to have such an easy twin delivery. I’d smiled, exhausted and deliriously happy, as Matthew held both boys in his arms, tears clinging to his lashes. He kissed me hard right there, whispering, "You’re everything. Everything I’ll ever need."

We stayed on the island for a while. We had to. The paperwork took time—birth certificates, clearances to fly, my own medical sign-off. But we didn’t mind. The villa became a kind of cocoon. I nursed the boys while Matthew cooked or held them or kissed my forehead and told me I was a goddess. We took walks on the beach with them wrapped in soft linen slings. Locals blessed us, smiling at the boys, cooing in Greek.

When we finally flew home, everything was waiting.

Matthew’s home had been transformed by our loved ones. A serene nursery with twin cribs. A cozy nook for feeding. Soothing colors and soft textures, stocked with more baby essentials than we could ever use. There was love in every corner—gifts, notes, fresh sheets, welcome banners. We cried, both of us, overwhelmed and grateful.

The first weeks were a blur, but we had help. Nannies rotated shifts with trusted friends and family, guiding us gently into a schedule. I’d lie in bed, one baby at each breast, watching Matthew read to them or hum as he rocked them one at a time. My heart felt like it was constantly expanding, aching with love.

And then came the four-week mark—and with it, my clearance to be intimate again.

I hadn’t touched the birth control pills. Not once.

We resumed our rhythm almost immediately. It didn’t matter how tired we were—our need for each other hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had sharpened with absence and anticipation. My body had changed—curvier, fuller, softer—but he worshiped it. My breasts were heavier with milk, and when he touched them, kissed them, sucked them gently between his lips, I swore I could melt through the sheets.

We planned our dates carefully. Nannies or family stayed overnight, giving us the space we needed to lose ourselves in each other again. He took me out like he always had—restaurants, rooftops, evening walks with my hand in his—and then took me again at home, slow and deep, his body pressed tight against mine, stretching me until I cried out for more. I always cried out for more.

We’d barely make it to the bedroom some nights. He’d pin me to the wall, lifting my leg around his waist, whispering that he missed the way I felt wrapped around him. My breasts would spill over the neckline of whatever dress I wore, and his mouth would find them before we even made it upstairs.

We still had mornings where the alarm clock signaled the start of our day only because we hadn’t stopped the night before.

And somehow, through all the passion, the parenting, and the chaos, we kept finding each other. Kept rediscovering the rhythm we started with.

Because now, there were four heartbeats in this home. And they all beat in time with love.