Sterling washed his hands thoroughly in the bowl of hot water, then used one of the clean towels to dry them. Every movement was precise, methodical, as if he were preparing for an operation rather than a birth.
“The next ten minutes are going to be hard,” he said, meeting my eyes with that direct gaze that always made me feel like he could see straight through me. “But you can do this.”
The certainty in his voice steadied me. Sterling didn’t deal in empty platitudes or false reassurances. If he said I could do it, he believed it.
“What do I need to do?” I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.
“When the next contraction hits, you’re going to push,” he explained, adjusting the sheet over my legs. “Push like you’re trying to force out the worst constipation of your life.”
A startled laugh escaped me at his blunt description, but it died in my throat as another contraction began to build. This one felt different—an overwhelming pressure that demanded release.
“Now,” Sterling said, his voice commanding in a way that brooked no argument. “Push, Danny.”
I pushed, bearing down with everything I had, a guttural sound tearing from my throat that I barely recognized as my own. The pressure was immense, unbearable, like my body was being torn in half from the inside.
“Good,” Sterling approved as the contraction eased. “Again with the next one.”
The next minutes blurred into a haze of pain and effort. Push. Breathe. Rest for precious seconds. Push again. Sterling’s voice remained steady throughout, guiding me through each contraction with the same calm authority he’d probably used to direct teams through combat zones.
“I can see the head,” he announced after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. “Dark hair, like Burke’s.”
The image of our child—a real person with Burke’s dark hair—gave me a fresh surge of determination. One more push. I could do one more.
The next contraction built like a tidal wave, and I pushed with every ounce of strength I had left, a primal scream tearing from my throat as I felt something give way.
“That’s it,” Sterling encouraged, his hands steady and sure. “The head is out. One more push for the shoulders.”
I collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for breath, sweat soaking through my shirt and into the bedding beneath me. I wasn’t sure I had another push in me. I was empty, spent, my body trembling with exhaustion.
“Look at me,” Sterling commanded, and my eyes snapped to his automatically. “One more push, Danny. Just one more and you’ll be holding your son.”
My son. Burke’s son. Our baby.
The final contraction built, and I summoned strength I didn’t know I had, pushing with a determination born of love and desperation and the fierce need to meet this child who had been part of me for so long.
And then, suddenly, the pressure eased, and I heard the most beautiful sound in the world—a thin, outraged wail as my son took his first breath.
“He’s here,” Sterling said, and for the first time since I’d known him, there was genuine emotion in his voice—wonder, maybe, or something close to it. “He’s perfect.”
I fell back against the pillows, tears streaming down my face as Sterling quickly wrapped the baby in a clean towel. My arms reached for him automatically, a deep omega instinct to hold my child overriding exhaustion and pain.
Sterling placed the small bundle on my chest, and I looked down into the red, wrinkled face of my son for the first time.
Time seemed to stop. The world narrowed to just this—this tiny person with Burke’s dark hair and what looked like my nose, his little mouth open in an indignant cry that announced his arrival to the world. Ten perfect fingers, ten perfect toes. A miracle made flesh.
“Hello,” I whispered, my voice choked with tears. “I’m your daddy. I’ve been waiting so long to meet you.”
As if he recognized my voice from all those months of talking to him through the barrier of my skin, his cries softened, his tiny body curling instinctively toward my warmth.
I barely registered Sterling moving around the room, cleaning up, handling whatever needed to be done after a birth. All I could see, all I could focus on, was this perfect little person cradled against my chest.
I don’t know how long I lay there, marveling at every detail of my son’s face, before I heard the commotion downstairs—the front door slamming open, boots pounding on the stairs, Burke’s voice calling my name with a panic I’d never heard before.
And then he was there, filling the doorway, his face drained of color as he took in the scene—me on the bed, Sterling with blood on his hands, the small bundle cradled against my chest.
“Danny,” he breathed, crossing the room in three long strides and dropping to his knees beside the bed. “Oh my God, Danny.”
His eyes were wild, moving frantically between my face and the baby, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch either of us. I’d never seen Burke Callahan at a loss before. It was almost as miraculous as the baby in my arms.
