Panic morphs into ugly fear.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I lean on him, weak and shaky. Of course I knew this day was coming. I wanted it to. The last few weeks of my pregnancy have been tough, and I just want to hold our baby, but now the reality that I have to push our daughter out of my body is staring me in the face.
And I’m scared.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I sound ridiculous. It’s not like there’s a choice. The baby has to come out somehow, but everybirthing class, every video I’ve watched on labor means nothing as my stomach tightens like a screw being turned.
“You can. You’re the strongest person I know, Mia.”
I glare at him through my tears. “I will smother you if you try to give me that self-help crap.”
He smiles.Smiles.“Let’s go have our baby.”
Jensen doesn’t leave my side. For eight hours my body readies to birth our daughter. The contractions are like a runaway train, slow at first and then they pick up speed. Eventually they’re coming so close to each other there’s no time between one ending and the next starting.
I’m sweaty, breathless, shaking, and in agony.
Jensen murmurs support and affirmations. Things that give me the strength to keep going, even though I’m exhausted. I’m just one ball of pain, unable to think or feel beyond the endless stabbing slicing through my belly.
The only thing I’m aware of outside of it is Jensen’s hand in mine.
I’m pretty sure I beg him to fix this, to make it stop. I try to bargain with the OB for a C-section, and I float outside my body until I feel my daughter’s head tearing out of me.
Someone keeps telling me to breathe, to push—I ignore that voice. I’m too busy trying not to pass out when the pressure feels like I’m being split in half.
My body takes over, knowing what to do even if I don’t. I’m half naked, my bump touching my chest as my knees almost reach my ears. I push with everything I have, the pain blinding, so bad I feel like I’m going to die, and then she slides out of me in a rush of hot agony.
Then, there’s only blessed relief.
I collapse back against the pillows, every inch of me shaking. I can’t see, can’t think about anything but the burn between my legs and the baby that I’m waiting to hear cry.
Jensen’s eyes are wet. He looks wrecked. I squeeze his hand, and he peers down at me. “She’s here.”
“She’s not crying.”
The OB is doing something, but I can’t see past my stomach. And then, the most beautiful sound. A newborn wail. She sounds pissed, like she already came out furious at the world.
My throat clogs and I choke out a cry of my own.
Jensen ducks to kiss me. “You did it. I’m so fucking proud of you. She’s perfect.”
She might be perfect, but she’s not in my arms. I come up on my elbows, ignoring the tear through my suddenly empty belly as my OB lifts my daughter onto my chest.
And it’s like everything stops.
She’s pink, covered in afterbirth and gunk, but Jensen’s right. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Her little brow is furrowed, her hands curled into fists like she wants to fight everyone in the room, and her eyes find mine.
Instinctively, I wrap a hand over her back to keep her in place. All the pain, all the fear, disappears. I can’t stop looking at her. Can’t stop touching her. Jensen runs his fingers over her head, like he’s scared to touch her.
“Hey, little one,” he rasps. “Welcome to the world. Me and your mama are going to love you so much.”
I sob. Of course I do. My gruff, overbearing husband is being adorable, and I’m flooded with hormones right now.
“You did really well, Mia.” We both glance at my OB, still between my legs, still doing things as the rest of my birth comes to an end. “Does the baby have a name?”
I glance up at Jensen, who hasn’t stopped stroking my head, like he can’t bear to stop touching me.
