Page 11 of The Golden Hour

Instantly, he was awake, all sleep-deprivation annoyance gone.

“Oh, baby…” he murmured.

“I’m sorry—” Honey gasped, before gagging once more and throwing up into the toilet.

Immediately, he rushed to her, chest twisting as he gathered her hair back from her face and held it away from her mouth.

Mason felt like a complete fucking asshole for being irritated.

Christ, it wasn’t like she asked to be sick. Who the fuck was he to demand she quiet down because it was disturbing his precious sleep? She was pregnant, suffering from hyperemesis. She was carrying their daughter. He didn’t need his beauty sleep; he needed to support his wife.

“No, no, no, baby,” Mason shushed her, using his long reach to grab one of the little hand towels from the sink and wet it. Honey practically collapsed back against him, shaking in his arms. He dabbed the towel to her forehead, to the sides of her mouth, to her flushed cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I just…”

“You’re tired,” Honey said, quietly, flatly. She sounded so tired. “It’s okay.”

That made him feel worse. Everything was okay with Honey lately. Every missed dinner. Every late night. Every appointment he swore he would make and didn’t. It was okay; she would make it okay.

He buried his face in her hair, feeling like a complete dickhead.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, breathy.

He flinched.

When her stomach settled, he washed her face, helped her brush her teeth, and carried her back to bed to tuck her in. He realized how nice it felt to care for her, his sweet girl, and he pressed his nose to her temple, inhaling her scent deeply.

Always sweet, always warm. His Honey. God, he loved her so much.

He felt her lean into him, and he pressed a few kisses to her head as he settled her back against the cushions in a way that didn’t make Daisy press too hard on her lungs. She sighed in relief, and his eyes tracked down to her belly, where her hands were cradling their little girl protectively.

He blinked at how big her belly was, how far along she was.

Quick math made him realize she was thirty-two weeks.

Eight months.

Jesus Christ, how has it been that long already?

Mason ignored the churning in his gut, realizing how much time had compressed. How he had been so consumed in the ED and finishing his residency and work and trying to prove himself and trying to get to the next level that he had forgotten to take a look around.

Honey had pretty much done this pregnancy by herself—well, with his parents' and her parents' help, but still. And she still took care of the house. And cooked the meals. And the laundry. And…

Fuck. He had missed so much time.

Regret sat like lead in his gut, and hesitantly, he pressed a hand to Honey’s belly.

When Honey called him while he was on break, when he had time between saving patients and answering, she would giggle and tell him how active Daisy was. How she rolled and kicked and stretched.

It made him so happy to hear his wife’s joy about their little girl.

But then he realized that he had never actually felt Daisy kick. Never felt the ticklish little flutters Honey had described with that beautiful smile on her face. Never felt the soccer kicks against her ribs that made her gasp and giggle, “Oof, give mommy a break, Daisy.”

He wasn’t even there when they found out they were having a daughter. He was three floors down, busy saving lives.

Isn’t that noble? That was the deal. That was what they talked about when he started his residency. It was going to be hell. He was going to work long hours. He was going to be tired a lot. He was going to miss things. It wasn’t forever. It was temporary. It was a sacrifice. It was the kind of sacrifice everyone made in medicine, and Honey knew that.

But you’ve been volunteering for extra shifts, to stay later, to go the extra mile. You work in the same place she has her appointments. You could have gone upstairs to see her. You chose not to. You chose the ED over your wife, your daughter. You’re chasing the rush, the high.