I look at the sofa. The sofa is wet.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay," he says.
We look at each other across the kitchen counter. The clock on the wall ticks. The coffee machine gurgles. The city hums outside the windows.
I go to the bag. I pick it up. I put it down. I pick it up again.
"Shoes," Theo says. "I need shoes. And a towel for the car."
Shoes. Towel. Right. I can do that. I get a towel from the bathroom. I bring Theo his shoes. He's standing now, one hand on the arm of the sofa, and there's a dark patch on the cushion and his sweatpants are damp and he's looking at me with an expression that I can't read at first because it's new.
He's calm. He's completely calm. The man who counted days on a concrete wall and talked to our baby in a cell and walked barefoot across a dark field at fifteen weeks pregnant is standing in our living room with amniotic fluid soaking through his clothes and he is calm.
I am not calm.
"Breathe," Theo says.
"You’re the one who’s supposed to be concentrating on breathing."
"I’m fine. Besides we have time. First babies take a while. Wasn’t that in all the books you read?"
I call Viktor. My fingers miss the contact twice before I hit it.
"Viktor. It's happening."
A pause. One second. "Car's downstairs. I'll drive."
"Thank you."
I hang up. Theo has put on his shoes. He's standing by the door with his coat over his arm and the laptop bag over his shoulder and I stare at the laptop bag.
"You're not bringing the laptop."
"I might be waiting a long time. I'll get bored."
"Theo."
"Fine." He drops the laptop bag. "But if I'm in labour for days and I have nothing to do, I'm blaming you."
I take his coat. I hold it open for him and he turns and slides his arms in and the bump presses against the fabric and I can see the shape of it, round and low, and the baby inside it is about tobecome a person in a room and I am going to be there when it happens.
My hands are shaking. I notice this the way you notice a fact about someone else. My hands are shaking and they haven't shaken since I was fourteen years old and my father put a gun on the desk in front of me and told me to pick it up.
"Hey." Theo's hand is on my wrist. His fingers are warm. He turns my hand over and looks at the tremor and then he looks up at me. "It's going to be fine."
"I know."
"You don't know. You're terrified. I can smell it on you."
He can. The scent betrays everything. I've spent my whole life controlling what I project to the world and this omega can read me like a deck of cards.
I take his face in my hands. His jaw is sharp under my palms. His eyes are brown and gold and steady.
"Yes," I say. "I'm terrified."
"I think we’ve been through worse. Let's go have a baby."
