I wake to a soft pull beneath my ribs. Not pain, not yet. Just… a shift. A change. Like the air itself has paused, holding its breath with me.
For a moment, I think it’s a dream. The moon pours through the curtains in a silver ribbon. The house sleeps silent and still. Even the baby has been calm tonight, no tiny kicks, no restless stretching beneath my skin.
And then it happens again.
A low sensation, like the earth tilting under my feet, even though I’m lying down. A tightening that grips deep, deep inside.
I sit up, one hand pressed to my belly as if I could cradle the moment itself.
“It’s time,” I whisper to the shadows.
My heart lifts and drops in the same beat, fear and wonder braided tight.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing when another wave rolls through me, stronger this time. Not unbearable, but undeniable.
I reach for the lamp, but before I touch it, the door opens.
Vitali stands there in nothing but black sweatpants, chest bare, eyes sharp even though sleep still clings to his edges. He must’ve felt me move. Or maybe he just senses me, the way I’ve startedsensing him — like we’re tethered now by something more than marriage or bloodlines.
He takes in my posture, my hand on my belly, my breath trembling.
The change in him is instant.
Fully alert. Fully lethal.
“Charlotte?” His voice is a rough whisper. “Tell me.”
“I think…” I nod, throat tight with everything I feel. “I think our baby is ready.”
His jaw clenches. He moves fast, crossing to the bed, one steadying hand on my back as he crouches beside me. His touch anchors me, keeps me from floating away on nerves and anticipation.
“Breathe,” he says. “Slow. With me.”
I do. In… and out. His palm spreads warm over the top of my belly, as if he can shield the baby from anything that might hurt us both.
“I’ll call the doctor,” he murmurs, squeezing my hip before standing again. “And the midwife.”
I nod, because yes, that’s the plan. The careful, controlled plan he made, weeks and weeks ago. He had the home suite converted into a calm birthing area. Medical staff on call at all hours.
But plans feel like flimsy paper now. This is real. This is happening.
I push myself up, needing to move, needing to feel like I’m doing something. “I want a bath,” I say quietly. “Warm water. It will help.”
He’s already at the bathroom door.
The sound of running water fills the room, soft and steady. He returns, arms already around me as he helps me stand. My kneesbuckle a little with the next contraction, and he is right there, strong and sure, not letting me drop even an inch.
“You’re okay,” he says, voice low and controlled. “I’ve got you.”
And I believe him.
He undresses me slowly, reverently, like every movement carries a prayer. My nightgown slips down to the floor, and then he helps me step out of soft underwear. His hands are gentle, almost too careful, as if I’m made of fragile glass and diamonds.
The water is warm silk around me when he lowers me in. I exhale a shudder that’s part relief, part panic.
This is real. This is happening.
He sits beside the tub on one knee, leaning in close, his fingers stroking patterns over my damp forehead.
