“Bleeding? Fluid?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Okay.” She heard rustling on his end. “I’m coming to get you. Don’t drive. Just stay where you are and try to relax.”
“Victor—”
“I’ll be there in five minutes. If you have another contraction before I arrive, time it. Note the intensity. But Chloe?” His voice softened. “This is most likely Braxton Hicks. Practice contractions. Perfectly normal at your stage.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll be sure after I examine you. Five minutes.”
He hung up before she could respond. She set down her phone and wrapped both arms around her belly. The baby kicked—a reassuring thump against her ribs.
“You’re okay in there, right?” she whispered. “Just practicing? Not trying to make an early entrance?”
Another kick, stronger this time. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing. In through her nose, out through her mouth.Slow and steady like he had instructed. She was still breathing deliberately when the door to the archives burst open. Victor strode in looking rumpled and intense, his medical bag in one hand.
“Hi,” she said weakly.
“Any more contractions?”
“One. About three minutes ago. Same as before.”
He crossed to her in three long strides and crouched beside where she sat. His hands came up to frame her face, tilting it toward the light.
“Eyes look good. Pupils equal and reactive.” His fingers found her pulse. “Heart rate’s elevated but not dangerously so.”
“I was panicking.”
“Understandable.” But his thumb stroked her wrist, a gesture of comfort rather than clinical assessment. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable than the floor.”
He helped her up with careful hands and guided her to the small seating area—the two armchairs he’d arranged to have delivered without ever mentioning them. He knelt in front of her, his bag open beside him. “I’m going to examine you. Check the baby’s position and heart rate. Is that okay?”
She nodded, too anxious to speak. His hands were warm when they pressed against her belly, methodical and sure. He palpated carefully, his expression focused.
“Baby’s head-down. Good position.” He pulled out a fetal doppler. “This will be cold.”
The gel was frigid against her skin, but she barely noticed. She watched his face as he moved the doppler across her belly, searching. Then the rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filled the quiet archives.
“One-forty,” he murmured. “Perfect.” He moved the doppler slightly. “Strong and steady. No signs of distress.”
Relief made her eyes sting. “The baby’s okay?”
“The baby’s fine.” He gently wiped off the gel and pulled her sweater back down. “What you’re experiencing are Braxton Hicks contractions. Practice contractions. Your uterus is preparing for eventual labor, but it’s not the real thing.”
“How can you tell?”
“True labor contractions follow a pattern. They get longer, stronger, and closer together over time. Braxton Hicks are irregular. They can be uncomfortable, but they don’t progress.” He sat back on his heels. “Did you drink enough water today?”
She thought about it. “Maybe not as much as I should have.”
“Dehydration can trigger Braxton Hicks. So can a full bladder, certain positions, and physical activity.” His mouth quirked. “Have you been lifting heavy boxes again?”
“Just a few.”
“Chloe.”
