Page 157 of Keller

"Thank you. I'd like that."

For a minute, we just sit, listening to the fire crackle and the last guests filter out. The air smells faintly of smoke and sweet olive.

“Is your back okay?” he asks after a beat, gesturing toward the way I’m leaning.

“It’s eight months pregnant, so no,” I answer with a laugh. “But I’ll survive.”

He shifts forward without thinking. “You want me to grab one of those cushions from inside?”

I look at him with such affection. He's a good man. His thoughtfulness is automatic. Practical. Not romantic.

"I should probably head home. I think everyone is officially gone."

"I'll walk you to your car."

He stands first, then offers his hand. I take it, letting him help me up from the low chair. His grip is warm and firm. He releases me the moment I am steady.

We walk together across the lawn, past the dying embers, past the empty tables and the string lights still glowing overhead. The night air smells of woodsmoke and magnolia.

Once we get to my car in the driveway, he stops. "Goodnight, Quinn."

"Goodnight, Keller. Thank you again for your donation and for your support. It means so much to me."

I gripthe bed rail as another contraction rolls through me, pressure building low and deep until I cannot think past it.

"Breathe through it." The nurse checks the monitor beside my bed. "You're doing great."

I exhale in short bursts the way the prenatal class taught me. The contraction peaks. Holds. Finally releases.

My water broke at 3:47 this morning. One week early. I texted Keller from the bathroom floor, thumbs shaking over the screen.

It's time. Memorial East.

His reply came in under thirty seconds.

On my way.

He arrived before they finished my intake paperwork. His steady presence in the doorway, overnight bag in hand, glasses slightly crooked from rushing, was more comforting than anything the nurse was saying.

Now he stands near the window, fielding questions from the charge nurse about my birth preferences. He answers all ofthem without hesitation. Delayed cord clamping. Skin to skin immediately. No formula unless medically necessary. He sent me an email about all of this two weeks ago, and holds a printed version in his hand as he makes sure my wishes are met.

"The anesthesiologist is running behind." The nurse adjusts my IV line. "Might be another twenty minutes on that epidural."

Another contraction builds at the base of my spine.

Keller steps closer to the nurse. His voice stays low and even. "She's been managing unmedicated pain for three hours. Is there someone else who can assist sooner? Twenty minutes won't do."

The nurse picks up the phone. Eight minutes later, an anesthesiologist arrives.

"Thank you,” I whisper it as the needle slides into my spine. Relief spreads through my lower body like warm water.

Keller squeezes my hand once but says nothing. He moves back to his post near the window once I'm settled back in my bed.

The next three hours blur together. Pressure. Counting. The doctor's calm instructions. Keller's hand in mine when I reach for it. His voice is steady in my ear.

"You're almost there. One more push."

I bear down with everything I have left.