Edward spent most of the night taking care of his two sick twins. Around six, both of them finally settled down and crashed from being so sick. Edward sucked down coffee, exhausted from cleaning the never-ending stream of vomit. The combination of that scent, plus the burnt chicken piccata made his stomach turn.
Shortly after eight, Esme came over with some plain toast for the twins. She found her son drooling on the kitchen peninsula, holding a coffee cup. Brushing his hair back, she gently roused him. “Ma?” he croaked, sitting up and stretching. Every bone in his spine cracked. “Sorry. I must have drifted off.”
“Did you get any sleep?” she asked as she refreshed his coffee.
“No. Liam just loved to projectile vomit,” he said, looking down at his scrubs. He gave up on clothes and found some scrubs figuring it would be to change those. “Lucy was a bit more delicate. What did you feed my children?”
“It was just too much,” Esme said. “And it’s all your father’s fault. He was the one shoveling down unhealthy food down their throats.”
“Remind me to kick his ass,” Edward said, rubbing his eyes.