“Well, I want to see her,” I say and after a back and forth about me being able to walk, a forest worth of paperwork and some useless information from the nurse about aftercare and whatnot, I make my way to the sixth floor of the hospital. Labor and delivery.
“I’m looking for Mila Rojas,” I tell the nurse at the front desk as soon as I get off the elevator.
“And you are?” she asks.
“Her…fiancé,” I say, and her eyes flash up to mine then drag down my swollen cheek.
“I see. Well. Miss Rojas is in room number 607,” she says, and I nod, pulling away from the desk. “But she is currently sleeping and not taking visitors.”
“She’s pregnant with my baby,” I tell the woman.
“I understand,” she says. “But she’s been through a lot since she got here, and the doctor wants her to sleep.”
“Can I talk to the doctor?” I ask. I’m two seconds away from slamming through the double doors and finding her myself, but the last thing I need right now is to get kicked out of the hospital so I play it cool.
“I’ll page him for you,” she says. I decide to take a seat in the waiting area. No less than twenty minutes later, the doors open and a man in teal scrubs walks out.
“Mr. Wolfe?” he asks, and I bolt up from my seat, regretting it immediately because I nearly fall on my ass.
Brass fucking knuckles.
I’m going to kick his ass the next time I see him. Right now, my focus is on Mila.
“Yes,” I nod, and the doctor stands in front of me.
“I understand you’re Mila’s boyfriend?” he asks.
“Fiancé,” I say. It’s not an attempt at being romantic, but I figure the label has more sway since we aren’t related.
“Mila took a fall,” he says. “Landing on her stomach. It caused some contractions.”
“Is she in labor?” I ask.
“No. It’s too early for that. It was more of a stress response from her body. The baby is fine, and so is Mila, but we are keeping an eye on things overnight. Her blood pressure was very high when she came in,” he explains and I nod.
Fuck. Even that tiny motion sends jolts of pain through my entire head.
The doctor is still staring at me. “We need to make sure her stress level stays low. For both her and the baby,” he adds as his eyes trail down my newly rearranged face.
Right.
“I just want to know if she’s okay,” I say. “I won’t wake her.”
“Doctor Schneider,” one of the nurses calls. “624 is ready for you.”
He nods in her direction before looking back at me. “I’ll take you back. Five minutes.”
“Got it,” I agree and follow him through the doors.
Mila is lying still in the bed, dressed in the same color gown I just shed out of. Her cheeks are flushed and her mouth is tipped downward in a pout, her lipstick faded to a pale pink. I clench my jaw and swallow the lump burning the back of my throat.
I slowly approach the bed, noting the machines beeping and buzzing. Tubes string from the bags overhead into her arm and under the gown to her belly.
“What are those for?” I ask the nurse who is writing something on a tablet. My head is still pounding. Meanwhile, my heart is swirling with a cocktail of mixed feelings.
“NSTs,” she says. “Non stress tests. We are monitoring the baby and mama just to make sure things are okay.”
“And are they?” I ask. “Okay, I mean.”
