This is, frankly, irritating and deeply useful.
“How far apart from the last.”
I blink at him. “That was the first one.”
He nods once, already shifting into motion. “All right.”
That’s it.
No dramatic swearing. No useless horror. No “are you sure?” like I would misidentify my own abdomen trying to fold me in half.
Just: all right.
He crosses to the wall comm panel with the kind of precise speed that usually means somebody’s life is hanging on his ability not to fumble. His fingers move over the civilian medical response interface he pre-arranged weeks ago because apparently some people process impending parenthood by building shelves and emergency redundancies until the universe gives up arguing.
“Activating home response protocol,” he says.
I love him a little violently for how steady his voice is.
The panel chirps, then opens to a medical dispatcher in soft blue projection. Human woman. Mid-thirties. Hair clipped back. Eyes alert in that particular professional way that says she can tell the difference between fear and useful information.
“Neutral district civilian medical, priority maternal channel. State patient.”
Rhyx answers immediately. “Selene Ardent. Term pregnancy. Labor onset suspected. Home response protocol under residency file Varos-Ardent-seven-eight-nine.”
The dispatcher’s fingers flick through invisible fields. “Protocol confirmed. Is patient conscious and breathing normally.”
I turn and look at him. “Really? Ask her if I’m haunting the kitchen.”
He glances at me once. “Conscious,” he says to the dispatcher. “Breathing. Irritated.”
The dispatcher almost smiles. “Good sign. Contraction timing.”
“One contraction so far,” he says.
I push away from the counter slowly, because another wave is building and I can feel it like weather pressure. “I hate that you sound so calm.”
“I’m not calm.”
“Lies.”
“I’m disciplined.”
“Ugh. Worse.”
The second contraction hits before I can take another step.
It is not a lie.
It is a full-body act of betrayal.
Pain cinches tight around my middle and down through my hips with stunning, vulgar force, and suddenly all the prenatal briefings and breathing diagrams and “early labor may feel manageable” pamphlet language can go straight to hell.
I grab the back of the nearest chair so hard the wood creaks.
Rhyx is there instantly, not touching me yet, just close—big body, warm presence, eyes on my face, not asking stupid questions.
The dispatcher’s voice comes through the panel, crisp and even. “Selene, I need you to breathe with me.”
