Vincent is sitting at the head of the bed, Willow’s hand in both of his. She’s pale, damp hair stuck to her temples, eyes half-shut with exhaustion and something fierce behind it.
Cast stands at her other side, one hand braced at her shoulder, the other gripping the rail like it’s keeping him from breaking apart. And despite us having four birthing videos already, I am on filming duty.
“Breathe with me, Willow,” the nurse says softly. “Good. That’s it. Again.”
She obeys, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. Her body trembles. The sound she makes isn’t a scream—it’s deeper than that, guttural, pulled from somewhere ancient.
Vincent leans close, whispering to her, his forehead resting against her temple. “You’re okay. You’re almost there.”
The nurse says, “One more, Willow. Almost there.”
And Willow, in true Willow fashion, grits her teeth and says, “You said thatthree contractions ago.”
Vincent’s voice is rough as he presses a kiss to Willow’s forehead. “She always lies near the end. You know that baby.”
“You got this, Trouble,” I call out and the glare she gives me, fuck if looks could kill I would fucking disintegrates on sight.
She laughs—hoarse, half a sob—and another contraction grips her. The muscles in her arms tighten; her whole body draws inward like a wave building force.
“Now,” the nurse says.
Willow pushes.
Every line of her face hardens—determined, furious, beautiful. Her voice fractures into raw sound. Cast presses his palm to her shoulder, grounding her. Vincent’s whisper turns into steady encouragement, the rhythm of his words keeping pace with the pulse of the monitor.
Then the sound cuts through the air—thin at first, a trembling wisp of noise that barely seems real.
A cry.
It quivers, uncertain, like his lungs are learning how to work. Then another follows, fuller, stronger, echoing off the sterile tile and glass. It sharpens into something fierce, a protest and a promise all at once. The kind of sound that splits a life cleanly intobeforeandafter.
The nurse’s gloved hands move quick, sure, catching him in one smooth motion. A rush of warmth, the slick gleam of new skin, the faint steam of him rising in the hospital light. “He’s here,” she breathes, her voice small against the sudden enormity of the moment.
Willow collapses back into the bed, a shudder leaving her body as though she’s exhaled the entire world. Her skin gleams under the lights—damp, flushed, radiant. Her chest lifts and falls in shallow bursts, every breath edged with exhaustion and relief.
The nurse sets the baby on Willow’s chest. Skin against skin. The small, slick body curls instinctively toward her warmth.
He’s red, wet, perfect. His tiny fists open and close as if trying to grab the world.
Willow blinks through tears, her hands trembling as she touches him. Her fingertips trace his back, his shoulder, the soft curve of his skull. She laughs, then cries harder. “Hi,” she whispers. “Hi, baby.”
Vincent’s hand joins hers, steady and shaking all at once. He presses his thumb to the baby’s back, his lips parting soundlessly before he finds the words. “You did it,” he murmurs to Willow. “You did it, love.”
Cast wipes at his face with the back of his hand, pretending it’s just sweat. He clears his throat, voice rough. “He’s got her mouth.”
Vincent lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh, half like surrender. “And my nose. Poor kid.”
The baby cries again, louder this time, lungs announcing his place in the world. Willow smiles through it, eyes shining, and presses a trembling kiss to his damp hair.
“Matthew,” she whispers. “His name’s Matthew.”
I steady the camera, my throat thick. “I think that’s perfect, baby,” I murmur, zooming in on her sweet, tear-streaked face.
She laughs softly, half-asleep, half-in awe, and lifts Matthew’s tiny hand. His fingers curl around her thumb.
“Say hi,” she coaxes, voice barely a breath.
The newborn hand opens once—small, uncertain—and she helps him wave toward the lens.
