It was a routine appointment, one we’ve been attending every week since Aurora was put on bed rest a month ago. Once she told them she was throwing up again, we went directly from the obstetrician’s office to the maternity unit for observation and tests.
Ethan grips the back of the chair beside the hospital bed, the blood drained from his face. “But he’s early?”
“Yes, a bit early, but thirty-five weeks is not unusual—especially when the mother has preeclampsia.” She offers a reassuring smile.
Aurora sits upright, her hair in a messy bun, her eyelids drooping despite having slept most of the day and night. Reece adjusts the pillows behind her. He hasn’t left her side in days. He’s been warning us this would happen, saying her blood pressure was far too high.
I take Ethan’s hand, finding it cold and clammy. “But everything’s okay, right? Aurora and the baby will be okay?”
Dr. Hill nods. “Baby’s vitals are strong. He’s a good size. I would recommend a C-section, though. The baby’s movements have slowed, and I’d like to avoid any further risk.”
We just saw our son on the ultrasound; the technician pointed out his full head of hair. No one said there was a problem.
“Let’s do it,” Aurora cuts in, voice trembling. “When?”
The doctor checks her phone. “I’d say within the hour.”
I swallow to wet my dry throat. My cheeks tingle, and I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.
Holy fuck. We’re having a baby.
Ethan sways on his feet and blinks repeatedly. “I...we don’t have the nursery finished. The crib isn’t assembled. We haven’t even packed a hospital bag. I’ve been busy. I-I had a plan.”
Of course he did. Coach always has a strategy.
The doctor leaves, and the room becomes a whirlwind of activity. Nurses bustle in and out, hooking Aurora up to more monitors and tubes. They explain the procedure, rattling off risks and protocols while Reece hovers, absorbing every word. Ethan paces beside the bed, texting frantically, his jaw clenched so tight, I worry he’ll crack a molar.
I’m trying to focus, but my mind keeps screaming, “Today! Our son is coming TODAY!”
“Jax,” Aurora calls out, reaching for me, her eyes shimmering. “I’m scared.”
My own eyes well up. “It’s okay to be scared.” I take her hand in mine, careful of her IV. “I love you more than life itself. Everything will be alright.” It has to be. I won’t survive otherwise.
Her tears spill over, her words nothing but a whisper, her lips quivering. “I just want the baby to be okay.”
“He’s going to be perfect.” I wipe her tears away, barely hanging on myself. “You’regoing to be perfect. You’ve given us the greatest gift. Thank you.” The painful lump in my throat prevents me from pouring my heart out any further.
I’ve taken blows that broke bones, been driven into the boards so hard, I saw stars. I watched Reece almost die. But nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever terrified me as much as when the doctor walks in wearing scrubs.
“It’s time,” she announces, leaving no room for argument. “The surgical team is ready.”
My heart hammers erratically against my ribs. My legs nearly buckle. Two nurses shift Aurora from the bed onto a gurney,and I can’t release her hand. It’s physically impossible. She’s my lifeline.
“Can they all be there?” she asks, small and frightened.
A nurse grabs the IV pole and detangles the lines. “Only one support person in the operating room, I’m afraid. It’s hospital policy.”
Panic flashes across Ethan’s face. Jesus, he’s going to pass out.
“Go,” I tell him, though it kills me. “Go meet your son.”
His wide eyes search mine. “He’s your son too. Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I nod, even as my chest constricts. I want to be with Aurora. I want to be there when our son enters the world. “I’ll get the next baby.” I force a smile I don’t feel and release our girl’s hand for him to take.
I lean down and kiss her one last time. “I love you—so fucking much.” I press my forehead to hers. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
They wheel her away, Ethan alongside her, whispering reassurances I can’t hear. The door swings shut, and it’s only me and the Viking, the room silent.
