Juntos hasta el final - Pedro Pascal
Pair: Pedro Pascal x reader
Note: I usually don’t write stories, i mostly just read them. But I found this one in my drafts (it’s something I wrote a couple of years ago) and it felt too special not to share. English isn’t my first language, I’ve done my best, but there might still be some mistakes.
Warnings: childbirth, blood loss, medical distress, postpartum pain, happy ending, fluff, age gap, media scrutinity/privacy invasion
Summary: You and Pedro are in the hospital after the birth of your daughter, Alma. Exhausted but overjoyed, you share quiet, intimate moments together, away from the eyes of the world.
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On a cold winter night, you came into the world, my love. You arrived holding on to life with all your strength, determined to be born on the night of December 2nd.
Of all the days you could’ve chosen, you picked the one when your mom and dad met for the very first time, years ago. As if you wanted to remind us that destiny was the one who brought you here, who brought us to each other.
Then you arrived— and you turned everything upside down in one tiny, insignificant second.
I thought I had already felt everything life had to offer, but it took you to show me the truth: I hadn’t really started living at all before you came along.
How did I breathe before you? I don’t remember.
And yet somehow, everything looks more beautiful with you in it. You were born and became the center of absolutely everything.
Everything is for you—the sun that rises every morning, the clouds drifting across the sky, the colors of dawn and sunset, the smell of rain.
Your dad hasn’t slept a single minute since you were born. He watches you constantly, like you’re something unreal. I know him—i know he’s terrified you might just fly away, if he dares to look somewhere else for too long.
I thought I couldn’t possibly love him more than I already did… and then I watched him become your dad the second he held you for the first time.
You wrapped your tiny, helpless hand around his finger, while your mama cried.
Today is our first day together. The first of a whole lifetime.
I can’t wait to live this life with you, Alma.
“Pedro, mi amor… Alma isn’t going anywhere. Come on, lie down for a bit.” I say as I try to push myself up, a sharp pull reminding me exactly where the stitches are.
Alma was born only a few hours ago, and they finished stitching me up not long after. Walking is still impossible—everything aches too much.
I take a slow step toward the bassinet, where my husband has been bent over our daughter like he’s afraid to blink.
Pedro turns the second he hears me move. “What are you doing? No—hey, princesa you’re not supposed to get up.” He crosses the room in two long strides. “Dios mío, the doctor said full rest.”
His hand settles on my hip, steady and warm, guiding me gently back onto the bed.
“Yes, but you’re exhausted too,” I whisper, brushing my fingers over his cheek. He’s got dark circles that weren’t there yesterday—still gorgeous, of course, infuriatingly so.
He catches my hand and presses a soft kiss into my palm. “You did well,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek next. “So, so well.” Then he rests his forehead against mine, eyes soft and a little glassy.
The labor had been brutal—thirty-two hours of fear and pain. Alma was breech, and I lost more blood than anyone expected.
Pedro never left, not even once. Watching him cut the cord and hold her when she was barely seconds old… that’s something tattooed into my memory forever.
“We made it because you were there.” I breathe, smiling faintly. “We’re a team. Juntos hasta el final.”
He lets out a quiet laugh at the familiar phrase—our thing.
This whole pregnancy had been a battle. At twenty weeks we almost lost her; the threat of placental abruption hung over us like a storm cloud. But we hoped, minute after minute, until she arrived.
“I love you so much,” he says suddenly, voice low and raw. “Te amo, mi amor. Te amo más que a mi vida.”
The way he looks at me… you don’t forget eyes like that.
“And we love you too so much, Papi.” I whisper back, finding his hand as Alma breathes softly beside us.
It’s close to midnight by the time the room finally goes quiet—no nurses, no doctors, no beeping machines being checked. Just the soft hum of the lights and Alma’s tiny breaths.
No one knows she’s here yet. No family, no friends, no publicists, no reporters.
And honestly? It feels right. Like the world can wait. This moment is theirs.
Pedro is sitting beside me on the bed now, Alma curled on his bare chest, her little hand gripping the fabric of his hospital gown like she already knows exactly who he belongs to.
He looks down at her with this expression that could split my heart open—wonder, fear, devotion, all tangled together.
“Can you believe she’s real?” he whispers, brushing a thumb over her back. “Mi Alma chiquita…”
I smile, but there’s a knot growing in my stomach—a familiar one.
The one that shows up every time real life crashes back into our bubble.
Pedro notices instantly, of course. His eyes lift to mine. “Hey,” he murmurs softly. “Where did you just go?”
I hesitate, because I don’t want to ruin the moment. But the words spill out anyway. “I’m just… thinking,” I whisper. “About tomorrow. About people finding out. About—” I swallow. “About what the press is going to say this time.”
He shifts a little closer, careful not to jostle Alma. “Princesa…”
“You know how it goes,” I continue, voice small. “The age gap. The rumors. The stories they make up. They never let us breathe. And now there’s her. I don’t want them twisting everything around her too.”
His free hand finds mine immediately, squeezing gently. “Look at me.”
I do, even if my eyes are burning.
“They don’t get to have this,” he says quietly, firmly. “They don’t get our daughter. They don’t get our family. They don’t get one second of what’s real.”
I feel my throat tighten.
He leans in a little, lowering his voice even more. “They can write whatever ugly mierda they want. Let them. They’ve been wrong about us since the first day.”
His thumb strokes my knuckles, slow and reassuring. “You know the truth. I know the truth. And Alma? She’s going to grow up surrounded by love, not rumors.”
I glance at our daughter—so tiny, so new, asleep on his chest like she owns his whole world. Maybe she does.
Pedro smiles softly, the kind of smile that warms every cold corner in me.
“We’re here,” he whispers. “Together. Midnight, the three of us… and nobody else. This is ours. Nobody can touch it.”
And for the first time since the contractions started, a full breath actually fills my lungs.
Pedro kisses my forehead, lingering there “Juntos hasta el final.” he murmurs against my skin.
The morning light is soft when Pedro finally blinks awake, the kind that slips gently through hospital curtains like it doesn’t want to disturb anyone. For a moment he forgets where he is—until he hears the tiniest sound.
A sigh. A soft, content little breath.
He turns his head and sees the two of you.
You’re curled on your side, hair a mess on the pillow, hospital bracelet still around your wrist. Alma is tucked against your chest, latched in her sleep, her tiny fingers resting over your skin like she’s holding on to her whole world.
Pedro goes still. Completely still.
Because if there’s anything more beautiful than this—than his girls—he’s sure he’s never seen it. And never will.
He barely breathes, afraid to break the moment, until eventually Alma slips off and both of you lull back into deep sleep. Two matching heartbeats in the quiet room.
He stands slowly, stretching sore muscles, and moves around the room to tidy a bit the way he always does when he’s nervous or overwhelmed.
It’s half open, sticking out of your hospital bag the way it must’ve slipped last night. He frowns softly, curious, and reaches for it.
He flips through the pages—the ultrasound photos, the little notes you wrote each month, some dried flowers, a receipt from the night he took you out to distract you after a scary doctor’s appointment.
He smiles at all of it, until he reaches the last page. Your handwriting. Fresh ink, from last night.
He starts reading, and something breaks open inside him. His breath stutters. His shoulders shake once.
By the time he reaches the line “How did I breathe before you? I don’t remember” his vision blurs.
And when he reads “Your dad hasn’t slept a single minute since you were born” he lets out a quiet, helpless sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Then the words: “I can’t wait to live this life with you, Alma. Our first day together—the first of a whole lifetime. Hola, mi vida”
That’s the one that finishes him. A tear falls onto the page. Then another.
He closes the album carefully, like it’s something sacred, and presses it to his chest. He tries to breathe, but it comes out shaky.
“Dios…” he whispers, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Mi amor… what did you do to me?”
He looks over at the bed again.
You’re still asleep, your lips parted slightly, one hand resting protectively over Alma’s back. She’s so tiny against you it almost hurts to look at.
Pedro walks to the bedside and kneels quietly beside you, the album still in his hands.
He leans in and kisses your forehead—soft, slow, lingering, a thank you and a promise all at once.
Then he kisses Alma’s head too, whispering against her downy hair: “You have no idea how loved you are, mi niña. No idea.”
He rests his cheek on the edge of the mattress, still on his knees, the album held to his chest like a prayer.
And like that, surrounded by the two people he loves more than anything in this world, Pedro cries again—soft tears, grateful tears.
Because now he knows it for sure:
Life didn’t start until her, Until both of you.
