He looks unconvinced. “You sure?”
“Declan, I’m a physical therapist. Trust me. I can walk.”
He chuckles nervously and steadies me anyway.
Inside, everything feels surreal: bright lights, the antiseptic smell, the steady beeps of monitors echoing down the hall. I’ve spent half my career in places like this, helping athletes recover from surgeries and injuries. But this time, I’m not the calm professional with a tablet.
I’m the patient.
And the weight of that hits all at once.
A nurse looks up from the front desk and takes one glance at me—at Declan’s arm around my waist, at the way I’m gripping his shirt as another contraction tightens—and she’s already moving.
“Hi there,” she says gently. “Let’s get you two straight back. How far apart are the contractions?”
“About five minutes,” I manage.
“Okay, good. You’re doing great. We’ve got an available room.”
She leads us down the hall, her voice calm and practiced. Declan stays close beside me, one hand steady on my back.
When we settle into the room, I perch on the edge of the bed, focusing on my breathing while the nurse secures the monitors and checks vitals. Declan’s pacing again—six steps, turn, six steps back—like he’s waiting for the puck drop.
“Declan,” I say, grabbing his wrist mid-turn, “sit.”
He blinks, startled. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. You’re vibrating.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it and lowers himself into the chair beside me. His knee’s still bouncing.
The next contraction hits harder. My breath hitches, and he’s instantly on alert—hand on mine, voice low and steady.
I’m still catching my breath when the door opens and the doctor steps in. He’s smiling like he’s been waiting for this day as long as we have. “How are we feeling, Charlotte?”
“Like it’s really happening,” I manage.
Declan squeezes my hand.
The doctor chuckles. “Looks like we’re on track. Let’s see how those little ones are doing.”
He checks the monitors, nods approvingly. “Steady heart rates, both of them. Might be a long haul, but you’re in great shape.”
Another contraction builds, stronger this time. I grip his hand, eyes closed, counting breaths. It hurts—sharp, real, consuming—but underneath it all is this strange calm, the sense that we’ve already fought our way through harder things to get here.
When it passes, Declan brushes a damp strand of hair off my cheek. “You okay?”
“Ask me again in a few hours.”
He laughs, low and rough. “Deal.”
And even with all the movement, the voices, the hum of machines around us, the world feels narrowed to just this—his hand in mine, the sound of two tiny heartbeats on the monitor, and the knowledge that the next time I look up, we’ll be outnumbered.
The hours blur after that.
Monitors beep, nurses move in and out, and Declan never once leaves my side. Every time a contraction crests, his thumb presses slow circles into my palm, his voice my anchor among the chaos.
When the doctor finally says,“It’s time,”my pulse kicks into overdrive.
