She searches my face for another second, looking for certainty I’m forcing into place by sheer will alone. Then she nods once. “We will.”
The next contraction hits hard enough to steal her breath. Her grip tightens around my hand, almost painful, and I let her hold on as hard as she needs to.
I keep talking through it anyway.
Anything to give her something else to focus on.
Her voice changes again. Lower now. Stripped down to instinct and exhaustion.
“There’s pressure, Dane.” She swallows hard. “I need to push.”
I stare at her for half a second, my mind trying to catch up.
“I know you don’t know what to do,” she says quickly.
My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“Tell me where to be.”
She shakes her head, another wave building hard enough that it catches her breath halfway through speaking. “You need to—” She forces herself through it, jaw tightening against the pain. “You need to deliver the baby.”
The words land heavily between us.
“Just stay with me,” she says. “Help me. Don’t let him fall when he comes out.”
After that, instinct takes over before thought can.
I move where she needs me to be, positioning myself between her knees. One hand steadies her leg. The other braces, ready, without really knowing what "ready" is supposed to mean here.
Everything else disappears.
There’s only Charlotte.
Only this.
Only this moment.
She looks at me one more time, terrified, but trusting me anyway. Then she bears down.
The sound that tears out of her fills the room—raw and overwhelming, stripped down to despair and pain. It pushes everything else away until there’s nothing left but her body forcing this child into the world.
“I think something is happening.”
She pushes again, harder this time.
And then I see it.
At first it’s only a shadow in the low light. Then my eyes adjust enough for recognition to hit.
The head.
Too small.
Too still.
“It’s coming, Charlotte.”
Another push and the rest of the baby follows. He slips into my hands all at once, impossibly light and frighteningly fragile.
