"That you still feel something. Even if it's just need. Even if it's not enough."
She looks at me with something I can't read.
"This doesn't fix anything," she says into the darkness.
"I know."
"I still don't trust you."
"I know."
"But I can't stay away."
"I know that too."
The next morning, I wake with her in my bed at the clubhouse, her wearing my shirt, surrounded by my scent. She's still asleep, but something feels wrong. Her face is twisted in discomfort, and when she wakes, she's gripping her belly.
Seven minutes later, I find her on the bathroom floor, Izzy already there—she must have called her. They're both timing something on their phones.
"Eight minutes apart," Izzy tells me. "Regular. This isn't false labor."
Lena's face is pale, sweat beading on her forehead. "Too early. He's too small still."
"Hospital. Now."
She doesn't argue, can't. Her body is making decisions her mind would never allow. I carry her to the truck—fuck dignity, fuck independence—while Izzy follows in her car. The drive feels eternal, each red light a personal insult, each contraction making Lena grip my hand hard enough to leave bruises I'll treasure.
"Stay inside, mijo," she whispers to her belly in Spanish. "Por favor, stay inside."
But Santiago, already his father's son, already his mother's stubborn child, has other plans. The contractions are five minutes apart by the time we reach the hospital, four by the timethey get her in a bed, three by the time Dr. Morrison arrives looking like she was pulled from sleep.
"We're going to try to stop this," she says, ordering medications I recognize from Lena's explanations—magnesium sulfate, nifedipine, everything they can throw at a body determined to evict its tenant too soon.
The next twelve hours are hell dressed in medical terminology. The contractions slow but don't stop. Santiago's heart rate spikes with each one. Lena cries silent tears that have nothing to do with pain and everything to do with fear.
"Please," she begs the universe, God, anyone listening. "Not yet. He's not ready. I'm not ready."
Finally, finally, the contractions space out. Eight minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Then nothing for an hour. Santiago settles, his heart rate stabilizing at something that makes the monitors stop their angry beeping.
"Bed rest," Morrison orders. "Complete bed rest until at least thirty-seven weeks. No walking except to the bathroom. No stress. No excitement. Nothing that could trigger labor again."
Lena laughs, bitter and exhausted. "No stress. Right. I'll just tell the world to stop."
"I'm serious, Lena. Next time, we might not be able to stop it."
The weight of that settles over us like a shroud. Five more weeks of holding him inside, of keeping her body from betraying what it's trying to protect. Five weeks of impossible stillness in a world that never stops burning.
"The offer still stands," I say quietly. "The clubhouse. The room that locks. Everything we talked about."
She looks at me, exhausted beyond words, our son finally quiet inside her after hours of revolt.
"I know," she whispers. And then, so soft I almost miss it: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes. I'll move in."
Izzy helps her sit up slightly, adjusting pillows with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "You sure about this, mija?"
