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You've known Grace Smith for a few years now. She works on the same floor you do, you just never got around to talking to her for the longest time.

     That was until there was one particularly bad shift. A patient of yours had ripped her IV out, another patient had puked in the hallway, another was screaming until his voice was raw. That crazy part is that you don't work in a very eventful department, so you were not used to shifts like that one. After the chaos had subsided, you and Grace collapsed into chairs in the break room and recounted the horror stories from that night together.

     From that day on she was your best friend. It started as just catching up in the hallway. Then it morphed into drinks after shifts. Then it morphed into staying over at her apartment after a movie night. Now she knows the name of your childhood pet and all of your embarrassing stories.

    You have yet to meet her family though. Even though she talks about them constantly. You hear endless stories about how her mother bought a cute new jacket, how her dad helped her make an appointment to get her car fixed, how her brother calls her at least 3 times a week. It's actually quite endearing to you how close she is with them.

    That's why you're sweating buckets now. For the first time in your 4 year friendship with Grace, you're finally meeting her family. Her brother is back in town and her family is having a little get together. Her mom, who's apparently heard a lot about you too, insisted that you join.

     You have to wipe the sweat off your palms before you knock on the door. You're not even sure why you're nervous, it's just her family, who from what you've been told is really sweet. The door swings open and Grace stands in front of you with a wide smile on her face. "You made it!" She beams, stepping aside to usher you into the house.

     You nervously clutch the container of cookies you made close to your chest as you follow her into her dining room. Setting the table is a woman who looks strikingly similar to Grace. Upon hearing the footsteps, she looks up and sees you. Her eyes light up, similar to how Grace's did when she answered the door. "You must be Grace's friend!" She sets down the dish she had in her hand and crosses the room to pull you into a hug. You're a little taken back but nonetheless you wrap your free arm around the woman for a brief hug.

     Grace introduces you and then takes the container of cookies from you to set on the table. "Dad and Will are just finishing up right?" Grace asks her mom.

     "They should be done pretty soon." Her mom answers, flicking her wrist up to check her watch. You nervously bounce on your toes while watching them interact. "So, how long have you lived in Boston?" Her mom directs her attention back to you.

      You answer her question, finding her to be incredibly easy to talk to. This eases your nerves and makes you slowly open up a bit more.

     Mid conversation with Grace's mom, a loud bang is heard from the kitchen. You watch Grace's face scrunch up. "What did you drop Will?" She calls out, wandering around the corner and into the kitchen.

     "I didn't drop anything important, it's fine." You hear a voice answer. That must be her brother. Grace talks about him so much, you're honestly quite intrigued to meet him. She's often gone for some weekends to go visit him and she always texts you about how he bought her dinner, how he stopped for an hour to sign things for fans.

He turns into the kitchen with Grace and you feel your heart flutter. You’ve obviously seen pictures of him but he looks so much different in person. He’s taller than you expected, standing a few inches taller than Grace. Every single Smith has good hair genetics, you knew that, but his hair looks especially good in person. He looks tan too, which adds to the overall glow of him. You have to look away because you feel guilty for admiring your best friend’s brother like that.

“You must be the famous work bestie.” Will says, forcing you to look back up at him.

You raise your eyebrows, shooting Grace a questioning look. “Famous?” You direct your question at her.

She shrugs, reaching over Will to pop an olive in her mouth. “I talk about you sometimes.”

Beside her, Will gives her a look, shaking his head slightly. “Sometimes? More like everyday.” Grace is unfazed by his dig at her and instead takes a seat at the table. “I’m glad I finally get to meet you.” He says, directing his attention back to you.

“She talks about you a lot too, so I’m glad I got to meet you too.” You answer him, feeling heat on your cheeks. You cut your eyes to Grace again, hoping that you’re not blushing. Grace has often confided in you about how many girls will try to get close with her just because of her brother. You love your friendship with Grace and you’d hate to ruin that.

“Let’s eat!” Graces dad loudly announces, walking straight into the room and dropping steaks onto the table. Everyone complies without any argument.

You sit next to Grace and fall into conversation with her family easily. Her parents ask you all about your life and how you ended up in Boston. You ask them about their life as well, Grace occasionally adding in a few stories about her childhood. You live far away from your parents so the whole night makes you feel a sort of sense of belonging that you haven’t felt in a while.

At the end of the night, when everyone’s full and just swapping funny stories, Grace gets a call and excuses herself. “I think that’s a good time to start cleaning up.” Her mother says, getting up from the table, grabbing plates as she does. Her dad mutters something about needing to clean the grill and also gets up, leaving you alone with Will.

“So did I live up to the hype?” He asks you, peering at you from across the table.

“Depends.” You answer, deciding to clean up the space around you instead of maintain eye contact with him. “Did I live up to the hype?”

You hear Will chuckle. “Yeah, you definitely did.” He answers. You look up at him to see him leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Good.” You answer, feeling a rush of heat at your own boldness. “You did too.”

Your eyes snag on Grace who is standing at the foot of the stairs, smirking at you.

—

“Grace, someone is here for you.” An older nurse announces, popping her head into the break room and out immediately after. Grace sends you a look, eyebrow raised curiously.

“Come with me, I’m scared to see who it is.” She says, grabbing your hand across the table. You squeeze her hand affectionately and nod.

Together you go to the front desk, finding a shy looking Will leaning against the counter. He’s holding a bag in one hand, his head tucked low, staring at his shoes. “Will? What are you doing here?” Grace says, walking right up to him.

He snaps his head up, smile forming on his face when he sees you standing behind Grace. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from blushing. Will smiles wider and holds up the bag in his hand. “I made banana bread and thought you guys might want some.”

Grace darts her eyes from Will to you, and then back to Will. Her eyes narrow on the bag. “Oh yeah? Us?” She teases, taking the bag from him regardless.

Now it’s Will’s turn to blush and look away. “I just thought it would be nice. You guys are working a long shift right?” He shrugs, sneakers kicking the ground.

“We are.” Grace answers. “But you never visit me at work.” She says, suspiciously glancing between the two of you.

“Okay, sue me for doing something nice for my sister. I won’t do it again.” He says sarcastically, hands coming up as if he’s surrendering.

Grace rolls her eyes, pushing him gently. “You know what I mean.”

“Okay, I’m leaving. Enjoy your banana bread. It was nice seeing you again.” He directs the last statement towards you, sending you a small smile.

“You too Will.” You give him the same small smile, watching his form head out the door.

You turn back to Grace, choosing to ignore her smirk. The same one you found her giving you at dinner the other night. “Does he bake a lot?” You ask her, hoping she gets distracted and doesn’t bring up the way you were looking at Will.

“Yeah, he loves it. That’s all he does when he’s back home.” She says, looking into the bag. She pulls out a little ziplock bag full of slices of banana bread. She extends the bag to you.

You take it gratefully, feeling how the bread is still warm like it’s fresh out of the oven. “How long is he home for usually?”

She gives you a knowing smile, eyeing you slightly. “The whole summer basically.” She answers, taking a tone to her voice that you’ve never heard before.

You go to ask another question about Will but a nurse down the hallway calls for help with a patient.

—

“Grace? What’s wrong? Why’d you text me SOS?” You call out, frantically banging on her front door. She texted you while you were out grocery shopping with a very ominous “SOS, please come over” so of course you left your cart with everything in it and ran to her house as fast as you could. The whole way there you imagined all different scenarios of what could’ve happened since she stopped answering your texts. You pictured her injured, murdered, kidnapped, everything terrible under the sun.

Grace swings her door open looking perfectly fine. In fact, she’s smiling at you. “Perfect, Will just got here.” She steps to the side, showing you Will who looks equally as confused as you.

“What? You’re not hurt?” You step inside, letting her close the door behind you.

“Nope. You guys are going on a date though.” She says, pointing between you and Will.

“What?” You and Will both say at the same time. You both look at each other in confusion.

“I’m so sick of answering questions about Will. I’m also so sick of hearing about how you find her so gorgeous.” Grace wags her finger at Will, making him blush. Your heart flutters at Grace’s words. “So you’re going to take her to dinner.” She says, dropping Will’s car keys into his hand.

Will looks up at you, a smile taking over his face instead of the blush. “What do you say?” He asks shyly.

“As long as Grace is okay with it?” You ask her. You don’t want her to get mad at you or think that you’re only friends with her because of Will.

Grace rolls her eyes. “I’ve been plotting on you two getting together since I’ve met you that one crazy shift. I can’t picture either of you with anyone more perfect for you.”

That takes you by surprise, making you rethink all of the times she’s told you about Will, and about how Will called you the ‘famous work bestie’ at dinner the other day. So she’s clearly talked you up to Will too. Had she really been planning this that long?

“Stop thinking too hard. Both of you. Go enjoy dinner.” She says, shooing you and Will out of the door. She shuts the door on your face before you can ask anything else.

You turn to Will, finding him already looking at you. “I was honestly trying to find the balls to ask you out for weeks now, so I’m glad she did this.” He admits.

“Yes you’ve made that quite clear,” you giggled, shifting around in your seat as he picked something mindless to watch, in hopes his annoyance would dissipate. “But to be fair, the kid is late.”

“He is, but that’s not their business.” He continues, tone still a bit too intense for the situation. Telling him to relax isn’t in your best interest though. “And having everyone send obnoxious messages isn’t a great motivation tactic. Where are you going?” Joe scrambled to his feet to help you up despite your protests that you had it. “I believe you.” He promised. “Just here for moral support.”

“Thank you,” you patted his chest. “I’m starving. I need to see if my corn dogs are here.”

You and Joe saw eye to eye on most things, and he tried to take every new pregnancy thing in stride. He learned to accept the late night snacking in bed, the random bouts of insatiable hunger that had to be sorted out within five minutes or you wouldn’t be hungry anymore. But your latest corn dog obsession was one he couldn’t get down with.

“They’re Korean corn dogs,” he remembers you explaining as you held one out in his direction a few days ago, “do you wanna try one?”

Joe shook his head vigorously. “Doesn’t matter where they’re from, I’m not touching that. And honestly? You shouldn’t either. Those things cannot be for human consumption.”

And yet, around three nights a week the last two weeks, Morgan ordered a box of three Korean corn dogs even when Joe insisted you needed real food. Tonight was no different, he sighed seeing you walk into the living room with your Decibel box and his chicken Caesar smash burger with sweet potato fries and stood up immediately. “You didn’t have to grab mine.”

“I wanted to,” you assured him and he thanked you with a kiss on the forehead, chuckling lightly when you groaned as you sat down. “Your son’s getting a little too heavy.”

Joe takes a bite of a fry and stares at you. “He’s my son now?”

“When he’s hurting my ribs and head-butting my bladder? Definitely your son.”

Using his burger as a pointer, he counters your argument. “He’s your son too because my kid would never eat a corn dog.”

You rubbed your belly after dipping one in ketchup, “I’m not gonna say anything else because the evidence speaks for itself.”

“All I’m saying is that I have a mean ‘I told you so’ waiting for you when you have acid reflux later.”

He nudged your water bottle towards you and you smiled, taking a few long sips.

Two corndogs and two movies later, your back was officially hurting enough to retire to bed for the night. Joe had the heating pad plugged in by the time you got out of the shower and it was warm when you settled into the cool sheets.

“Good?” Your husband asked before turning off the light.

“As good as I can be with this medicine ball permanently strapped to my body.”

“It’s not permanent,” he gives your shoulder a tender squeeze. “Little dude’s gonna have to come out eventually. He’s running out of excuses.”

There isn’t any energy remaining in you to respond so you give him a nod before closing your eyes. He whispers a quick “love you” before turning off the lamp on his side of the bed and going to sleep.

You started out the night on your left side, something about blood flow and doctor recommendations but that was comfortable for maybe 20 minutes. Turning over took a lot of effort but you managed and tossed the heating pad to the side because your lower back was still hurting and all it was doing was making you warm. Usually, the subtle heat solved your problems. Not this time. And night sweats was the very last thing you needed. The cherry on top was the full bladder that finally got you out of bed around 12:30. The all too familiar bout of nausea welcomed you as you struggled to your feet in the dark, not even bothering with lights as the back of your throat started to burn with a beefy, fried potato aftertaste. It wasn’t as fun to relive your last meal as you tried swallowing it back down with water and a silent plea not to let it all resurface.

“Babe,” you shakily mumbled in a tired voice.

“Hm?”

“Will you rub my back really quick, please?”

“Yeah of course,” he reaches over, fingers getting to work in the problem area that’s been bothering you the last week or so. Joe falls asleep less than 15 minutes into the back rub and you’re back to square one, tossing and turning until your body required a different kind of movement.

The exercise ball you swore you’d never used became your lifeline at 2:33 in the morning. Both hands resting at the base of your belly, making small circles with your hips trying to re-center, during your second trimester Dr. Chen had mentioned a few stretches that were supposed to ease acid reflux and you tossed back a few tums with several ounces of water for good measure. With the size of the baby you were carrying, your stomach had probably shrunk in half as your vital organs shifted around to accommodate him as he continued his overdue stay. Maybe if you kept moving and coaxed him to a new spot, you could get a few hours of sleep. Taking a deep breath, you stared hard at the ceiling and even though you couldn’t see him at all, you cursed Joe for being able to successfully hit REM while you resorted to middle of the night acrobatics just to get comfortable.

“Pregnancy officially sucks and I’m done,” you said out loud, maybe talking to your son. Maybe to yourself. You lifted up your shirt and looked down at the globe that was once normal bloating and poked your protruding belly button. “All I ask is for two hours of sleep. Three, tops. Please.”

You didn’t miraculously feel less sick and the lower back pain sent pins and needles down your spine, sending you into a makeshift cat-cow position. Then you laid on the cool home gym floor stretching your hamstrings, feeling scary close to a turtle stuck on its shell when you couldn’t get up.

“Doctor said you’re not supposed to be lying on your back,” Joe says now fully dressed for a morning workout.

You held out your hands, “I’m stuck.”

He laughed and easily pulled you to your feet, hearing a soft sound very similar to how he felt the morning after playing a particularly physical defense. “You okay?”

His hand was on your lower back again, on top of yours as you nodded with your eyes closed. “I’m fine, getting off the ground took way more out of me than I’d like to discuss,” you yawned, grateful your humbling adventure at least had a nap at the end of the tunnel. “I’m going back to bed, you leaving already?”

“It’s 5:15.” He said plainly.

“Really? Wow, yeah I need to actually sleep. Have fun lifting stuff and running, I’ll be watching the back of my eyelids, hopefully.”

Joe shakes his head with a smile, “get some sleep. I’ll have my phone close so call or text if you need me. I mean it.”

“I know. I will.”

He insisted on walking with you up the stairs claiming he was there in case you got winded but you knew he was watching you closely. “Nothing’s wrong, my stomach is just protesting my last meal. And before you tell me I shouldn’t have had the corn dog I want you to remember that I’ve spent the last ten months and three days of my life making us a baby, from scratch might I add.”

“You’re a warrior,” Joe says, helping you get back into bed, “no doubt about that. Now get some rest, I won’t be long.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He places a hand on your stomach, “and you too man. Take it easy on your mom today, will you? She’s been working overtime. Both of you need some sleep.” His sentiments were met with a kick as though his son heard him and they were on the same page about the subject. “I’ll take that as an answer,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips before making his way out the door, the pregnancy gods finally smiled down on you and gave your body enough reprieve to let you get two and a half hours of uninterrupted rest.

You woke up queasier than before, cursing yourself for having that second corn dog instead of stopping at one. And the dull back pain was still there but your hips? They felt like they were being yanked away from the rest of your body by a pair of heavy duty pliers. Sitting up as slowly as possible, not to irritate your joints even more, you groaned, pressing your thumb into your hip bone, using the table as a crutch as you got to your feet. Gravity had done its job in moving everything…lower.

“Okay then,” you winced as the baby stretched and you felt everything, dinner dangerously close to seeing the bedroom floor for a second. You burped, the acidic taste unwilling to leave and made your way to the kitchen at less than a snail’s pace.

Morgan’s kind demeanor was hands down your favorite part about him. The chef was honestly joy personified which was great to have and made his food taste even better because you knew he put so much love and care into each meal. But this morning, the thought of food was horrifying and he just blinked a few times asking if you were sure when you said you didn’t want breakfast. Sure, the first trimester was ground zero but afterwards? You’d become Morgan’s favorite customer, trying any and every new recipe, he satisfied every craving and fed into your weekly obsessions. One week it was lemon ricotta pancakes. Then there was the pasta carbonara month. Today was boring which wasn’t exactly a good sign.

“Do we have any ginger ale? Or sprite maybe?” You asked him, rubbing the underside of your belly. He hasn’t pulled out carbonated drinks before 8AM since week 12 of pregnancy.

“We do,” he turned to grab it out of the cabinet and you grabbed the can and opened it as soon as he placed it on the counter. “You don’t want anything else? Something small, or plain?”

“Not really,” you thought about sitting on the stool but that sounded like a battle. “I feel gross and food might send me over the edge. Could go for a fiber gummy if we have those?”

The man nodded and handed you some and a cup of water.

“Thank you.” You sighed, leaning onto the counter as your back protested again, “I’m never getting a decibel box ever again.”

Morgan bites back a snort and texts Joe when you make your way to the living room. He likes his chef’s message and calls you immediately after.

“Hey,” he sounds like he’s catching his breath, “Morgan said you didn’t want breakfast? Haven’t eaten since seven last night, everything okay?”

“Not hungry yet,” you tell him honestly. “And I know what you’re thinking but I’m just very bloated and pregnant. Probably will be hungry in the next few hours no need to sound any alarms yet.”

“You’re funny. I’m almost done here anyway so I’ll be home soon.”

There was no arguing with him once he set his mind to something so you knew he was coming home whether you needed him here or not.

As promised, Joe came home, did a visual status update to ensure you weren’t on your deathbed and headed upstairs to “rinse off real quick.” You sat there deciding what you wanted to do next. Nothing was in excruciating pain, you just felt full. Everything was tight and weird and the “pain” you did feel was more annoying than anything.

It was a good old fashioned stomachache maybe mixed in with indigestion and you pressed your hand lower on your stomach. “I hear you,” and stood up to get dressed. Halfway up the steps there was a tight pull that wrapped around your lower half, everything from your lower back to your belly became one hard muscle stretched to the brim and you closed your eyes, midsection clenching against your hand for several seconds until it released its hold. Now you could add intense Braxton hicks contractions to the list.

“Don’t hate me,” you told Joe as you walked into the bedroom while he pulled a t-shirt over his head. “I know you just showered but can we go for a walk? Down the block and back, I just need move around—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he watches you walk over to the closet to change, “if walking feels good, let’s do that. Need help with your shoes?”

“Please? You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.”

He rolls his eyes, kneeling with a pair of your sneakers in hand. “Last time I checked, I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”

“So far.”

“Very funny,” he fakes amusement and watches closely matching your pace down the steps and out the door.

Joe recognizes sequences and particularly familiar actions. It’s what makes him one of the best at his position. And the more he cares the more he pays attention. He’s definitely paying attention now because your gait has changed. The waddle appeared week 31 when the bump was undeniable and you two were in California enjoying the beginning of the offseason. He knows the difference between a normal waddle, an I have to pee waddle, a my feet and/or back hurt waddle. This is a focused waddle. Every step is carefully thought out beforehand like your mind is somewhere else entirely and he doesn’t want to ask and disrupt your focus but you definitely don’t look comfortable.

And your hands.

Usually they’re resting against your stomach, spots where your son’s hand or feet are trying to poke through your skin but today they’re low, almost like you’re lifting the baby off of your pelvis, holding him up. Holding him in place because if you don’t he may fall out. It’s still early enough in the day that the neighborhood is quiet and not many people are outside, a few elderly couples walking their dogs. One car passing by on their drive to work or taking the kids to school or both.

You slow down and exhale roughly, eyes closed. “Sorry, hang on.” Joe adds that to his mental list, noting one palm resting lower and the fact that you’re stopped in your tracks by whatever you’re feeling. Then you kept walking like nothing happened.

A park bench rested on the edge of the block near the playground and when you walked by, you squatted beside the thing, gripping it for leverage. Your head dropped this time, moving purely on instinct and Joe recognized the same focus that has been gnawing at him since the walk started.

He crouched beside you, seeing the slow breaths you pulled into your lungs before letting out a frustrated sound. It wasn’t pained, more…inconvenienced. “What are you feeling?”

“Sick,” you admitted. “I think you were right,” one of your hands smoothed down the front of your shirt. “Dinner is not sitting right and I,” you paused, trying not to gag. “I don’t feel good.”

“Okay let’s get home,” he decided, standing up and holding out his hands. You took another deep breath and let him hold you up, rubbing circles into your back. The walk back was faster than the walk there and he noticed a greater sense of urgency. “What’s the rush?”

You looked a little panicked, your waddle less focused more frantic. “My body’s doing something and I have to get home. Like, now now.”

“Oh.” Is all he said before pulling out his phone and texting Ivy.

We’re walking back home. Can you refill her Stanley with ice? She’s not feeling too hot.

An answer came through a few seconds later.

Of course.

The house manager immediately went into the kitchen to grab the giant water cup from the drying rack. Then she showed Morgan the text. “You were right.”

Morgan shrugged. “Could still be anything, I don’t want to jinx it.”

The door swung open a few minutes later and Ivy stepped towards the entryway, Stanley in hand. “Hey. I have your—”

“Oh my god,” you grunted, making a beeline for the stairs. “Sorry!” you called over your shoulder. “Hi Ivy. Love you. Can’t talk. Might shit myself.”

Ivy stood motionless a few feet away and Morgan stepped out of the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t hearing things.

Joe paused long enough to grab the water. “Thanks.” Then he was jogging after you.

He got to the third floor of his home and found one shoe next to the top step. The other a few feet away. Your leggings and underwear discarded down the hall towards the bedroom and your shirt laid on the bedroom floor in front of the master bathroom where he found you on the toilet in just a sports bra, heaving breaths and your hands squeezing your thighs.

“I had no choice.”

“I see that,” he holds up all of the items he collected on the way. “You alright?”

You blew out a breath, “no. I’m very much not alright,” you groaned, hand moving up to your belly. The other gripped the counter so tightly it made him a little nervous. “Holy fuck.”

“I feel like I have to poop,” you paused. “Or puke.” You shook your head, feeling everything at once.

“Or both? God and my butthole hurts. Is that normal?”

Joe placed his hands on his hips, thinking about all the baby books he’s read. “I honestly have no idea.”

“Great.” You shifted on the toilet and placed your head in your forearm, close to tears. This was so much worse than hearing him say ‘I told you so.’ He visibly remembered early on in your relationship when you wouldn’t even pee when he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, claiming that some things do need to remain a mystery. No bathroom sharing if someone’s on the toilet.

Now you were seconds away from using the restroom and you wanted him to hold your hand.

He was thinking about how you’d declined breakfast, had a never ending backache, the full feeling, the focused waddle, and the mad dash to the toilet. All while looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Do you think we should call Dr. Chen? Just to see what she thinks?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

You nodded but still looked hesitant. “If it’s food poisoning that’ll be embarrassing.”

“And if it’s not?”

The answer he was waiting for came in the form of your body being squeezed by another intense wave of pressure. He visibly watched your belly grow high and tight as a drum, your hand balled into a fist as he urged you to breathe. “Let’s just call and see what she says.”

Joe didn’t even wait for a signal of approval before dialing.

You loved your OB. She was qualified, calm, discreet, everything you needed in the person you would be trusting with your life and your baby’s life. But when you felt like you were going to die of embarrassment on the toilet in front of your husband with your staff downstairs waiting for a poop or labor announcement the last thing you want to hear is:

“Based on what you’ve told me, it certainly could be early labor. It could also still be the normal discomforts that come at the very end of pregnancy, and I can’t tell the difference over the phone. Most important thing is to listen to your body. If it says walk, you walk. If it’s telling you to sit on the toilet or lay in bed, then do that. I don’t want to make any assumptions over the phone but I’ll have my mine on me so please reach out any time. For now, keep moving, there’s no blood so I’d stay home and try to get comfortable. If contractions are five minutes apart for an hour lasting one full minute or your water breaks, call me.”

“This is a humiliation ritual.” You felt bad complaining but if this wasn’t labor you’d be having a serious talk with your fetus and your digestive system.

He knew he shouldn’t find any of this funny. Instead, Joe knelt down and patted your leg. “You’re good,” he promised. “Do you want me to call your mom or anything?”

“Absolutely not.” You told him immediately. “This,” gesturing between you, “is bad enough. I’m trying to poop and I can’t. You’re the only audience I can handle since this is mostly your fault anyway.” You glared at him as soon as he attempted to open his mouth. “I didn’t get myself pregnant, did I?

“Good point.” His nurturing touch finds its way to the middle of your back, adding enough pressure. “Do you think a bath would help? Dr. Chen did say to try to relax.”

Wiggling in your seat again you weighed your options. Clearly you didn’t need to poop or it would’ve happened already and being in the water might ease what seemed to be full body cramps, even your legs felt tired. “Need to get this thing off,” you tugged at your sports bra. The water was lukewarm, perfect for the situation. You’d worked up a bit of a sweat trying to prevent an accident that thankfully turned out to be a false alarm and sighed, fully submerged in the water.

“This was a good idea, thank you.” You held out a wet hand and he held on, seeing you cup your belly again. “Still hurts but I feel a little better.”

You ended up leaning over the side, arms folded over the edge of the tub, taking deep breaths, still managing a joke. “Being naked was a great move. No dignity, no clothes.” Then you got quiet again. He observed a few posture changes, shoulders stiff versus relaxed, a few quiet hisses of pain as you palpated your stomach trying to find the source of the weird sensation and coming up empty each time.

“I don’t think this is the corn dogs,” you let out the tiniest laugh and a short breath followed. Then a groan.

Joe sat up, rubbing a spot between your shoulder blades. “I don’t either. But tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been contracting,” the pain dies down so you can fully converse. “Wasn’t 100% sure before but that weird pulling feeling, kind of everywhere? I’m not explaining it well but it feels way different than any practice ones I’ve had. And that last one was the most intense.”

“All good information,” his thumb grazes your shoulder, letting you know he’s here and won’t go far.

The bathroom is relatively quiet until your eyes snap open and you’re holding onto the edge again. “I need out.”

Joe is moving before you finish your sentence, towel in one arm, voice steady. “C’mon, I gotcha.”

“Down,” you rush out, “I need—floor.” He tosses an extra towel on the ground by the tub as you’re forced to your hands and knees and he places another towel over you because you’re still wet and he doesn’t want you to get cold. “Oh god. Ow. Can you grab a cold rag, please?”

He moves with a sense of urgency that hasn’t been there all day. It’s almost like as soon as you two acknowledged that things were changing, everything became much more real. There was no time for questions, like Dr. Chen told him you were in charge, whatever your body needed, he’d be there to figure out how to make it work. So if you needed a cold rag, he brought two. “Where do you need this?”

You rocked gently, breaths shakier than they were minutes ago, no doubt working through the latest wave. And you looked a little overwhelmed. “Put it low please, really low.” He remembered you mentioning rectal pressure and understood what you meant by low. The cool relief helped more than anything else had all day and your shoulders sagged as you thanked him. “God, that feels amazing.”

Joe didn’t hesitate to park himself at your side, a few extra towels nearby in case he needed them. He wished there was more he could do but now that you’d given him this task, he was ready to hold this rag until his arms fell off.

The pressure continued to build. Those frantic semi circles you’d adopted didn’t help anymore, moving made the pain worse and it felt like your body was trying to do something your mind couldn’t keep up with. “Joe?” Your voice sounded strained, laced with discomfort he wanted to take away but couldn’t.

“I’m right here,” his hand rested on your hip. “Need anything?”

“I need you to move your hand.”

His concern grew. “Is it not helping anymore?”

Your head dipped down, trying to power through the latest contraction. “It is I just—take it off.”

“Babe if it’s helping, I’m gonna keep helping.”

The truth was that the cloth was the only thing keeping you from screaming but the last two surges or waves or contractions if that’s what they truly were, made you feel like you really had to go. And you’d rather not do that on your hands and knees with him dangerously close to your backside. “Please, please move your hand.”

He eased the rag away immediately because tone scared him, you weren’t joking anymore or laughing. There was tension in your words and he swore he saw you gritting your teeth, holding yourself back from something. He took the rag off and your eyes stung a little, desperately needing to get to your feet but the bowling ball pressure in your butt made the decision for you. Standing wasn’t an option so you had to crawl.

“Woah—hey. What do you need?”

“Toilet,” you gritted out. “I have to poop.”

Joe nodded and moved more towels to make a path, protecting your knees. You made it a few feet before your body froze and locked up due to the pain. You were trying to breathe through it, eyes closed, fingers curled around the towel on the ground and Joe saw your expression change and was back on the floor. The books had warned him about the shaking and a basic rundown of natural childbirth but seeing his person go through it and not being able to take any of her pain away wasn’t something he could prepare for. And if you were in too much pain to crawl to the toilet, he wasn’t letting you go anywhere.

“Hey.” He tried, warm hand over your back. The towel you had on was somewhere on the ground but your skin was damp. Joe wasn’t sure if it was water or sweat or a mixture of both and he really didn’t care. He took a deep breath anyway, needing to stay calm. “Look at me.”

Your watery eyes met his. “I don’t know what my body’s doing.”

“You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. There is nothing to be embarrassed about and nothing to apologize for.”

“What if I poop?”

“Then you poop. No big deal.” He shrugs. “You’re having our baby.”

You swallowed hard, leaning into him a bit.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed your shoulder and stood up, heading back to the sink. “Cold rag?”

“Please.”

He was right back in his original spot as another surge plowed through. Your forehead dropped onto the folded towel and your legs spread without your conscious effort as your hips angled up, butt higher in the air. Joe didn’t say a word, watching the muscle in your back and your legs tighten as the pain peaked. He thought about reaching for his phone to call the doctor when a deep, involuntary sound erupted from your chest. “You’re safe, take a breath.”

“Jesus Christ,” you strained, “what is happening?” You almost said something else but you were cut off by another grunt, sounding focused and completely internal. Dr. Chen was not kidding when she said your body would lead. Things were getting intense and Joe’s phone was resting by the tub, out of his reach. Before switching to a new cold rag he heard you push again and his eyes cast down. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to see or even what he was looking for. But he definitely wasn’t qualified to deliver a baby in the bathroom, letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn’t see anything different.

We’re good, he told himself. You sank back, body forcing out a deep hum and then the pressure mounted then released in a heavy splash. Your eyes flew open in horror, clearly leaking but you’d clenched your eyes so tightly during that bout of pain you were seeing stars. “What was that? What just happened?”

“You’re good,” his voice sounded painfully normal, “give me a second.”

“Oh god, did I poop?”

Although you could admit you felt a lot better with the pressure being gone, not completely gone but significantly less crippling, the idea of pooping in your husband’s palm was not a story you ever wanted to tell. The thought was mortifying and you wanted answers.

“No, baby.” Relief spread across his face. “That was your water.”

You turned, finally comfortable enough to sit on your butt for the first time in two hours and saw the evidence for yourself. There was no bathroom accident, just amniotic fluid, on Joe’s shirt and his pants. “Thank god. I thought I—”

“Well you didn’t,” he smiled, wiping off his hand. “Guess I need to give Dr. Chen another call.”

The conversation was short and to the point. You inhaled, reminded that your reprieve was temporary and now the real work would begin while Joe grabbed your clothes. After the contraction was over you reached into the cabinet for a pad to catch any liquid before slipping on soft sweatpants, a new sports bra and a crewneck sweatshirt you borrowed from his side of the closet years ago and never returned. Joe changed his clothes too and wore his trusty Ugg slippers, matching your look. Neither of you bothered with real shoes.

He tossed the towels in a hamper sitting in the corner of the bathroom and you looked around your bedroom, rubbing your stomach that had dropped lower in the last hour. Joe came up behind you, his body a solid wall. “What are you thinking about?”

“How this is probably the last time it’s just the two of us in this room. Next time we’re here, he’ll be with us. That’s a little scary.”

“It is. But I think we’re ready for him.”

You nodded, interlocking your fingers with his, heading for the kitchen.

Morgan lit up when you told him you were hungry, crafting the perfect plain bagel and cream cheese like you’d asked him to perform open heart surgery. “You’re the best,” you told him, taking a bite of the toasted bread.

“Need help sitting down?” He offered.

“Standing actually feels nice,” you glanced at Joe who was typing away on his phone. No doubt in your mind he had a groupchat started with your parents and his, giving them an update.

The chef moved back to the fridge and looked through his inventory. You stood at the counter, knees slightly bent, a mild contraction creeping up on you. “Any particular lunch requests?”

“We’re leaving soon,” Joe spoke up first. “Her water broke upstairs so we’ll be at the birth center in the next 30 minutes.”

“Why are you saying that so casually?” Morgan’s voice was an octave higher than usual and he placed a hand on your back. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need more water or—I don’t know.”

“Morgan I’m good, I swear. My doctor knows, baby’s moving around. I’m just gonna finish my bagel and we’ll go. One second,” you stopped, put your food down and let your head hang between your shoulders. Joe put his phone to the side and reminded you to breathe and Ivy came in, made eye contact with Morgan who gave her one simple nod to confirm her suspicions since she arrived at the house.

The bagel was back in hand after the contraction ended and you took a bite like nothing happened. Joe grabbed his keys, the bags were already in his car so he ran upstairs to grab your pillow and you hugged Ivy first.

She’d been Joe’s house manager since his third year in the league, a year before Morgan and had seen almost every phase of his life as he balanced fame and privacy. Now he’d found a happy medium and she was excited to see where this next chapter would take him. “You two are gonna do great. And I’ll need about a million pictures of that squishy baby when he’s here.”

“You’ll get so many pictures don’t worry,” you gave her a squeeze, tears brimming your eyes when you saw Morgan getting emotional hugging Joe. They’d become more brothers than boss-employee.

Now his brother was bringing a child into the world. “Love you man, both of you.”

“We love you too,” Joe told him. He meant every word. He hugged Ivy and told them both to take the next few days off and he’d let them know the plan. They helped get you settled in the car and sent you off with another round of tearful hugs before Joe pulled out of the garage and headed towards the birth center.

“I can walk.” You shoved the door open, harsher than normal. The car ride was constricting and you needed out, plotting your exit as soon as you could see the VIP parking lot.

“You sure? Maybe we should get you a wheelchair,” he suggested.

Before the car was off, your feet hit the ground and you grabbed your pillow out of the back seat. Joe grabbed all the bags and followed you to the elevator. He did not attempt to get you in that chair again, which was a great choice…for his sake.

And safety.

The birth suite looked more like a hotel room at a five star resort than the place you were probably going to show a bunch of strangers every inch of your body. At least there was a massive tv and a fridge?

Dr. Chen and her head nurse Chelsie, your favorite, walked in a few minutes after your stuff was set down and a complimentary contraction welcomed them into the room. “There she is,” Chelsie said with a smile, giving you two a warm look. “We’re gonna give him a listen, get the fetal monitor hooked up and check your cervix. Is that okay?”

You gave her a thumbs up, not far enough removed from the contraction to be back to normal. Joe took a seat next to you as Chelsie reached around and hooked up the monitor around your belly and you leaned back, soothed by the rhythmic sounds of his heartbeat filling the room. “That never gets old,” you heard him whisper, clutching your hand.

“Okay,” your doctor says calmly snapping on her glove, “you’re gonna feel a small amount of pressure. Nothing you haven’t already experienced today.”

“Yeah I’m having a great time,” you sighed, wincing into the pressure. But like she said, the exam didn’t take long.

Joe waited approximately three seconds before asking “what’s the verdict?”

“Four centimeters, 80% effaced. Everything looks wonderful, he sounds great and he’s head down.” Dr. Chen tells you, voice kind but professional. “Because this is your first baby and you’re both healthy you do have options. You could labor at home a bit longer and keep us in the loop as things change. Or you could stay here. Everything is set, you’re checked in and making progress but if you’d rather be in your own space, your own bed, you’re more than welcome to do that too.”

He looks at you, handing over control without giving it much thought. “What do you wanna do? If you want to stay, we can. If you want to be at home a little longer, the keys are in my pocket.” Four sounded good, mostly because Dr. Chen said things were moving along, but from your facial expression, he wasn’t convinced you were as thrilled as he was.

“We can stay.” Your eyes were downcast, looking at the fetal monitor. “Getting back in the car sounds like hell. And I don’t want anyone to see us if we make another trip.”

“Okay, we’re staying.”

Dr. Chen stands. “Sounds good. Chelsie’s on call, if you need anything, press that button right there,” she points at the red circle by the bed. “There’s another one in the bathroom.”

“Press it anytime,” Chelsie urges, “even if you just need a question answered.”

“Like I said you’re on the right track, keep listening to your body, try to rest when you can. The fridge is fully stocked with electrolyte popsicles and everything else we discussed so feel free to dig in. In the meantime, we’ll give you some space, I know this can be a lot especially for first time parents but we are here every step of the way.” She patted the spot by your leg and headed out with Chelsie right behind her, closing the door.

The silence was comforting after a while. There were contraction timers and heartbeat monitors and a full staff of people that knew what to do if you needed help. Naturally, the flat screen at the front of the room sounded appealing. So did a Jurassic Park marathon for some reason.

“Think we’ll get through all seven?” Joe asked, hitting play on the film that started the franchise.

“I hope not,” you laughed, shoving a pillow between your knees for extra support as your husband yawned beside you. “We made it here, you can take a nap.”

He shook his head. “Not tired, I’m good. I can rally.”

“You’ve seen this movie a million times. Plus, not like I’m planning on going anywhere, any time soon. I might try to get some sleep too while I can.” The surges hadn’t stopped but you’d gotten used to this intensity and your eyelids felt heavy. “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake up,” you placed a hand on his cheek. “After I pee. And grab a bowl of pineapple.”

Joe registered everything you’d just said, words were just suddenly really hard to come by, a massive wave of exhaustion hitting him at once. He hadn’t realized that once he let himself relax, how tired he’d be and his eyes were closed by the time you’d pulled the fresh fruit out of the fridge.

The first movie was a blur. You slept resting on his shoulder, every so often your belly grew rock hard and you’d breathe, a few woke you up but it wasn’t until the second film that the exercise ball sounded better than sleep. On your knees, your forearms rested against it with Joe sitting behind you, thumbs pressing into your back. He and the velociraptors provide a satisfying distraction from the fact that the person who’s been inhabiting your uterus for almost a year is crawling his way out in an impossibly slow way. You understood why they skipped this part of labor in the movies, that’s why they called it another word for strenuous work. It was tedious and annoying.

This kid better be adorable, you grumbled to yourself.

“You still with me?” Joe asked, interrupting your mini pity party.

“Yeah,” you assured him. “Trying to stay relaxed. Relaxation equals dilation or whatever Chelsie said.”

He snickers, running his hand once down your entire spine. “That’s exactly what she said.” He decides to keep his hand where it is, resting in the infamous problem area of your lower back and kisses your forehead. “Talk to me.”

“What do you wanna talk about?”

“Anything,” the cadence of his word is casual. He could be reading off a grocery list or telling you about the best day of his life in that same breath. It genuinely makes him the greatest support system, never rattled or shaken at least from what the outside world can see.

But you know him better than that. He’s asking you to talk because he’s reading you right now. Your pain, your exhaustion. He’s asking if you’re okay without actually saying the words because he doesn’t want to one of those nagging husbands asking that a hundred times. He’d hate it if he was in your shoes and knows you probably feel the same. Joe settles for the next best thing. “Tell me what’s on your mind right now.”

“Do you remember when we almost named him Wesley?”

Joe laughs, a real one, silently asking is this really what’s on your mind right now?

“I do. We liked the name for weeks. But the one we chose fits him better I think.”

Squeezing his thigh, you paused as a contraction made itself known. He placed his hand over yours, grounding you and reminding you to not tense up without him having to say a word. “We’re gonna finally see him today. In real life. I’ve had dreams about what he’s gonna look like and now I get confirmation.”

“So have I,” he admits, quietly.

“You’ve had dreams about him?”

“Yeah, a lot more during the season when the schedule was crazy. Maybe it’s because I felt so guilty for being busy or being gone. Had dreams about him all the time. One day he’s got your eyes and smile. I pictured his little voice when he starts talking eventually. Hugging him, teaching him about dinosaurs and showing him my collection. Force feeding him my hobbies until he finds his own,” he jokes and your eyes are glassy. You could vividly see him taking your son to museums, Legoland and conducting makeshift science experiments in the offseason just because.

“Joe?” Your chest felt hot, an oddly familiar sensation of your mouth watering.

“What’s going on?”

“Trash can.” He was up immediately, grabbing the first bin in sight just in time for you double over, still halfway on your knees, throwing up as hard as you ever had in your life. It hit the bottom of the trashcan with a force that scared him. Even more so when it happened twice.

“It’s okay,” Joe attempted, wincing as you gagged and spit into the bin. “Let it out, you’re good.”

You puked one more time, feeling the burn in your throat and in your nose somehow, a bit confused on where that came from. Usually, well from your first trimester morning sickness series, there was a tell-tale nauseous sensation that let you know your stomach was protesting. Labor vomit had no warning, the contraction came and with it your body convulsed and—the rest is pretty self explanatory. Joe handed you a water and you rinsed out your mouth and spit into the trashcan again. “Do we have mouthwash or gum or anything?”

“We have both, gimme a second.” He dug through your bag and pulled out the travel sized container of Therabreath, fingers running up and down your back as you swished it around and got rid of it, replacing it with a piece of gum. “That looked rough, sorry baby.”

“It’s fine, kinda caught me off guard. Can you get me a tissue too, I feel like there’s puke in my nose. Sorry if that’s too gross.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he reaches over and grabs the box sitting on the table, “here. I’m gonna grab Chelsie too if that’s okay? Just to see where we’re at?”

You let him get you off the ground and cupped your belly. “Yeah that was really weird, think that means things are moving.”

“Six? That’s—are you sure? Should I scoot down and you can check again?”

Chelsie’s face is still full of optimism which almost makes you want to yell. She’s like one of those permanently happy people, birds probably sit at her window every morning and she sings to them. But she’s funny and you bonded with her over your shared obsession with shitty romance reality tv so there’s no way to hate her. And she’s seen your vagina an uncomfortable amount of times so you’re sort of bonded for life. “Six is beautiful and your cervix is thinning out nicely. You really are doing great, I know it doesn’t necessarily feel that way but I assure you, you are doing everything right.”

You did hear Chelsie’s words and filed away Joe’s subtle attempt to make you feel better by kissing the top of your head when the nurse was gone. “I know it’s not worth much, but you are doing a really good job.”

“It’s been four fucking hours,” you sounded exasperated in a way that made him want to say more. But you beat him to it. “I think I need a shower, I feel disgusting again.”

”’Kay, let’s get you in there.”

“Actually, I might need a few minutes…alone.”

“By yourself?”

You laughed, hauling yourself out of bed. “Yes, that’s literally what alone means my love.”

“Chelsie just said you’re at a six, that means active labor right? I can sit in the bathroom and not say a word, you won’t even know I’m there.”

“I know,” your hand was in his, caressing the outside of it with your thumb. “And I appreciate the offer, I really do but you haven’t left my side since what 8:30? Just need a few minutes without anyone looking at me and answering questions about how I’m feeling. I love you, so much but I need to not exist for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You tried to get him to clarify.

“Yes, I’ll stay here, right outside the door. If you call for me, I’ll be right there. And if you don’t? I’ll still be right outside the door.” He promised, letting you disappear into the bathroom after kissing your forehead, he was mentally trying to will himself to be normal about how uncomfortable it was to be away from you. Something about seeing you on the floor, trusting him wholeheartedly to take care of you, to help you get through the overwhelming pain and pressure and all the emotions that inevitably come with labor. Being next to you wasn’t just for you, it was also for his peace of mind, letting him have physical proof that you were okay.

For a few minutes in the shower, you stood under the water in silence. You almost forgot what being alone with your thoughts felt like, with the fetal monitor, checking your cervix, asking for status updates, watching movies, there was always movement, always sound. Right now, you wanted it void of noise except the shower spray on your skin. You cradled your stomach in both hands, lifting up your head toward the ceiling and taking in a huge bout of air. This was by far the hardest thing you’d ever done. And it felt never ending. But you reminded yourself that this is what you wanted the experience to be, all natural, you trusting yourself and your body to do this with limited intervention. You could do this, your body was meant to do this. The only thing you were missing so far is anticipating the next pain, trying to get through it. All day you’d let labor happen to you instead of surrendering to it and working with it. You also had to get someone else involved.

“Alright baby boy.” You sighed, mid contraction, “you gotta start putting in some effort here. Move down. You’ve overstayed your welcome and it’s time for a new place to call home, seriously.”

“I really want to hold you. And kiss you,” you rested your arm against the wall squatting slightly with a soft groan. “I wanna look at your face. And you have to meet your dad, I know you’re gonna love him. Hell, he’s probably going to be your favorite person in the world and he is dying to meet you so you can’t keep him waiting.” It felt both freeing and ridiculous, talking to a person that wasn’t born yet and definitely could not decide when he was going to enter the world but it felt nice to get that off your chest. You placed both palms on the wall, rocking side to side, “shit, ugh okay.” You didn’t tense up with this one, surrendering to the pressure as your body moved down to squat against the shower chair. Active labor felt exactly like its name, you needed activity, you needed to be moving, shifting from the balls of your feet to your toes, switching the shower head to one of the side ones aimed directly at your back.

“Come on,” you growled, mostly to yourself, five to ten percent to the baby. “Open. You can do this,” you huffed, half standing to place your leg on the chair in a lunge position. Things definitely felt looser and you needed to work with that, more low sounds vibrating against the back of your throat as you squeezed the chair. A deep trembling inhale made way for the next wave and you audibly moaned for the first time all day, a powerful feeling overtaking you. “Yes, that’s what we want,” you said aloud to no one in particular. Maybe your uterus or…the universe.

You came out of the bathroom in a black tank top and sleep shorts. “Feeling better?” Joe asked, noticing you seem less rattled than before.

“Um I wouldn’t say better necessarily,” you laughed, “but definitely more centered? I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“It does.”

The room felt a lot bigger and purposeful but everything that mattered to you now was focusing downward. You needed space, release and to be low to the ground again. That led you to the birth sling. It was easy to grip, secure and as soon as you tried it, the tension you carried after the last contraction faded away enough for you to smile.

“Mmh.” You sounded relieved, your grip tightening on the sling. It was supporting you from behind as you leaned into it, legs in a semi squat with your arms out in front of you. “Ngh—oh my god,” your hips shifted slightly as the sound continued. Joe provided counter pressure without being asked.

“Good right here?”

A slow breath and a small yes gave him the confirmation he needed. “You’re helping, a ton. And making sounds feels good too. Like my body is just doing it for me but it feels right.”

“Do whatever feels good,” his thumbs pressed against your hips, “you’re doing great.”

“Just warning you it might get a little loud in the next twenty minutes.” That pent up energy you had in storage finally had somewhere productive to go and your husband just nodded and moved a chair over so he could park himself in this spot right up to the second you were tired of this position. He applied firm pressure as soon as he was back and you leaned further into him. “Yes! Oh my god, right there. Do not stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, “staying here as long as you need, babe.”

The sling worked until it didn’t. To be fair you’d tried three different positions. Then there wasn’t enough movement for your legs. Joe had rubbed out a calf cramp and helped you stand. You made it three steps before squatting by the bed with a low groan. “Fuck me,” you pinched your eyes closed, squeezing Joe’s forearm. “Sorry,” you rubbed at the spot.

“You’re good,” he handed you his left arm, “squeeze this one as hard as you can.”

“Grab me a popsicle, please?”

He nods, back at your side a minute later unwrapping it and holding it for you as you take a bite. “So good,” you sighed before taking it from him. You paced the room as you ate, each surge brought sound and a bit more intensity and he could see your belly changing shape as your son continued his descent.

Then you doubled over, popsicle stick still in your grasp as you clutched your knees. “Oh—oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

“Alright, take a breath, you’re good,” he took the trash from your hand and tossed it into the basin. “Breathe and squeeze,” it seemed like you were trying to get to the floor so he held both of your hands trying to keep you upright. Then he noticed more leaking as you grunted again.

“Joe press the button,” you told him frantically, “get Chelsie. I need her.”

Chelsie was quick and gentle as always with her checks. “You’re at a solid 8.5, soft 9. Almost there mama.”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re almost done,” Joe whispered. You wanted to cry with relief. When you were at a four, this seemed trillions of miles away. Another contraction built before Chelsie could wrap up and leave, enough to make you curl inward. This one didn’t feel endless, your whole body was busy working him down and out, your stomach pulling tight and hard and you opened your mouth when it ended.

“Chelsie? That last one felt…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Like I—felt pushy almost?”

Her facial expression doesn’t change but you can tell the wheels are turning. “It’s more normal than you think, but we do want to hold off on active pushing til the last bit of your cervix is gone. Last thing we want is your straining and swelling up because it’s too soon or expending too much energy. When it’s really time to push, your body will know.”

She watches Joe grab your water and scoots away from the bed. “I’ll be nearby but out of your way, transition is here so don’t run from it. Like Joe said, you’re almost there.”

Transition felt like you imagined hell to be like. It was basically one endless contraction and you got no breaks in between. There was no in between. And everything, everything was stretched to the limit. You went from a squat to some sort of makeshift fort on the floor because it was cool. One minute you were sweating the next you were demanding a blanket. “Can someone turn off the lights?” You didn’t know if it was Chelsie or Joe who did it and you don’t remember if you even said thank you. You knew he’d swapped out your wet shorts for black underwear a few minutes ago but everything was on fire, talking even hurt. You became a wall of low, desperate sounds and the occasional f-bomb.

“What the fuck?” You cried, lying on your side, groaning into your pillow. “Hold my leg?”

“Up?” He rested your foot against his chest as you nodded. Chelsie came down to your level and placed a cool cloth on your forehead.

“How do people do this multiple times?” You let out a breath, bearing down uncontrollably on the exhale.

Joe kept rubbing your thigh. “You’re kicking ass right now.”

“My ass hurts actually. I wanna go home, I wanna be done.”

“We’ll go home, promise. You’re so close.”

“FUCK” you arched your back and Joe looked over at Chelsie as your toes curled.

She stepped in, “short breaths almost like you’re hyperventilating ‘ha ha ha’”

You were trying, you really were but all that came out was a primal moan, almost like a cow. Then you burped and got to your hands and knees. Chelsie stepped back, letting you move around and you burped again suddenly, feeling slightly offended at all the different bodily functions. “Oh my god,” you paused, gagging. “Trash can? I might puke again.”

Nothing happened for a few minutes so it was shoved away and you put your head down, undulating your hips. “Off,” you reached for your underwear, “take these away.”

“Don’t push yet,” your nurse said still calm but with a more serious edge to her normal voice.

“I’m trying. My body has other plans.” Another groan. “It’s so hot in here.” Chelsie turned down the AC and Joe pointed the fan towards your belly when he saw you hiking up your tank top to get more air.

Joe prides himself in knowing you better than anyone, maybe even yourself. His first clue is the sounds start to change. You’ve been vocalizing on and off since you got out of the shower but the sounds he’s heard the last three contractions aren’t sounds of pain they’re…effort. You’ve decided to get back in bed, resting on the pregnancy pillow in a makeshift donut to fit your belly but the low, throaty sounds don’t feel the same. And you’ve stopped talking altogether, you haven’t asked for a blanket or for him to squeeze anything, it doesn’t seem like you want to be touched. Everything is sound and air.

He watches intently as you shift, legs spread a touch wider then your whole body is completely still. You reached down as a sound was ripped out of your chest, “ughh. Ngh.” You paused for a second, collecting your energy and gave into that feeling, like you needed to go to the bathroom but more intense. You went with that urge and bore down with everything you had. He didn’t have to ask, he knew you were pushing, he just wasn’t sure you were supposed to be.

Chelsie clearly had the same thought because she placed a hand on your back. “Sounds like you’re starting to push here mama, let’s see what we’re working with.”

“I can—feel him,” your face contorted as you pushed, heaving breaths leaving you once the contraction was done.

“Joe, help me turn her over.”

They got you onto your back and Chelsie saw what you meant when you pushed again, paging Dr. Chen when she saw the teardrop form with the tiniest glimpse of the baby’s head. “That’s a 10. And I see him, he’s definitely coming. Give me a big push on this next one and hold for as long as you can.”

Joe helped count, reminding you to take it slow, to let yourself stretch and Dr. Chen took over. “Beautiful job, mama. Remember to push into your body, tuck your chin down into your chest. Yes just like that, go go go you’ve got him.”

“Oh fuck,” you grabbed the back of your thigh and dug deep, letting out a roar as you aided in your body’s pushing efforts. You strained so hard your body shook and Joe’s hand went numb but he didn’t let go.

He looked over and saw your progress, eyes wide with shock and pride. “I saw him, he’s got so much hair. You’re bringing him here you’ve got it.”

“He’s not bald?”

“Not at all. He’s got dark hair, so much of it.”

You pushed again, cutting it short. “I feel like I’m not doing this right.”

“Take a second and try again,” Dr. Chen said. “You’ve got time.”

“You’re doing it.” Joe squeezed your hand. “Almost done.”

You turned onto your side, with a little gravity to help you started to feel the burn after four more hard shoves, each leaving you winded but ever more determined. “This is insane,” you cried reaching down to feel his head that was finally staying put. “I’m holding him, I’m touching our son right now.”

His eyes looked teary and he wiped at them with his forearm, leaning his head against yours. “Bring him home.”

Time became a blur after that, when it felt like he was right there, he’d tease everyone and go back in. You tried different angles and took several breaks. It seemed like one more test of your fortitude.

And your sanity.

A huge contraction builds, causing you to lift your hips off the bed as the baby fully crowned, you yelped as the pressure reached its most excruciating point. His head came out with a distinct pop, your hips jerked and you bore down again wanting this to end.

“He’s turning, couple big pushes for the shoulders and we should have a baby.”

You grunted lifting your body off the bed again, searching for the best position to allow your body to pry itself open to let him out. Gasping for breath, another low growl helped you work one shoulder free as your son rotated and the other shoulder soon after. He slipped out freely, along with a gush of fluid when you gave into that last hearty urge.

The sound of his first cry was the best sound you’d ever heard and you looked at Joe who was also crying. Nobody said anything for a while. Not until you said, “that’s Kai?”

“That’s him,” he said, voice unbearably shaky. “That’s our boy. He’s here, you did it.”

“No way I could’ve done that without you. We did it.”

Macklin Celebrini

The bell above the café door chimes as Macklin leads you toward a small table by the window. His hand is warm and firm in yours, a comfortable weight you've grown accustomed to.

You casually release his hand, letting your fingers slip away as you stop to "admire" a piece of art on the wall. Macklin takes two more steps before he notices the sudden absence of your touch. He stops immediately, turning back with a look of pure confusion.

He doesn't speak, just holds his hand out, palm up, like a child waiting for a treat. His brow is furrowed slightly, his blue eyes questioning. When you don't immediately take it, he takes a step closer, his fingers wiggling slightly.

"Come back," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He closes the distance between you, his hand finding yours again, his fingers lacing through yours with practiced ease. "Don't let go."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "Better," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours as he leads you to the table. His grip is secure but not tight, a silent promise that he's not letting go again anytime soon.

Will Smith

The arena is buzzing with pre-game energy as you and Will navigate the crowded corridor behind the stands. His hand is warm and firm in yours, fingers interlocked as he guides you through the crowd of people.

You slowly slip your hand from his, letting it fall to your side as you continue walking, feigning interest in a display case of team photos. Will takes exactly one more step before he stops dead. You can feel his presence behind you, a sudden stillness in the moving crowd.

You turn to find him planted in the middle of the walkway, not moving, just staring at you. He doesn't say a word. He just gives you the biggest, most theatrical side-eye you've ever seen, his head tilted and his eyebrow raised so high it's practically touching the brim of his cap. The look is a perfect mix of "are you serious?" and "get back here right now."

A few people have to maneuver around him, but he doesn't budge. He just stands there, his hand still outstretched slightly from where yours used to be, his expectant gaze locked on you.

"Seriously?" he finally says, his voice flat and unimpressed. He jerks his head once, a sharp, demanding gesture. "Hand. Now."

It's not a question. It's a command, delivered with all the patience of a toddler who's been told he can't have a cookie. He doesn't move toward you, making it clear that you're the one who needs to fix this.

You can't help but smirk as you walk back to him. As soon as you're within reach, his hand shoots out, grabbing yours with a decisive tug. He immediately intertwines your fingers, his grip firm and absolute.

"Don't do that again," he says, his tone still serious, though you can see the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He starts walking again, pulling you along beside him. "We're not doing that. Ever."

Connor Bedard

The late afternoon sun filters through the trees as you and Connor stroll through Lincoln Park. His hand is swinging gently in yours, his thumb occasionally stroking the back of your hand. He's talking animatedly about his recent road trip when you casually release his hand, pretending to adjust your jacket.

Connor continues talking for a few more steps before he notices the sudden absence of your touch. He stops mid-sentence, his hands freezing in mid-gesture.

He turns to look at you, his head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. "Why?" he asks, his voice filled with genuine puzzlement.

You just shrug, continuing to walk as you finish adjusting your jacket. Connor watches you for a moment, then shrugs back, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Okay," he says simply, jogging to catch up with you. He doesn't immediately take your hand again, instead walking beside you in comfortable silence for a few moments.

Then, as if he can't resist any longer, his hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours with a contented sigh. "Much better," he murmurs, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He doesn't mention the incident again, just continues his story as if nothing happened, his grip on your hand a little tighter than before.

Quinn Hughes

The streets of downtown Minnesota are busy as you and Quinn weave through the crowd of shoppers. His hand is firmly in yours, a protective presence in the bustling city. He's pointing out a store he wants to visit when you slip your hand from his, pretending to be distracted by a display in a shop window. Quinn takes two more steps before he notices the sudden absence of your touch. He stops immediately, his brow furrowed in confusion.

He turns back to look for you, his eyes questioning. When he sees you looking at the window display, he understands. But that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

"Hey," he says, his voice firm but not unkind. He walks back to you, his hand finding yours again. "Stay with me."

His grip is firm, a silent command that you're not to wander off again. Instead of just holding your hand, he tugs you closer, wrapping his arm securely around your waist.

"It's crowded," he explains, his eyes scanning the area. "I don't want to lose you."

You lean into his side, a small smile playing on your lips as you look up at him. "Noted."

He glances down at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go again anytime soon."

Fraser Minten

The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and sunscreen as you and Fraser stroll along the boardwalk. His hand is swinging gently in yours, his fingers interlocked with yours. He's pointing out a group of seals playing in the water when you release his hand, pretending to shield your eyes from the sun.

Fraser continues talking for a few more steps before he notices the sudden absence of your touch. He stops, turning back to look at you with a wounded expression.

"Don't let go," he says, his voice soft and whiny. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching for yours again. "Please?"

When you don't immediately take his hand, he pouts slightly, his lower lip jutting out in a way that's both endearing and slightly ridiculous. "I was holding your hand," he says, his voice filled with mock hurt.

You can't help but laugh, finally taking his hand again. Fraser's face immediately brightens, his fingers lacing through yours with a contented sigh.

"Better," he says, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a quick kiss. "Don't do that again. It's weird when you're not holding my hand."

You're balancing a tray of two iced lattes and a croissant, trying to weave through the crowded coffee shop without incident. It's a Saturday morning and the place is buzzing with the weekend rush. As you turn toward a small table in the corner, your elbow connects squarely with someone's chest.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you exclaim as coffee sloshes onto the floor and your croissant slides off the tray. Before it can hit the ground, a hand darts out and snags it mid-air.

You look up to find Connor Bedard, Chicago Blackhawks' golden boy and current face of the NHL holding your croissant like it's the Stanley Cup. His eyes are wide with surprise and he's wearing a simple black hoodie that does little to disguise his athletic frame.

"No harm done," he says, then immediately looks like he regrets his cliché response. "I mean, except for the coffee. And almost the croissant. Which is now… saved."

"Thanks to your quick reflexes," you reply with a small smile, taking the croissant from his outstretched hand. "I owe you one."

"Don't worry about it," he says, rubbing the coffee spot on his hoodie. "Happens all the time."

"People spilling coffee on you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"No, people recognizing me," he corrects himself, then flushes. "I mean, not that I'm saying you recognized me, because maybe you didn't, but..."

"I recognized you," you cut in, amused by his rambling. "Though I promise the coffee spill was purely accidental."

"Good to know," he replies, looking relieved. "I'm Connor, by the way."

"I know," you say, then realize how that sounds. "I mean, I'm Y/N. And yes, I know who you are. Hockey fan and all that."

"Right," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Of course you would."

There's an awkward pause as you both stand there, surrounded by the coffee shop chatter.

"Well, I should let you get back to you… not being spilled on," you say, gesturing vaguely.

"Wait," he says, then seems surprised by his own forwardness. "I mean, would you...could I...would you want to get coffee sometime? Without the spilling part?"

You hide a smile at his fumbling. "You mean, get coffee at the coffee shop where we just met?"

"No," he says quickly, then backtracks. "I mean, yes, but not right now. Another time. When it's less crowded. And I'm wearing a different hoodie. One without coffee on it."

"How about dinner instead?" you suggest. "Somewhere where there's no risk of hot beverage accidents."

"Dinner would be good," he agrees, looking relieved. "Better than coffee. Less spill potential."

"Excellent," you reply. "Can I get your number or should I just look up 'Chicago Blackhawks' and call the main line?"

Connor laughs, a genuine, unguarded sound that makes his eyes crinkle. "I should probably get your actual number. For… dinner purposes."

"For dinner purposes," you repeat with a grin as you exchange numbers.

"I'll call you," he promises, then seems to second-guess himself. "Or text. Texting is less pressure. I'll text you. Soon. But not too soon, because that's weird. But not too late, because then you'll think I'm not interested..."

"Connor," you interrupt gently. "Anytime in the next few days would be perfect."

"Right," he says, looking grateful. "Got it. Next few days. I can work with that."

As you part ways, you can't help but smile.

Three days later, you're standing in front of your mirror, adjusting the strap of your dress. Connor texted yesterday, true to his "next few days" timeline and you're meeting him for dinner tonight at a small Italian place he suggested.

When you arrive, he's already there, looking slightly less nervous than at the coffee shop but still endearingly awkward. He stands when he sees you, then seems to remember he's supposed to pull out your chair and nearly trips over his own feet doing so.

"You made it," he says, then immediately looks like he regrets saying something so obvious.

"Wouldn't miss it," you reply with a teasing smile. "Though I'm surprised you managed to find somewhere without a crowd of adoring fans."

Connor flushes, running a hand through his hair. "Well, I figured for a first date, we should probably be able to hear each other talk."

"Smart thinking," you say as he holds the door open for you. "Very strategic of you, Bedard."

"Hey, I'm a strategic guy," he replies, then seems to second-guess his response. "I mean, not that I strategize about dates. Well, I guess I did strategize about this one, but..."

You cut him off with a laugh. "You're doing great so far."

For a moment, there's an awkward silence as you both pick up your menus.

"So," he starts, then pauses. "Do you come here often?"

You raise an eyebrow over your menu. "Really? That's your line?"

Connor's face turns crimson. "Sorry, I'm not...I don't usually do this."

"The dating thing?" you ask, setting your menu down.

"The asking out thing," he admits. "Usually I just… play hockey."

"Well, you're definitely better at hockey than at pickup lines," you say kindly. "But the effort is appreciated."

"Thanks, I think," he replies with a small smile. "Can I start over?"

"Please do."

"Okay," he takes a deep breath. "I've been wanting to ask you out since we met at that coffee shop, but I kept chickening out. Then I finally worked up the courage to text you."

Your heart does a little flip at his honesty. "I'm glad you finally worked up the courage."

"Me too," he says, his eyes meeting yours. "Even though I'm probably saying all the wrong things."

"You're saying the right things," you reassure him. "Just… awkwardly."

"Awkwardly is my specialty," he replies, and you both laugh, the tension breaking.

The waiter comes to take your orders and when he leaves, Connor leans forward. "So, what do you do when you're not making hockey players nervous?"

"Is that what I'm doing?" you ask with a grin. "Making you nervous?"

"Definitely," he admits. "But in a good way."

"I'm a graphic designer," you reply. "Mostly sports branding, actually."

"No way," Connor leans back, genuinely interested. "Like logos and stuff?"

"Like logos and stuff," you confirm. "I actually designed some concepts for the junior team in Regina before I moved here."

"Get out," he says, eyes wide. "Small world."

"Very small," you agree. "So I guess I've seen you play long before we met."

"And what did you think?" he asks, a hint of his usual confidence returning.

"You're good," you concede. "But your power play could use some work."

Connor throws his head back and laughs. "I'll make sure to tell the coach you said so."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate the feedback from a graphic designer," you reply dryly.

The conversation flows easily from there, moving from hockey to your shared love of 90s movies to his terrible taste in music.

"You seriously don't like The Tragically Hip?" you ask, horrified.

"I'm more of a hip-hop guy," he shrugs. "Though I can appreciate Canadian classics."

"You're a disgrace to your country," you inform him solemnly.

"Hey," he protests, but he's smiling. "I can't be good at everything."

"Just hockey and making awkward conversation, apparently," you tease.

"And apparently asking out pretty designers," he replies, his cheeks flushing again but his eyes steady on yours.

The moment hangs between you, charged with possibility. You're the first to look away, suddenly feeling flustered yourself.

The date comes to an end and as he walks you to your car, the comfortable silence from earlier returns, but this time it's different, filled with unspoken questions.

"So," he says as you reach your car. "Did I completely mess it up?"

"Not completely," you reply, turning to face him. "There were moments of genuine competence."

"Glad to hear it," he says, taking a small step closer. "Would you… I mean, would you want to do this again sometime?"

"Only if you promise not to ask me if I come here often," you reply with a smile.

Call you crazy, but your morning showers with your phone propped up on the shower shelf with New Girl playing is one of your favorite things. The cozy lighting of your bathroom, the way your coffee maker brews in the kitchen, and the way it smells of eucalyptus as soon as you pump out your body wash.

Except this morning, things don’t go as normally planned. They did of course, New Girl is playing as you half watch half scrub your hair. But it’s the clumsiness of you that makes the whole thing horrible.

It’s the glob of shampoo you didn’t realize you dropped, and it’s the foot you just stepped down on, causing you to slip, and slipping in the shower has never proven to be a good thing.

You try to catch yourself, grabbing out for anything, but with everything being slippery tile, it doesn’t work. You go down hard, your ankle twisting painfully, your shoulder hitting the tub, your phone making a mockery out of you as it lands at the bottom of the tub. Thankfully in your shock you at least immediately grab it out of the spray of water still barreling out of the shower head.

The sound of Nick Miller’s voice and the water now hitting your body at the bottom of the tub are the only sounds in the bathroom.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, trying to move but instantly noting how bad of an idea that is. Your ankle screams in pain, and your shoulder throbs a bit too. “Oh my god.” You state, realizing the predicament you’re in.

You’re stuck, your ankle already bigger than normal, your shoulder telling you there’s no way you’re using upper body strength to get yourself out. And the cherry on top? You’re in the shower, naked.

There are two blatantly obvious choices. And you choose option number two, because calling 911 just isn’t in the cards for you today.

Your thumb hovers over your best friend’s number. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you call.

—

Mack and Will are still arguing over cereal when your name and picture flash across Macklin’s phone. The familiar photo of you and Mack in the Toffoli’s backyard capturing his attention.

Mack smiles as he goes to answer, knowing you’ll back him on the cereal debate. But Mack stills as he answers the phone because your voice, normally loud and full of laughter is quiet, it sounds wrong.

“Mack?” You whisper, but it sounds like you’re underwater.

“Y/N?” He asks, his tone instantly making Will drop the argument and freeze. “What’s wrong?”

“I-“ you start to say, and you suck in a breath before continuing. “This is so embarrassing but I don’t know what else to do.” You say into the phone, trying to adjust but the pain makes you suck in a breath.

“Are you hurt?” Mack asks, and he’s already grabbing for his shoes.

“Yea.” You say, and the simple word causes Mack’s brain to become blank.

“Okay, okay. What happened? Where are you? I’ll come and get you.” He stutters out, cursing at his shoes for not slipping immediately on and almost tempted to go without them.

“I slipped in the shower.” You say, the embarrassment evident in your tone. “I can’t move my ankle, and maybe my shoulder? I don’t know I’m kind of just… stuck here.” You say.

“Are you bleeding?” Mack asks, and his eyes are frozen on Will who’s grabbing his phone and wallet.

“I don’t think so, but I’m cold and I can’t reach to turn the water off.” You say, and for the first time your voice slips and the words come out as a sob.

“I’m coming right now okay? I’ll be there in ten minutes sweetheart, I promise.”

But Mack’s words go unanswered, and as he pulls the phone away from his ear he sees the call dropped. He tries again, straight to voicemail.

“Fuck!” Mack exclaims, befitting shoving his phone in his back pocket and eyes are frantically scanning the countertops for his keys. “Where the fuck are my fucking keys?” Mack asks, and Will grabs them from the entryway table and throws them to his best friend.

“Let’s go!” Will says, and Mack books it to the passenger seat, Will knowing it’s not the best idea for Mack to be driving right now.

And as they high tail it to your place, your skin covers itself in goosebumps, and you shiver, but you wait, knowing Macklin is trying like hell to get to you as fast as possible.

—

“Y/N?” You hear your name being called from the front. The familiar voice of your best friend, before a knock comes on the bathroom door.

“Mack!”

“I’m coming in, okay?” He asks, and you say okay, yelling over the sound of the water still spraying.

You hear the bathroom door open, and you can hear movement in the living room, who you can only assume is Will. The curtain is closed, but you can see the giant outline of Mack as he enters the bathroom.

“I’m stuck.” You say, biting your lip because of the pain.

“I’m going to turn the water off.” He says, and you nod even though he can’t see you. But you watch as his hand comes through the edge of the shower curtain, blindly fumbling around until he finds the knob and turns it off.

The silence is thick, and without meaning to you let out a little sob. You aren’t an idiot, you know Mack is going to have to pick you up from the bottom of the tub. And while you’ve been in love with him forever, this wasn’t exactly what you envisioned.

“Okay, where exactly are you hurt?” His voice asks, softly and without its normal expression.

“My ankle is the worst.” You say, not even daring to look. “But my shoulder too, I don’t know what’s wrong with it but it hurts to move.”

The sound of your voice cracking breaks Macklin’s heart.

“Alright, I’m going to help you out.” Mack states, his eyes scanning around for a towel.

“Mack.” You state, and he pauses. “I’m not wearing anything.”

In any other situation Mack’s racing heart wouldn’t be a bad thing. But you’re hurt, you’re scared, and Mack would rather step into traffic than make you uncomfortable.

“Do you trust me?” He asks softly, and your voice answers with a yes. His heart cracks even more as he finds a fluffy green towel in the closet. “Here’s my plan.” He says, standing outside of the curtain. “I’m going to hand this to you, cover yourself as best as you can, I’m going to open the curtain, figure out the best way to pick you up, and then I’m going to close my eyes and set you on the counter until you can wrap the towel around yourself.” He says, surprised he was able to get through all of that without stuttering.

It takes a second for you to respond, but then you whisper back the smallest, “your eyes will be closed when you pick me up?”

“Until you wrap yourself up, I promise.” He says, and you sniffle a bit from the other side.

“Okay.” You say, and Mack nods, before going to put the towel past the curtain, turning his head towards the door just in case. But he feels the towel being pulled from his fingers, and he waits until you say you’re ready.

“I’m covered.” You say, and for the first time since he picked up the phone you let out the tiniest laugh. He feels just a little weight come off of his shoulders at the sound.

“Ready for me to open the curtain?” He asks, wanting to hear your confirmation before anything.

“Yeah.” You state, and he does.

You look pitiful, not that Macklin would ever say it. But he keeps his eyes on yours, only moving them to scan your shoulder and your ankle. The towel is laid over the top of your body, but he knows when he goes to wrap his arms around you he’ll be met with bare skin on your back.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He says, and your chest gives a jump with the sob you’re holding in.

But Mack doesn’t want to prolong this any longer than he has to, so he bends down, knees on the floor as he looks into your bloodshot eyes.

“Mackie.” You say, wanting nothing more than to launch into him but you can’t.

“I know, I know.” He says, scanning you trying to figure out the best way to lift you without knocking into your shoulder and keeping your foot steady. “I’m going to get you out now, okay? We’ve got to get you out” He says, and you nod, biting your lip.

And before Mack can question himself, he gets his arms into a good position before keeping his word of closing his eyes. One arm of yours, which he can only assume is your good arm, goes around his neck, and he reaches under you. His hands are met by your freezing cold skin, and he has to bite his tongue to not make a sound. One arm slips under your knees, the other wrapping around your back as you’re pulled into his body.

Your head rests against his shoulder as he carries you. Making small steps so he doesn’t trip and make this worse. And you try to force yourself to focus on how good it feels to be in his arms versus the pain of your ankle and shoulder.

Macklin forces his eyes to stay shut, he wants to make sure you’re okay, wants to see your wounds and fix them. But your comfort comes first, so he follows your voice as you lead him to the counter top.

“Okay, I’m situated.” You say after you adjust the towel to go completely around your body. And still, when Mack opens his eyes, he’s looking towards the top of the mirror. “I’m covered.” You whisper, and the sound of your voice makes him look back to you. His eyes focusing in on you. You’re covered, yes, but water still drips from your soaking wet hair down your exposed shoulders. And as he goes to look at your ankle, water also drips down your legs and falls to the tile floor below.

“We’ve got to take you in.” He says to you, his voice so soft, so sweet that new tears appear in your eyes. You just nod your head, a shiver racking through you. “I’m going to go grab you some clothes okay?” He says, and you nod.

“Mack? Can you grab me another towel?” You ask as he’s reaching for the door.

“Yeah, of course.” He says, handing you a second fuzzy green towel.

“Do you think you can-“ you start to ask, but Mack doesn’t need you to finish. He opens the towel up, and like he’s seen you do a million times when you get out of a pool, or the lakes and oceans in the summers, he wraps the towel around your hair, getting it off your shoulders. He twists it, and you laugh lightly as he stands back to eye his work.

“You look beautiful.” He says, his eyes so loving as he looks at you. But he leaves before you can respond, the anxiety of what he just said coursing through his veins.

Mack moves swiftly through your room, finding all the clothes he needs for you to go to the ER. He blindly grabs at for a bra and underwear, like even this he wants to be respectful of. Then he moves to grab you pants, before opting for shorts since they’d be easier to slip around your ankle. Then last, a sweatshirt. But he pauses, before pulling his off of his body, fixing his black t shirt that rides up a bit.

You have a thing for taking Mack’s sweatshirts. Especially ones off his back. And he lets you, no matter where you are, no matter who you’re with. You tell him it’s because they are warm, which is partly true. The other part is that they smell like him. As he makes it back to the bathroom, he sets your things down on the counter top, before realizing this too may be a bigger challenge than he thought.

“Maybe I’ll just go naked?” You ask him, shrugging your good shoulder.

In any other situation this would have Mack laughing, have him looking at you like he always does. Have him so close to cutting the shit and admitting his feelings. And while he does crack a smile, a snort also coming out, Mack shakes his head.

“I can help,” he states, before quickly finishing it with, “if you want.”

You eye him for a second, before nodding. And like before, Macklin’s heart races as his eyes are back to being slammed shut, and he helps you put bottoms on. Your bra, however, is his undoing.

“You’re going to have to clip it.” You say, and Mack’s hands freeze, and he must have been making a face because you let out a pained laugh. “You’ve seen me in bikinis, Mack.” You say, and he nods.

“Yeah, yeah, bikinis.” He says, shaking his head like that is going to help the thoughts of you in a bikini leave his head. The thoughts of your skin golden after spending hours in the sun, the thoughts of your laugh at something stupid he or Will decided to do. And especially the thoughts of that stupid teal bikini you bought insisting on wearing it for ‘Sharks support’.

“Macklin?” The sound of his name pulls him back to the present, and he turns red as he realizes he just completely zoned out while you’re waiting for him to clip your bra.

What the fuck is his life? He thinks as he clears his throat and reaches behind your back. His fingers stumble over the hooks, and apologies spill from his mouth. But he gets it finally, and next holds up his sweatshirt to help over your head.

Your eyes catch on it, noting the fact he came in wearing it, and now he’s not. But that’s the thing about you and Mack. You know each other, maybe too well, but you do. Mack knows how much the small things he does mean to you. Giving you sweatshirts, bringing you coffee, how when he’s with you he’s so invested in you that half the time he forgets anything and anyone else exist.

To Macklin, it’s just you. He wouldn’t notice if the world was ending, so long as you’re breathing the same air as him.

It takes a second to get the sweatshirt on, and you cry out as he bumps your shoulder funny.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He says, and like it it’s nothing, he plants a kiss to your temple.

You turn red, you can feel the heat all throughout your body. But you just rest your head against his chest. Your bad shoulder and arm are sitting loosely under the sweatshirt, with no point in putting your arm in the sleeve to have them take it back out at the hospital.

“Thank you.” You say, your head still tucked against his chest.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He says with a small shrug, you can feel it against your head.

“Yes.” You say, closing your eyes. “Yes I do. You came here and you saw me like this and-“

“I’ll come,” he says, voice softer now. “Every single time. Whether you need me to kill a spider, sit with you in silence, bring you coffee, or pick you up off the bathroom floor. I’ll come as soon as you call.”

“Mack.” You whisper, tears leaking down your cheeks.

His hand is on the side of your face, thumb carefully wiping the falling tears away. His face is flushed, and his hair messy from how fast he runs his hands through it.

“After.” He says, and you lean the side of your head into his palm. “We’ll talk about all of this after, I promise. But please, please I need to get you to the hospital.” He says, and you nod, preparing yourself for the pain of the jostle into his arms. “I’ll go slow.” He says, reaching around you to be able to pick you up.

“I trust you.” You whisper, and you swear you hear a sharp inhale at your words.

But he picks you up, careful to try not to move you so much. You scrunch your face, your eyes shutting tightly in pain.

“God, I’m sorry.” He says, carrying you out to the living room where you can tell Will has been anxiously waiting.

He looks at you, giving you a sad little smile.

“Hey there, disaster.” He says, his normal nickname for you never fit as perfectly as it does now.

“Sorry for ruining your day.” You say, but Will cuts you off before Mack can.

“Absolutely not.” He says, waving his hands in front of him. “Go get fixed up, I’ll take care of everything here.” He says, and Macklin nods his appreciation at his best friend.

“You don’t have to-“

“Too late. I’ll see you guys when you get back.” Will says, already starting to build what looks like a makeshift bed on your couch.

You smile, the overwhelming feeling of love spreading through you as Macklin carries you to the car.

—

The hospital wasn’t as horrible as you thought. You get discharged with a cast on your foot, and a bruised shoulder you’re told not to over extend.

But Macklin was there the whole time. He stayed plastered by the bed, the nurses even told you he wouldn’t stop pacing while you got your x-rays. And as he nodded, listening and asking questions about your recovery, you couldn’t even listen to the doctor. All you could focus on was him.

So when you finally returned home, Will having stocked your entire place with necessities, you look to Mack, and blurt the words you’ve felt since you laid eyes on him for the first time.

“I love you.” You say, and you watch as Mack freezes. His hand stills on the pillow beneath your cast, his shoulders lock, his eyes flick up to yours completely stunned.

But it’s the the silence that follows that is horrible. You let one second pass, then two before you’re back pedaling like mad.

“Oh my god,” you say, panic flooding your chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just say that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not while I’m in a cast and high on pain meds and you’re just trying to be nice because I fell in the shower like a fucking idiot-“ But your rambling ends as Mack stands.

For one second, you think he’s going to step back. You think he’s going to put space between you or that you’ve ruined everything in the exact way you always feared you would.

“Mack,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

But he doesn’t say anything, instead he just leans down. One hand bracing himself on the back of the couch beside your head. The other coming to your face, so slowly and carefully.

And before you could process it, Macklin is kissing you. His lips warm, touch still light but lips firm and steady. And you make the smallest sound and lift your good hand to his hoodie, your fingers curling into the fabric.

That’s all he needs as he kisses you deeper. It’s still gentle, but there’s something underneath it. Relief, want, months and months of almosts and words neither of you were brave enough to say. And as he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, and his breathing is uneven.