"Stay at the door. No one comes in unless I say so. Understood?"
"Understood."
He takes up position, a sentinel. Exactly what we need.
I turn back to Samantha, hands moving on autopilot, checking, trying to keep my own nerves in check. The contractions are right on top of each other now. Her body is doing what it needs to, even if her mind is somewhere else.
"I need to see how far along you are," I tell her gently. "Is that okay?"
She nods, breathless.
I work carefully, checking her progress. My heart skips a beat when I realize how close we are. "You're almost there, darlin'. Almost ready to push."
"I don't know if I'm going to be able to do this, Nick," she says, coming off one particularly brutal contraction. Her voice breaks. "It hurts so much."
Her words cut right through me. I wish I could take this from her, carry it myself. But I can't. All I can do is stay here and be strong when she can't.
"I know you can do this, darlin'," I tell her, my voice steady even as everything inside me shakes. "You've already come this far. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You and me, we're going to bring our daughter into this world together."
She looks at me, tears streaming down her face, and nods.
The next contraction starts, and I can feel it. Something's different. It's time.
"Samantha, listen to me," I say, positioning myself. "With the next contraction, I need you to push. Can you do that?"
"Yes." The word comes out fierce, determined.
Magic swirls harder around us, responding to the moment. The air crackles with it, gold and silver light dancing across the ceiling. Ella's eyes go wide, but she doesn't falter, her hand gripping Samantha's shoulder.
"You've got this, Sam," Ella says. "I'm right here."
The contraction hits.
"Push," I tell her. "Push now. That's it. That's perfect."
Samantha bears down, her face contorting with effort. I can see the baby's head, dark hair slicked with fluid. My hands are steady, guiding, supporting.
"Good," I say, barely breathing. "That's it. Rest. Breathe."
She collapses back, gasping. Ella wipes her forehead with a cool cloth, whispering encouragement.
Another contraction. Another push.
"I can see her," I say, my voice thick. "I can see her head. You're doing it, Samantha. Keep going."
She pushes again, a sound ripping from her throat that's pure determination and pain and strength. The baby's head emerges fully, and I'm there, my hands cradling it, supporting the tiny skull.
"One more," I tell her. "One more big push, and she's here."
Samantha nods, sweat pouring down her face, every muscle in her body straining. Ella's talking to her, a steady stream of words I can't quite hear over the roar of blood in my ears.
The next contraction comes.
Samantha pushes with everything she has left.
And then she's here.
Our daughter slips into my hands, tiny, perfect, slippery. For a second, I can't move. The whole world just stops. I instinctively clean her face, her nose, her mouth, my hands somehow working while my brain has gone on vacation.
