“I am.” I wave him off. “It’s nothing, just Braxton Hicks. They’ll go away.”
“Uh-huh.” He crosses the room and stops in front of me. “And is it normal for fake contractions to make you white as a ghost and clutch the counter?”
“Totally normal,” I say, then yelp as another wave crashes through me. “Jesus fuck—okay. Not nothing, but we’ve got time. I haven’t even—”
SPLASH.
I freeze, and Gremlin yowls.
“Oh my god,” I say. “Tell me that didn’t just happen.”
Reid looks down. The floor is wet, and so is my foot. And so is Gremlin, who is now bolting across the kitchen, tail soaked and thrashing in indignation.
“Oh mygod,” I repeat, clapping a hand over my mouth.
Reid blinks once. Twice. “Did you just—”
“My water broke.”
“On the cat?”
“Ididn’t mean to.”
Gremlin lets out a banshee wail from the hallway, and Reid stares at me. Then at the floor. Then back at me. A beat passes.
“Cat deserved it,” he says flatly. “Get your bag.”
“I haven’t—wait—I should check if I’m leaking clear fluid, or if there’s any meconium, or—”
“Bag, Havoc.”
“But—”
“Carina. You’re in labor, and your water broke. You just soaked a fucking feline. Let’sgo.”
By the time we get to the hospital, I’m gripping the door handle like it might fly off. The contractions are faster now. So strong, my hands are shaking.
I try to hold it together. I’m a surgeon, for God’s sake. Idothis. I’ve coached residents through complicated pelvic repairs and midline incisions on thirty minutes of sleep and a vending-machine diet. I know pain.
But this isn’t like any pain I’ve encountered.
“Don’t forget to tell them I’m GBS positive,” I manage as I’m wheeled into triage. “And I want the epidural before transition, not during. And tell them I’m at risk for precipitous labor. And—”
“Carina.”
Reid’s voice cuts through my spiral, and I turn to look up at him.
He crouches in front of the wheelchair, resting one palm gently over my knee. The same man who once grunted his way through a dressing change like I’d insulted his bloodline now looks up at me likeI’mthe one who needs the grounding.
“You’re okay,” he says quietly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you, just like always.”
My breath catches unexpectedly, and the sting behind my eyes makes no damn sense.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He squeezes my knee once, then stands and faces the nurse with all the restrained force of a man who would carry me through fire.
“She’s having contractions every four minutes. Her water broke on our cat just over an hour ago.” The nurse’s eyes dart to me as Reid continues. “She’s GBS positive, no known complications. She wants an epidural early. Chart her down as Dr. Carina Park, orthopedic surgery.”
