"Promise."
Around 10 p.m., while we were still awake, still talking quietly about nothing and everything, I felt it.
A tightening. Low in my belly. Uncomfortable but not quite painful.
I waited. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe just Braxton Hicks again.
Seven minutes later, another one. Stronger.
"Cesare?"
"Yeah?"
"I think—I might be having contractions."
He sat up immediately. "Real ones?"
"I don't know. Maybe?"
We timed them. Seven minutes apart. Then another. Then another at six minutes.
"Should we call Dr. Lin?" Cesare asked, already reaching for his phone.
"Not yet. First labors take forever. We're supposed to wait until they're five minutes apart."
"Are you sure?"
"That's what all the books say."
We spent the next few hours timing contractions. Walking around the penthouse. Breathing through each one as they slowly, steadily intensified.
By midnight, they were five minutes apart.
By 1 a.m. I was leaning against the kitchen counter, breathing hard through a particularly strong one, when I felt it.
A gush of warm fluid running down my legs.
"Oh God."
"What? What's wrong?"
"My water just broke."
Cesare stared at the puddle on our kitchen floor. "Your water broke."
"That's what I just said."
"We need to go. We need to go to the hospital right now."
"I need to change first—"
"Now, Paola. We're going now."
He was already grabbing the hospital bag we'd packed weeks ago, helping me into clean clothes, guiding me toward the elevator.
Another contraction hit in the elevator. Stronger than before. I gripped Cesare's arm, breathing through it.
"You're doing great," he said. "Just breathe."
