Thirty minutes later, I’m still pushing, and I swear I’m going to break in half.
I sob. “Reid—”
He presses his forehead to mine. “You’re doing so fucking good, Havoc. You’re the strongest goddamn person I’ve ever met.”
The OB’s voice is tight. “If we don’t make progress in the next twenty minutes, we’ll prep for a surgical birth.”
I want to scream, and I want to quit, but Ican’t.
So I push.
I push, and I push until I see stars. Until the world tunnels to nothing but Reid’s voice and the fire in my spine and the unbearable stretch of bringing her here.
“Come on, Dr. Park,” the midwife says as she holds one of my legs wide. “We need this baby out.”
I nod like I’m listening as I curl forward to push again, but I don’t hear her. Not really. Because the pressure turns to pain, and the pain turns to terror, and something shifts in Reid’s eyes.
“Carina—” His voice cracks as he looks down, seeing everything.
“Don’t,” I pant. “Don’t look away—Reid—don’t—”
“I’m not,” he says fiercely, like he’s holding himself upright by sheer will. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby, I swear—”
“Reid—”
“I love you—fuck—I love you so much—”
My body gives one last brutal push, then I scream. Reid roars.
A wet, furiouscryrips through the room like it’s been waiting for its cue.
Sharp and piercing. Alive.
She’s here.
I collapse backwards, sobbing, my eyes fused tightly shut and skin damp with sweat and tears, every cell in me fractured open.
“Hello, baby!” says the midwife. “Open your eyes, Momma, and say hello!”
Slowly, I open my tear-drenched eyelashes and watch as they lift her up, slippery and purple and wailing like a siren, and every inch of me trembles with her.
“Hi…” I breathe through a sob, streams of tears soaking my face.
Reid doesn’t speak; he just stands there, eyes wide and full, shaking like the floor just fell out from under him.
I turn back to the nurses, rubbing her down on my tummy. “Is she okay? She’s… she’s okay, right? Reid—”
But Reid Hutchison—my anchor, my grumpy caveman, my steady storm—is not okay. He crumples beside me, both hands pressed to his face as tears rack his body.
“I couldn’t do anything,” he chokes. “I couldn’t—I just watched you—fuck, Carina—”
I reach for him, and he comes fast, arms around me like he might float off if he doesn’t anchor himself here.
“You didn’t need to do anything,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “You were here, that’s everything.”
“Here you go, Mom and Dad,” the nurse says, her eyes shimmering as she places the baby into my arms, and all I can do is stare.
A warm blanket is tucked around us, but I barely notice. Because she’s in my arms—tiny and damp and furious—and everything else disappears.
