“I know.” I pulled back just enough to look at her. My eyes burned. Wet. I didn’t care. “I just—I needed to see you. I needed to be here.”
Another contraction hit. She grabbed my arms, fingers digging into my biceps, and I held her through it. Kept my voice low and steady in her ear, counting her through, my hands solid on her back.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got this.”
The contraction passed. She sagged against me, breathing hard.
“The bedroom,” she managed. “I think—I need to lie down.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I lifted her. Eight months pregnant, and she weighed nothing in my arms. I carried her toward the stairs.
Another contraction hit halfway up. I stopped, held her through it, didn’t let go until it passed. My arms wrapped around her, solid and sure, my voice a constant murmur against her hair.
“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
When it faded, I kept climbing.
The bedroom was dim, and afternoon light filtered through the curtains. I laid Grace on the bed, propped pillows behind her, and brushed the hair back from her face.
I knew how to deliver a baby. I’d done it twice on calls—textbook deliveries, filed away and never thought about again.
But this was Grace.
And this was Hope.
If the cord was wrapped. If something went wrong.
I needed more than my own training. I needed backup.
“I’m calling Doc Martinez,” I said. “I want him on the line.”
Grace nodded, another contraction already building.
I pulled out my phone, dialed, and put it on speaker.
“Doc, it’s Owen Mitchell. Grace Lin’s water broke. Contractions under three minutes apart. Ambulance is delayed—roads are icy. I’ve got EMT training, delivered twice before, but I want you in my ear for this one.”
Doc’s voice came through calm and steady. The voice of a man who’d delivered half the babies in West Valley Springs.
“Smart call,” he said. “Even the best of us want backup when it’s personal.” A pause. “How’s she presenting?”
“Head down as of her last appointment. Let me check dilation.”
Grace’s hand found mine, squeezed once.
Trust.
Permission.
I checked with hands that knew what they were doing, even while the rest of me felt like it might shake apart.
“Eight centimeters,” I said. “Maybe nine. She’s moving fast, Doc.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Baby knows what she’s doing.” I heard him shifting, settling in. “Okay, Owen. You know the drill.”
I gathered towels from the bathroom—the clean ones Grace had washed last week, stacked neatly in the closet like she’d known we might need them. Warm water in a bowl. The emergency kit from the hall closet, the one I’d put together three weeks ago and hoped we’d never use.
