He doesn’t like that answer.
The nurse—a sweet brunette named Tabitha—comes in to check my vitals. Her hands are shaking. She accidentally brushes a wire against my arm, and Konstantin shoots to his feet like it’s a weapon.
“I swear to God,” he growls, “if you so much as bump her wrong again, I’ll have your license revoked and your retirement spent in an unheated box.”
“Konstantin,” I say firmly. “I need her to have functioning hands.”
He doesn’t sit back down.
But he does press his lips to my temple and murmur, “You shouldn’t be the one in pain. Not you.”
“I’m not in pain yet.” It’s a half-lie; the contractions aren’t exactly comfortable.
“I don’t care. You shouldn’t be.” He brushes my hair back with one hand and lays a palm reverently on my belly. “You’re everything. You hear me? Everything.”
My throat tightens.
Hormones are cruel.
So is love, sometimes.
But in this moment, with his forehead pressed to mine and his hand covering the place where our son is slowly readying his entrance into the world, I feel weightless.
Like there’s nothing else. Just this.
Just us.
Five hours later, I’mdefinitelyin pain.
The contractions are stronger now. Closer. My back is screaming. My abdomen’s clenching like it’s trying to tear itselfapart. Konstantin looks like he’s aged ten years in the last hour, his salt-and-pepper hair dull and standing on end from running his hand through it constantly.
The nurses, aware of him but more focused on me, are serious and thorough. They’ve realized thatI’mthe one in control; and I need to be. Already this feels so overwhelming that I can’t imagine the other side of it.
“Epidural,” I pant, clutching Konstantin’s hand. “I need—I need the anesthesiologist?—”
“They said ten minutes. It’s been fifteen,” he barks at the nurse.
“I’m sorry, sir, I?—”
“If you don’t find someone right now,” he snarls, “Iwill.”
Tabitha ducks out of the room.
Konstantin leans down and strokes my face again. “You’re doing beautifully.”
“I amsweating.”
“You’re glowing.”
“Glowing withrage.”
He chuckles softly, and I watch the lines around his eyes crinkle. Then another contraction hits, and I crush his hand with a force that could probably dislocate a lesser man’s knuckles.
He doesn’t even flinch.
“Breathe,malen’kiy volk,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Time fractures.
