“Maybe.”
His jaw tics. “Phern?—”
“Let me marry you first.”
He hesitates, torn between logic and love. But I lace my fingers through his and give him a look that says trust me.
The officiant clears his throat.
We move fast. The words blur—something about devotion, something about forever—but my eyes never leave Will's, and his never leave mine.
“You may kiss the bride.”
He does, with a hand cradling my belly like he’s already protecting both of us.
The moment our lips part, another contraction nearly buckles my knees.
“I think it’s time,” I breathe.
Will doesn’t wait. He sweeps me into his arms like the world is on fire and strides back down the aisle to a mix of stunned gasps and delighted laughter.
Charlie calls out behind us, “Someone get the truck and the hospital bag!”
Liam yells, “Is the baby coming right now?!”
And I laugh through the pain, through the joy, through the absolute wildness of it all. Because I just married the love of my life. And now I’m about to meet the other one.
By the time we reach the truck, Will’s sweating. Not from nerves. From panic. Real, bone-deep dad-mode panic. He helpsme into the passenger seat like I’m made of porcelain and buckles the seatbelt himself then jogs around to the driver’s side, muttering, “Hospital. Fast. Not too fast. Shit.”
Charlie tosses the hospital bag in the back. “Already called ahead. They’re expecting you!”
Sam has his arm around Charlie. “We’ll meet you there, sis.”
We peel out of the gravel driveway, tin cans and flower petals still dragging behind the truck.
The contractions are getting closer. Stronger.
I grip Will’s hand across the console, teeth clenched through another wave. “This baby is not waiting long.”
Will glances at me, jaw tight. “You’re doing amazing, sugar. Just hold on.”
“I already held on. That’s why we’re in this situation.”
He barks out a laugh. “You still cracking jokes while in labor? I married a damn superhero.”
The truck speeds down the back roads, past fields and barns and fences we helped build together. My dress is hitched up around my thighs, my hair a mess of curls and sweat, and none of it matters. Because this is us. Chaotic. Real. So in love it hurts.
We make it to the hospital. Barely.
The nurses meet us at the entrance with a wheelchair, and Will tries to argue—he can carry me—but I shoot him a look that shuts that down quick.
Inside, everything moves fast—monitors, IVs, quick checks and shouted instructions. But the second Will laces our fingers together, the world narrows to just us.
“You’ve got this,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”
Hours blur. The pain is sharp, intense. But Will never lets go of my hand. He kisses my forehead, murmurs encouragement, rubs my back when I scream, and doesn’t flinch when I curse him out mid-push.
And then just as dawn breaks there’s a cry.
