35. Dalton
DALTON
Theo’s gasp woke me fully—a sharp, indrawn breath that cut through the darkness like a blade.
“Dalton,” he whispered, his hand finding mine under the covers, squeezing hard. “I think… I think it’s starting.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, his face pale in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “Yeah. That was… different. Real.”
Peyton was already moving, rolling out of bed with the kind of decisive energy that made me feel both useless and grateful. “How far apart?” he asked, his voice calm, grounded—General mode activated.
“That was the first one,” Theo said, and I could hear the tremor underneath the words.
“Okay.” Peyton crossed to Theo’s side of the bed, crouching down so he was eye-level. “We’re good. We planned for this. We packed the hospital bag. I gassed up the car. You’re doing great already.”
Theo’s laugh was shaky. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You grew our daughter,” Peyton said simply, pressing a kiss to Theo’s forehead. “That’s everything.”
I was still frozen, my hand locked around Theo’s, trying to process the fact that this was happening. The baby—our baby—was coming. Tonight. Maybe in a few hours. Maybe sooner.
What if I mess this up? What if I freeze? What if I’m not enough when he needs me most?
“Dalton.” Theo’s voice cut through the spiral, soft but insistent. “I need you.”
I blinked, focusing on his face. His glasses were on the nightstand, so his eyes looked bigger, more vulnerable. “I’m here,” I managed. “I’m right here.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The next contraction came twenty minutes later, while we were trying to time things and stay calm. Theo was pacing the bedroom, one hand on his lower back, the other gripping the edge of the dresser. When it hit, his whole body went rigid, his breath hissing out through clenched teeth.
I was at his side in an instant, my hands hovering uselessly. “What do you need? Tell me what to do.”
“Just… talk to me,” Theo gasped. “Distract me.”
So I talked. I told him about the mural, about how I’d hidden a tiny easter egg in the corner—a little 20-sided die tucked into the roots of the tree.
I told him about the first time I’d ever painted anything, a terrible landscape in middle school that my art teacher had somehow convinced me was worth framing.
I rambled about nothing and everything, and Theo listened, his breathing slowly evening out as the contraction ebbed.
“Better?” I asked.
He nodded, leaning into me. “Yeah. Keep doing that.”
By 6 a.m., the contractions were eight minutes apart, and Peyton made the call. “Time to go.”
The drive to the hospital was a blur. Peyton drove with the kind of focus that should’ve been illegal before sunrise. I sat in the back with Theo, my arm around his shoulders, whispering reassurances I wasn’t sure I believed.
Don’t fall apart. He needs you. Don’t fall apart.
The hospital staff were efficient, almost terrifyingly so. They got Theo into a gown, hooked him up to monitors, checked his dilation (four centimeters, the nurse said, and I had no idea if that was good or bad), and then left us alone in a pale green room that smelled like antiseptic.
Theo was on the bed, propped up on pillows, his hands gripping the rails. Peyton stood at his side, solid and unshakeable, one hand on Theo’s shoulder. I hovered near the foot of the bed, feeling like an intruder.
“Dalton,” Theo said, his voice tight. “Come here.”
I moved to his other side, and he grabbed my hand immediately, holding on like I was the only thing keeping him tethered.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, and the rawness in his voice cracked something open in my chest.
“Me too,” I said, because lying felt wrong. “But we’ve got you. We’re not going anywhere.”
Another contraction rolled through him, harder this time, and Theo’s whole body arched. His grip on my hand turned bruising, and I let him, absorbing the pain like it might help somehow.
“Breathe,” Peyton coached, his voice steady. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’ve got this.”
Theo followed his lead, and I watched, awed and terrified, as my omega fought through the wave.
The hours blurred together after that—contractions coming faster, harder, Theo’s breathing turning ragged, his composure fraying at the edges.
I stopped tracking time, stopped thinking about anything except this: Theo’s hand in mine, Peyton’s grounding presence, the three of us locked in this moment.
Somewhere around noon, the nurse checked again and announced that Theo was at eight centimeters. “Not long now,” she said cheerfully, and I wanted to scream at her because not long felt like a lifetime when Theo was shaking and sweating and gripping my hand hard enough to break bones.
“I can’t,” Theo gasped during the next contraction, his head thrown back, tears streaking down his face. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” I said fiercely, leaning close so he could hear me. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve got this. We’ve got you.”
Peyton’s hand was on Theo’s forehead, smoothing back sweat-damp hair. “Almost there, baby. Almost there.”
Theo’s eyes found mine, wild and desperate. “Dalton—”
“I’m here,” I promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”
After that, things moved quickly when the nurse came back and said it was time to push. Theo’s pain didn’t lessen, but his focus sharpened. Peyton moved into position, supporting Theo’s back, and I stayed at his side, holding his hand, whispering every encouragement I could think of.
“Push,” the doctor said, and Theo did, his face contorting with effort, a guttural sound tearing from his throat.
I felt useless. Helpless. All I could do was hold his hand and watch him fight.
“Again,” the doctor coached. “Big push.”
Theo bore down, and I felt the echo of his effort in the way his whole body tensed. Peyton was murmuring something low and steady, anchoring him, and I just held on.
“I can see the head,” the doctor announced. “One more big push, Theo. You’re almost there.”
Theo’s eyes met mine, glassy with pain and exhaustion, and I nodded. “You’ve got this. One more.”
He pushed, and the room filled with the sound of a newborn’s cry—high, piercing.
I stopped breathing.
The doctor lifted a small, wriggling bundle, and my vision blurred. She was here. Our daughter. Real and screaming and perfect.
“Congratulations,” the doctor said, smiling. “You have a healthy baby girl.”
The doctor lifted the tiny, wriggling bundle higher, and the nurse was already moving, doing a quick assessment. “APGAR is an eight. She’s perfect,” she said cheerfully, and then, instead of whisking the baby away, she turned to Theo. “Dad, are you ready for skin-to-skin?”
Theo was sobbing, nodding frantically, his hands already reaching. “Yes. Please.”
They lowered the baby—our daughter—onto Theo’s bare chest, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
She was still crying, her little face red and scrunched, but the moment she settled against Theo’s skin, something shifted.
Her cries quieted to small, hiccupping whimpers, and Theo’s hands came up to cradle her, so gentle, so reverent.
“Hi,” Theo whispered, his voice breaking. “Hi, sweet girl. I’m your Daddy.”
I stood frozen at Theo’s side, watching this miracle unfold. Peyton was behind Theo, one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching out to touch the baby’s tiny, dark-haired head.
The room was chaos around us—nurses moving, machines beeping, the doctor finishing up—but all I could see was Theo and the baby.
The way she turned her head slightly toward the sound of his voice.
The way Theo’s whole body seemed to melt into the bed, exhaustion and wonder and overwhelming love written across every line of his face.
“She’s perfect,” Peyton murmured, his voice thick. “Absolutely perfect.”
“She is,” Theo agreed, tears streaming freely down his face. He looked up at Peyton, then at me, his eyes shining. “She really is.”
I wanted to touch her—wanted to be part of this moment—but I hung back, my throat tight. This was their moment. Biology’s moment. The alpha and the omega and the baby they’d made together.
You’re just the beta. Just the extra. Just—
“Dalton.” Theo’s voice cut through the spiral, soft but insistent.
I blinked, focusing on his face. “Yeah?”
“Come here,” he said, shifting slightly. “Come meet your daughter.”
Your daughter. The words hit me like a freight train.
I moved closer, my hand hovering over the baby’s tiny back, and Theo smiled—exhausted and radiant and so full of love it hurt to look at.
“She needs to know both of her Papas,” Theo said, and then he glanced up at Peyton. “Don’t you think Dalton should hold her? He’s been waiting so long.”
Peyton’s hand found my shoulder, squeezing tight. “I was just about to suggest that,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You first, Dalton.”
I froze. “What?”
“You hold her first,” Peyton said, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re her Papa. She needs to know your heartbeat.”
My throat closed up. “But—Theo just—”
“And now it’s your turn,” Theo said gently, already shifting the baby in his arms. “Please, Dalton. I want you to hold her.”
The nurse stepped in, helping to transfer the tiny, warm bundle into my arms, and suddenly the world stopped.
She was so small. Her face was still red and scrunched from crying, her little fists waving, but when I cradled her against my chest, she settled. Her eyes—dark and unfocused—seemed to find mine, and I felt something inside me shatter and rebuild itself all at once.
“Hi,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Hi, peanut. I’m your Papa.”
She made a tiny noise, somewhere between a whimper and a coo, and I was gone. Completely and utterly undone.
I wasn’t just the beta. I wasn’t just the guy on the outside looking in.
I was her Papa. Biology didn’t matter. This moment, Theo smiling up at me through his tears, Peyton’s hand solid on my shoulder, my daughter warm and alive in my arms, this was the ink that wrote the story.
“She knows you,” Theo whispered, his voice wrecked but happy. “Look at how calm she is.”
“She’s perfect,” I managed, unable to look away from her. “She’s so perfect.”
Peyton’s arm came around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I leaned into him without thinking. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Thank you both.”
“Nothing to thank us for,” Peyton said. “You’re her father. She needs to know that from the very beginning.”
I looked up at him, then at Theo, and the certainty in their eyes—the absolute, unwavering belief—was enough to undo me completely.
I was crying. I didn’t care.
Peyton moved to Theo’s side, his hand on the baby’s tiny head, and the four of us formed a circle.
A family.
I wasn’t on the outside anymore. I wasn’t just the beta trying to keep up.
I was right here. Exactly where I belonged.
“What should we call her?” Theo asked, his voice soft.
Peyton looked at me, and I looked at our daughter, and the answer felt obvious.
“Hope,” I said. “Her name is Hope.”
Because that’s what she was. That’s what this was.
Hope. And home. And everything I never knew I needed.