36. Cormac
Cormac
The first contraction hits her like a physical blow.
Sharp, relentless, a force that seizes Elena’s body—and mine. Her fingers dig into mine, nails scoring shallow lines across my palm, and I feel a tremor ripple up her arm and into me, a warning pulse that I can’t ignore.
My muscles coil instinctively. My pulse accelerates.
Breath hitches. She presses her forehead to my chest, eyes squeezed shut, and in that instant, I realize something I never allow myself to admit: I am powerless against this.
I cannot command it. I cannot contain it. I can only guide. I can only anchor.
I can be present, but I am not in control.
Fear surges inside me. Cold. Sharp. Alien. And yet the desire to protect flares even hotter, fiercer, almost violent. She is mine. Our child is mine. And still, the force of birth tearing through her right now is a reality I cannot bend to my will.
“Breathe with me,” I say, keeping my voice low and even. “In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. Eyes on me. Focus. You are strong. You are capable. You are ours.”
Her body shudders, trembles, convulses. Sweat beads her forehead, hair clinging to damp skin.
Her nails dig in deeper, and I feel a shocking dose of reality: she is giving everything, she is surrendering to forces I can’t touch, can’t regulate.
I press my hand against hers, steadying, guiding, grounding.
My own pulse hammers in rhythm with hers. My chest tightens with every contraction. My jaw clenches, and a flush of adrenaline cuts through me.
I shift her hips. Adjust her legs. Whisper again: “Focus. Eyes on me. Breathe. In. Out. One contraction at a time. One push at a time. You are strong.”
The drive to the hospital stretches taut, every moment a drumbeat of anticipation. Rain hisses on the windshield, tires hiss through puddles. Every red light is a countdown. Every car passing a potential hazard.
I grip the wheel tighter, thumb pressing into hers, holding her in place. And still, that fear presses in, unbidden: I cannot dictate the intensity of this. I cannot regulate the surge, the tremor of panic threatening to tear through her, and through me. My control frays. My stomach twists.
And for the first time in years, I am fully aware of my own vulnerability.
We arrive. Hospital. Private room. Everything prepared with military precision.
Monitors calibrated, staff at the ready, everything exactly how I arranged it.
And still, the room feels too small, too bright, too tight.
Expectation hangs over us like smoke. I take my place beside Elena.
Each contraction hits like a hammer. I catalogue everything: pulse, oxygen, tremor, duration, facial expressions.
But no preparation, no calculation, no measure can shield me from this raw power I’m helpless against.
Hours pass, or is it minutes? Time loses meaning. Contractions collide, overlap, stretch her endurance to impossible edges. I press my hand to her back, shift her hips, adjust her legs, whisper instructions I have said a thousand times.
One contraction. One push. One breath. Repeat.
Sweat streams down Elena’s face, back, neck. My own body is coiled, rigid, pulse hammering. Every nerve alive. I am the rock she leans on, but the rock is cracking.
Then, the monitors scream. Sharp. Insistent. Her pulse rockets. Oxygen dips. Tremors spike. Panic shoots through my veins like ice.
For a heartbeat stretched into eternity, I am terrified. I cannot fail her. I will not.
I press my hand harder against hers, lean close, whisper: “You are strong. Eyes on me. Focus. Breathe. This is ours. Give me another push.”
Elena shivers, trembles, sweat slick against my skin.
I do not release her hand. I do not look away.
My body hums with tension. Fear burns under my ribs, and a deep, consuming need claws at me: protect her, shield her, anchor her.
Every inch of me vibrates with the raw intensity of her labor, and I feel the terrible vulnerability pressing against my chest. I hate it. I hate that I can’t control it.
And yet, I’m awed. She is magnificent. Terrifying. A force unto herself.
Hours stretch into a continuum of effort.
Breath, push, sweat, tremor, whispered instructions.
Every detail catalogued. Every twitch observed.
My chest tightens. Muscles coiled. Pulse relentless.
And still, the tremor of unpredictability lurks, a sharp knife edge in my mind.
She is vulnerable. I am human. And I cannot protect her from this entirely.
She screams. High. Raw. Unbroken. The sound reverberates through me, cuts me deep. Her back arches violently. Sweat streams. Muscles quiver. And then, the monitors scream again. Oxygen dips. Heart falters. Panic flashes.
The contraction passes. She collapses, exhausted, trembling, breathless. My pulse hammers. Every fiber of me still alert, aware. The exposure lingers. Yet, I do not falter. I cannot. I remain. Constant. Present.
And then, the apex. The baby, crowning. Every muscle Elena has is taut, quivering. Pupils dilated. Jaw clenched. Screams raw, unfiltered. My chest tightens. Every nerve alive. Fear and anticipation coil, blend, spike.
“One more push,” I whisper, deliberate, possessive. “Eyes on me. Focus. You are strong. You are ours.”
Elena’s body rises and falls with each push. Sweat glistens, hair matted, skin slick. I hold her hip, her hand, her back. Steadying. Anchoring. Encouraging.
And then, the cry.
Piercing. Insistent. Perfect. Alive.
Our son.
I step forward, gloved, deliberate as I cut the cord. Lift him from the mix of sweat, blood, and effort. Warm. Perfect. Alive. Mine. Ours.
I press him to my chest. Relief, fear, exhilaration, triumph collide into a single, sharp peak.
She exhales, trembling, tears streaking sweat.
I place him in her arms. Tiny fingers curl instinctively, eyes blinking, pressing to her chest. My hand rests on her shoulder, thumb brushing hers. Grounding. Anchoring. Possessive.
Even now, the shadow of unpredictability lingers. Even I know life is never entirely predictable. Control is never absolute. I remain vigilant. Present. Possessive. Guardian.
She looks up at me. Eyes luminous, raw, fragile. “He’s perfect,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say, low, deliberate, possessive. “Our son. Strong. Healthy. Perfect. Ours.”
I feel him against me before I even see him fully. Warm. Fragile. Squirming with life. Tiny fingers curl instinctively, and I can feel the pulse of him, fast and furious, so unlike anything I have ever held.
My chest tightens, and for a moment it feels like too much, this sudden, overwhelming surge of something I cannot measure or calculate: awe, love, fear, an almost agonizing protectiveness. My heart hammers against my ribs like it wants to escape.
Hand on hers, thumb tracing hers and the baby, I feel her, her exhaustion, her triumph, her surrender, and it slices through me in a way that leaves me hollow and full all at once.
I cannot breathe properly. Every fiber of me insists on guarding them, holding them, marking them.
The words are insufficient, inadequate, but my body knows them, anyway.
I do not need to speak. She knows. She gave me this.
She gave me life in this form, in this room, in my hands, and I am consumed by the magnitude of it.
My chest feels too small to contain the surge of possessive awe.
I press closer to the baby and inhale the tiny, new-life scent that anchors me to reality while threatening to break me.
He is ours. I feel the impossible tug of the bond that now exists unshakeable, unalterable.
Elena rests against me, baby pressed to her chest, and I cannot stop staring, cannot stop feeling the intensity of it all.
Every breath he takes, every small curl of a finger, every tiny blink, it reverberates through me like proof of everything I have built, everything I have guarded, everything I will never relinquish.
My hands hover over them, tremor hidden beneath my composure, a silent promise: I will not let them fall, I will not let them go.
For the first time, I allow the private acknowledgment to surface, fleeting and dangerous, and it almost scares me with its raw, unmeasured intensity: this is mine. This family. This bond. Unyielding. Impossible. And suddenly, fear melts into a fierce, all-consuming certainty.
I will protect them. I will claim them. I will not relinquish them. I am hers. She is mine. Our son. Our legacy. And if the world attempts to intrude, it will break against the immovable wall of us.
I lower my head, resting it briefly against hers, feeling the rise and fall of her chest and the tiny, urgent beat of his heart against mine.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, hot and unbidden, because there are no words sufficient to match the enormity of this moment.
Nothing could have prepared me for it, and nothing will ever be enough to contain the depth of feeling that overwhelms me now.
I’m possessed. Possessed by her. Possessed by him. Possessed by the family we have created in this small, sterile room.
And I am whole in the way only fear, awe, and love combined can make a man feel whole. I will not falter. I will not leave. I will not fail. Not now. Not ever.
And as I watch them, as I trace his tiny fingers curling against hers, as I feel her warmth and strength beneath me, I know, with a terrifying clarity that makes my chest tighten and my throat ache: this is mine. Our son. Our life. Our bond. Imperfect. Unruly. Undeniable.
And I will never let it go.