Linus hands Avonna a bottle of water and steps in behind her, arms around her shoulders, palm settling over her belly. She leans into him without hesitation. I see her body register safety.
“We waited a long time for you, little man.” He pats her belly lightly. “Let’s get to the hospital.”
“I was starting to think I’d be pregnant forever.” Avonna laughs, breathless but smiling.
I wink, a subtle nod to Avonna’s extreme sexual appetite when she’s pregnant. “We’d keep you pregnant forever if you’d let us.”
Oblivious, Quinn raises her hand, solemn. “Can we be there when he’s born?”
“Not in the room.” Avonna smooths her hair. “You two get first turns when we’re home.”
Both girls nod, solemnly. Six years old and already fluent in love.
Linus’s phone buzzes. He glances at it. “Doula’s on her way. Hospital’s ready.”
Another contraction rolls through Avonna, stronger. Her fingers curl into my sleeve.
“I’m ready.” She winces.
Before we leave, Linus makes sure Sloane and Quinn are already curled under their blankets. The nannysits on the couch with a mug of tea, promising updates and pictures and no midnight surprises unless we ask for them.
Avonna pauses in the foyer, one hand resting on the doorframe, about to say something else.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “They’re good.”
She nods, nuzzles her face briefly into my chest, then straightens.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Outside, the night is cool and clear. I guide her into the back seat, Linus gets in beside her. I take the wheel, heart pounding in a steady rhythm. Not panic.
Focus.
The city slides past in streaks of light. Red. Green. Gold. Every stoplight drags. Every turn feels sharper than necessary. I drive slower than instinct demands, faster than comfort allows.
“You okay?” I ask repeatedly.
Patiently she nods in reply each time.
Linus murmurs counts under his breath, grounding her through the waves. I keep my eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. Knuckles white as snow.
Memory creeps in uninvited. Hospital corridors. Doctors choosing words carefully. Silence after ultrasounds. Avonna staring at walls instead of me. After the first loss, she cried for weeks. The second, she went quiet. By the third, she wanted to stop. Last time, she folded inward for a day and came back different.
More determined. We made this baby with more focus and purpose than anything else we’ve done with our lives.
At the hospital entrance, everything brightens. Clean. Efficient. Familiar in a way I never wanted to learn. Linus opens Avonna’s door. Another contraction hits as her feet touch the pavement. She grips my arm.
“We’ve got you.” I cover her hand withmine.
“I know.”
Inside, time fractures. Names checked. Bracelets snapped on. Shoes swapped. The doula arrives breathless and smiling, sliding into place without fuss. We move into the room as if rehearsed.
Contractions build. Rise. Break. Rise again.
Avonna grips my forearm during one wave, Linus’s hand locks with hers during the next. We rotate instinctively. No discussion. Instinct and presence.
Avonna rests her forehead against my shoulder. “I’m not scared,” she says quietly. “I want him healthy.”
