She laughs, then groans as another contraction hits. "Fuck, he's coming fast."
We make it to the hospital just as the contractions hit two minutes apart. They whisk her into delivery while I'm still parking, and I have to run to catch up, my heart hammering like I'm going into battle.
"Three centimeters," the nurse announces after checking. "Moving fast for a first baby."
"He's impatient," Lena pants. "Like his father."
The next four hours are a blur of contractions, ice chips, and Lena crushing my hand with strength I didn't know she possessed. She refuses the epidural at first—"I've handled worse"—but by six centimeters, she's reconsidering.
"There's no medal for suffering," Morrison reminds her.
"Get the fucking epidural," Lena finally gasps.
The relief on her face when it kicks in makes me want to kiss the anesthesiologist.
"Better?"
"I can think again." She touches my face, traces the bruise Ghost left. "You look like shit."
"You look beautiful."
"Liar."
"Never about that."
Izzy arrives just as Lena hits nine centimeters, takes one look at the situation, and starts ordering everyone around in rapid Spanish.
"You," she points at me. "Stop looking like you're going to pass out. You," to the nurse, "she needs more ice chips. And you," to Lena, "stop trying to be brave. Scream if you need to."
"I love you," Lena tells her.
"I know, mija. Now let's have this baby."
The pushing starts at 11:47 PM. Lena bears down with the same determination she brings to everything—fierce, focused, unrelenting.
"I can see his head," Dr. Morrison announces. "Lots of dark hair."
"Like his daddy," Lena pants, then glares at me. "You did this to me."
"You were there too."
"Shut up and give me your hand."
Three more pushes. Three more moments of watching the woman I love battle to bring our son into the world. Then suddenly, there he is—screaming, perfect, covered in blood and vernix and the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Born at 12:23 AM," Morrison announces, placing him on Lena's chest. "Seven pounds, two ounces of perfect baby boy."
Santiago Cruz-Quinn (she hyphenated, giving him both names) looks nothing like either of us and everything like both of us. He has my dark hair but her nose, my jawline but her eyes—eyes that are already taking in the world with an intensity that's purely Lena.
"Hi, baby," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "We've been waiting for you."
He stops crying at her voice, recognizing it from all those months inside. His tiny fist wraps around her finger, holding on like he's never letting go.
"Want to hold your son?" Morrison asks me.
My son. The words don't feel real until Santiago is in my arms, this tiny perfect person we made from chaos and bad decisions and a love that shouldn't exist but does.
"Hey, little man," I tell him, my voice cracking. "I'm your dad. I'm going to fuck this up sometimes, but I promise I'll never stop trying to deserve you."
