"Carter." His voice is strange. Tight. "I think it's time."
I sit up, reaching for the lamp. The light clicks on, and I see his face—pale, focused, one hand pressed to the underside of his belly.
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure, yeah." He breathes out slowly through his teeth.
"How long have you been—"
"An hour, maybe. I thought it was Braxton Hicks at first. But they're getting closer together." He shifts on the bed, grimacing. "And stronger."
An hour. He's been lying here for an hour, timing contractions, and he didn't wake me.
"Jamie."
"I wanted to be sure." He meets my eyes, and underneath the discomfort, I see fear. "I'm sure now."
I'm already moving, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. We have a plan. We've had a plan for weeks—the private clinic,the route to avoid press, the overnight bag packed and waiting by the door. I just didn't expect to need it at four in the morning.
"I'm calling the clinic," I say. "Can you stand?"
"Give me a minute."
I dial while Jamie works himself upright, one hand braced on the headboard. The clinic answers on the second ring and I give them the details. Contractions five minutes apart, lasting about forty-five seconds. They tell us to come in.
"She says we have time," I tell Jamie, helping him swing his legs over the side of the bed. "But we should leave soon."
"Define 'time.'"
"Enough to get dressed. Not enough to shower."
"Wasn't planning on it." He stands, swaying slightly, and I steady him with a hand on his elbow. "I need to pee first. If that's permitted."
"I'll allow it."
He disappears into the bathroom. I dress quickly. The overnight bag is where we left it, by the bedroom door. I check the contents even though I've checked them a dozen times: change of clothes for Jamie, toiletries, the soft blanket we bought for the baby, paperwork the clinic will need.
The baby. Our daughter. She's coming.
The reality of it hits me all at once, and I have to sit down on the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unsteady. In a few hours—maybe less—I'm going to be a father. I'm going to hold my daughter for the first time. Everything I've been imagining, planning for, terrified of, is about to become real.
The bathroom door opens. Jamie emerges, still pale but steadier now.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"You look like you're about to pass out." He crosses to me, cups my face in his hands. His palms are clammy, his fingers trembling slightly, but his voice is steady. "Hey. We can do this."
"I know."
"I need you to actually believe that. Because I'm about to push a human being out of my body, and I need you to be the calm one."
I laugh despite myself. It comes out shaky, but it's real. "I can be calm."
"Good." He kisses me quickly, then pulls back with a wince. "Okay, that one was stronger. We should go."
The penthouse is quiet as we make our way to the door. It's the middle of the night; the building is sleeping. That's good—fewer people to see us, fewer questions to answer. We've managed to keep Jamie's due date private, but the press has been camped outside for days, waiting for any sign of activity.
