“Push!”
I do what I can, but I’m exhausted. I don’t have more in me.
“Almost,” he says, and the word hits me like a lifeline. “You’re almost there.”
Almost. I cling to it, desperate. I push again, crying out as the pressure spikes, sharper and more concentrated this time.Exhaustion smothers me like a blanket, but I dig deep and give it another shot.
And then?—
Release.
Another cry fills the room, stronger than the first, fuller, louder.
“Baby two.”
My head falls back against the bed, my entire body going limp for a second as relief crashes through me again.
Two of them. Safe. Loud.
I laugh weakly, the sound breaking apart into something closer to a sob. “I did it,” I whisper, barely audible.
But Ronan is already shaking his head slightly, already pulling me forward again. “One more.”
“Fucking hell, just let me have—oh.” The pain. The fucking pain. It takes over once more, stealing my breath. I close my eyes, tears slipping freely now as the next contraction starts to build again, my body already bracing for what’s coming.
One more. And Ronan’s still here, holding everything together while I come apart.
There is no real break this time. My body doesn’t reset, doesn’t even pretend to give me a second to recover before the next contraction rolls in, low and heavy, building fast like it’s already decided this is the end whether I’m ready or not. I’m not.
I’m so far from ready, it almost feels like a joke. My hands twist in the sheets, fingers clumsy and weak now, my entire body trembling as the pressure climbs again, sharper thanbefore, more focused, like everything has narrowed down to one unbearable point.
“I can’t do another one,” I say, but it comes out thin, barely there, like even my voice is giving up on me.
“You can,” Ronan says immediately, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t soften it into something comforting. “You’re almost done.”
I believed his “almost” before. But my body doesn’t feel close to anything except breaking, stretched too far, too raw, too exhausted to keep up with what’s being asked of it. “I’m too tired. I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in, firmer now, not unkind but leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to stop here.”
Something in me wants to push back on that, to tell him he doesn’t understand what this feels like. But the contraction surges before I can get the words out, slamming into me with a force that makes my entire body jerk. The sound that comes out of me is raw and broken, dragged out of my chest whether I want it there or not.
“Breathe,” he says, closer now, steady in a way nothing else is. “Stay with me.”
I try. God, I try. My lungs drag in air that doesn’t feel like enough, my vision blurring at the edges as the pressure builds and builds until I can’t tell where it starts or ends. Everything hurts. Everything is too much. My body tightens, instinct taking over as the contraction peaks, and tears spill freely now, slipping into my hair as I shake my head.
“I can’t?—”
“Sage.” My name stops me again. Not because he raises his voice—he doesn’t—but because of the way he says it. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to. I want to disappear into the pain, to close my eyes and let it happen without having to feel every second of it. But I look anyway, because he told me to, because some part of me still listens to him without question.
“You finish this,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “One more. That’s it.”
The contraction hits, hard and immediate.
“Now.” He takes my hand, and I grip it tightly.
Then, I push.
