And that was enough.

Baby Gemini laughed, and the laugh split and harmonized with itself. They walked back to the car, and Ricky drove them home through the empty streets, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Baby Gemini’s hand—two palms, one story, no version control.

Ricky hit it. The machine groaned and started. Baby Gemini smiled for the first time—two different dimples, one shy, one sly.

“You forgot,” Ricky said.

Baby Gemini went quiet. Then, softer: “That’s the right answer.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But next time, bring both of you to the diner. The waitress makes good pie.”

“There is no other you.”