Chapter 19 - Declan
DECLAN
The call comes just past midnight.
I’m between rounds, catching up on charting, when my phone buzzes on the counter. Willow. A cold weight drops into my stomach. She shouldn’t be calling me at this hour.
Unless something’s wrong. I answer on the first ring.
Her voice is small, rushed. “Declan? I—I can’t get them to move. The babies. It’s been hours. I’ve tried everything—juice, lying on my side, poking—nothing. I’m fixin’ to come in.”
I know better than to lecture her about driving herself right now.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” I tell her, scraping my chair back as I stand.
My body knows what to do before my brain does—white coat, stethoscope, badge clipped back in place.
The whole sprint down the corridor is one long prayer: Please let them be okay. Please let them move.
She’s pale when she arrives at triage, clutching her stomach like she’s holding the whole world inside her hands. A nurse wheels her in, and Willow melts as soon as she sees me. “Declan,” she breathes, relief flickering across her face. “Thank God.”
I rush to her and cup her jaw in my hands, kissing her cheeks. “You did the right thing calling.” I crouch down, eye level with her, checking her pupils, her lips, her hands—anything to reassure both of us she’s not crashing. “We’ll get them on the monitor right now.”
Her green eyes shine in the harsh fluorescent light. “Are they—”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I keep my voice steady, the way I’ve done for countless patients.
The way I wish I’d done all those years ago when I was just a teen.
When my girlfriend had Aiden dying inside her.
Now that I’m back here at this familiar place, I realize what a hard thing it is to be calm inside the fire.
I nod to the nurse. “Fetal monitoring, now. Room three.”
Minutes later, she’s on the bed, belly exposed under the thin gown. The elastic bands of the fetal monitor circle her, sensors pressed against the taut curve of her stomach along with gel. Her belly flinches, and I tell her, “Cold, sorry,” without lifting my eyes from the screen.
The machine hums, then beeps. A thin, fragile line draws itself across the page, and I see a heart rate spiking. Ba-bump. It steadies. Willow’s chest deflates with a sob.
“That’s one,” I murmur, adjusting the second sensor. My own heart is running laps, but my hands are steady. They have to be. The second heartbeat joins the first, then the third, overlapping rhythms like three small drums under her skin. The most beautiful percussion I’ve ever heard.
“They’re here,” I tell her quietly, keeping my eyes on the numbers. “Every single one of them. Heart rates are within normal range.”
Her hands fly to her mouth. A tear slips down her cheek as her breathing turns ragged and shallow. “Oh my God. I thought—”
“Don’t think. Just breathe.” I cup her face in my hands, holding her and staring into her eyes like I can give her peace. She closes her eyes against my stare, and I lean forward and kiss her salty tear-streaked cheeks. “Breathe with me, Willow.”
When she doesn’t respond, her breathing getting wilder by the second, I hold her jawline firmly and model breathing for her.
Fearful green eyes look at me like I’m the enemy.
She holds my wrists and finally, she breathes with me.
As she relaxes, I put my hand on her chest and she droops forward, letting her forehead rest against mine, and I hold that weight there.
“Thank you,” she murmurs sleepily.
The next half hour is a slow vigil. She lies still, clutching the blanket, eyes fixed on the screen. Every time one of the heart rates dips, she stiffens. Every time it rises, she relaxes, only to tense again.
I sit beside her bed, close enough that she doesn’t have to look far to find me. I keep my voice calm, explaining each squiggle, each number.
“That dip there? Normal. Babies roll over, cords shift. It’s not danger unless it stays.”
“This acceleration? That’s good. Means they’re active.”
“See the baseline here? Nice and steady. That’s what we want.”
She listens like it’s gospel, nodding, hanging onto every word.
At one point she whispers, “Declan, what if they stop again?”
I shake my head. “They won’t. Not tonight. Not with me watching.”
Around one a.m., the door creaks open and Sean bursts in, out of breath, hair wild like he ran the whole way from his apartment. “Is she—are they—”
“Shh.” Willow lifts a hand weakly. “We’re okay. Declan’s got me hooked up.”
Sean edges to the bedside, his hand trembling as he brushes hair off her forehead. “Christ, Willow. Don’t do that to me.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” she whispers with a faint smile.
“You could’ve called me first. Jaysus, I would’ve driven you.”
“I didn’t think—I just thought—” She swallows, tears brimming again.
I interrupt, telling him, “Sean, she got here in time to take care of the babies. She acted fast.”
His hazel eyes snap up to look at me, and then he looks down at a crying and anxious Willow, and they soften.
He crushes her head to his chest and hugs her tight, whispering, “I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean it. You did good.” He looks up at the monitor and says, “I’ll put a fiver it’s three stubborn girls, a carry-on of ’em, the way they love the drama. ”
Willow actually laughs, and some of the tension drains from the room.
Another half hour, another knock. Rowan steps in quietly, unlike Sean.
He shuts the door behind him, hands in his pockets, eyes sweeping the room before locking on Willow.
I move my chair closer to her, feeling protective of the way he can be cruel when scared.
His gaze flicks to the monitor, then back to her belly. “What’s the strip?”
“Reactive. Stable.” I keep my tone level. Rowan doesn’t need my warmth; Willow does.
“What does strip mean?” she whispers to me.
I whisper back, “Fetal heart monitoring strip. He’s asking about the babies’ heart rates. They’re stable.”
Rowan steps closer, but not too close. His face is unreadable, voice clipped as he adds, “You feel movement yet?”
“Not much,” Willow admits, searching his face for reassurance. “Should I?”
“Not always,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Depends on position, fluid, placenta. The strip matters more than your perception, so.”
She blinks at the clinical sharpness. I see her shrink just slightly, though she tries to hide it.
I step in. “You’ll feel them again soon, Willow. Don’t let him scare you.”
Rowan’s eyes flick to mine, unreadable. Then back to the monitor. “Right,” he says, voice low.
We pass the hours like this. Sean fidgeting, cracking jokes to fill the silence. Rowan silent, precise, answering only when Willow asks something directly. I stay steady, explaining every fluctuation on the strip until she finally unclenches her fists.
At two thirty, the first flutter rolls under her skin. Her breath catches, her hand flying to her side.
“There,” she gasps. “That was—”
“I saw it,” I confirm, pointing to the spike on the monitor. “That was baby two, shifting.”
Another flutter, this time lower. She exhales hard, tears spilling freely now. “Oh, thank God.”
Sean lets out a bark of laughter, part joy, part release of panic. He drops his forehead to her arm. “Don’t scare us like that again, huh? Jaysus, I nearly had a heart attack.”
Rowan doesn’t move, doesn’t soften, but I see the way his jaw unclenches, the way his shoulders settle an inch lower. His relief is quieter, but no less real.
Willow sags back into the pillows, her whole body trembling. I press a reassuring hand to her wrist again. “See? They just needed to remind you they like drama.”
She laughs through tears, nodding. “Guess they’re mine, then.”