Epilogue
Luc
I wake to the sound Addison makes before the movement registers.
It isn’t panicked. It’s just a low, frustrated groan beside me, the kind she’s been making for days now as her body settles and shifts around something bigger than both of us. I turn toward her, still half asleep, reaching automatically, my hand finding the curve of her hip.
“Hey,” I murmur.
Addie exhales slowly, one hand braced against the mattress, the other pressed to her stomach. Her eyes are open. Clear. Focused in a way that pulls me fully awake in an instant.
“It’s time,” she says.
My heart slams once, hard, and then everything snaps into motion. I sit up too fast, the covers tangling around my legs as I swing them off the bed. The room feels suddenly smaller, charged, like the air has shifted.
“Okay,” I say, already standing. “Okay.”
It’s four days until the due date. I register that distantly, the way I might note a lab value that’s slightly off but still within range. It doesn’t rattle me. What surprises me is how ready I feel. Not calm exactly, but steady. Grounded. Like something in me has been waiting for this cue.
Addie shifts again, breathing through a contraction, her jaw tightening. I’m back at the bedside in two steps, crouching in front of her without thinking, my hands finding hers.
“How strong?” I ask, already tracking time in my head, even as I tell myself not to.
“Enough,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her mouth, despite the discomfort.
I press my forehead to her knee for a second, and then look up at her again. “We’re good,” I tell her. “We’ve got time. I’ve got you.”
She nods, trusting me completely, and I’m so grateful. So glad we’ve had time to get to this point. I kiss her knuckles, breathe her in, and then push back to my feet, the day we’ve been circling for months finally here.
I grab the overnight bag from where it’s been sitting by the door for weeks, half open. I check it anyway—phone chargers, wallet, and paperwork—my hands moving faster than my thoughts. I pull on jeans, a sweater, shoes I don’t remember choosing.
“Luc,” Addie says softly behind me.
I turn. She’s standing now, one hand braced on the dresser, the other pressed to her stomach.
“I’m here,” I say, crossing back to her.
She breathes through another contraction, eyes closed, and shoulders tight.
I hover, unsure whether to touch or give her space, and then settle my hands at her hips when she leans into me.
I guide her breathing without meaning to, low and even, the way I’ve done a hundred times in rooms that smell like antiseptic and fear.
This isn’t that.
I catch myself and soften, resting my forehead against hers instead.
“Take your time,” I tell her, even as my pulse thunders with the urge to move faster. To get her out the door. To get her somewhere that isn’t our bedroom.
She nods when it passes and straightens slowly. “Okay.”
We move toward the front of the house together, her steps measured, mine restless. I keep drifting ahead, and then doubling back—setting the bag by the door, grabbing my coat, checking the lock, and returning to her side as if she might disappear if I don’t keep her near.
Another contraction hits in the hallway. She stops, hand sliding up my arm, fingers gripping tight. I stay still with her, breathing when she breathes, reminding myself that the only thing that matters right now is her pace, not mine.
When it eases, she exhales and looks up at me. “You’re hovering.”
“I know,” I say, and she smiles despite herself.
I take the bag, open the door, and step aside, watching her make her way forward, strong and steady and already doing the hardest part.
The cold air clears the last fog from my head.
I guide Addie toward the car, one hand at her elbow, the other hovering uselessly at her back like I can somehow catch what’s happening before it lands.
She lowers herself into the passenger seat with care, breathing controlled, jaw set.
I shut the door and circle the front of the car, keys already in my hand.
The engine turns over, and I pull away from the curb, keeping my speed measured, though every instinct in me wants to get us there now.
The streets are quiet, as it’s still early enough that the town hasn’t fully woken up yet.
I keep talking—nothing important, just the sound of my voice filling the space between her breaths.
We’re two blocks from the house when she inhales sharply and reaches for the door handle.
“Luc,” she says, and the way she says my name snaps something tight in my chest.
I glance over. Her eyes are closed, her shoulders drawn inward, one hand gripping the edge of the seat, the other pressed low against her stomach. This one is different. I can see it immediately, feel it in the way the air changes.
“Okay,” I say, steady. “Breathe with me.”
She does, jaw clenched, breath shaking but controlled. I keep my eyes on the road, forcing my grip on the wheel to stay loose even as my mind starts running ahead of us. Timing. Distance. What I have in the car. What I don’t. What if we don’t make it?
I swallow that down and keep talking. Telling her she’s doing great. That we’re close. That I’ve got her. When the contraction finally eases, she leans back against the seat.
I reach over and take her hand, lacing our fingers together as I press the accelerator a little more firmly.
The hospital lights cut through the early morning as I pull into the parking lot, relief and urgency tangling in my chest.
I’m out of the car before the engine is fully off, already moving around to her side.
Addie opens the door slowly, one hand braced on the frame, her face focused and pale.
I help her up, steadying her as another wave rolls over her.
She breathes through it, and I stay close, murmuring reassurance I’m not sure she even hears.
Inside the hospital, everything accelerates.
A wheelchair appears, hands reaching, voices asking questions.
Addie is settled and moving down the corridor before I fully catch up, my hand clamped around hers like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the moment.
The smell of disinfectant, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the rhythm of the place—every detail is familiar, and none of it feels steady.
We reach labor and delivery, and she’s transferred smoothly, efficiently, like this is just another shift change.
I follow, too aware of my own body. This is where I usually know exactly what to do.
Where protocols and experience line up and guide me.
But standing at Addie’s side, watching her breathe into another contraction, I’m not a physician or a problem-solver.
I’m a man in love with the woman about to bring our child into the world, and that knowledge pulses under my skin, stripping everything else away.
I brush her hair back from her forehead and lean in close. “We’re here,” I tell her. “You’re safe.”
Her eyes find mine, steady despite the pain, and she nods.
For the first time since she woke me, I let myself believe it.
Time stretches once we’re settled, elastic and strange.
Addie is in active labor, the contractions strong enough to pull her fully inward, but not yet close enough together to tip everything over the edge.
The room is dimmed, quiet except for the steady cadence of the monitor and her breathing.
I stay where I belong—at her side, one hand wrapped around hers, the other brushing her arm when she tenses.
Between contractions, I reach for my phone.
I let her brother and sisters know we’re here, that things are moving.
I text my parents next, keeping it simple, factual, the way I always do when I don’t trust my voice to carry more.
The replies come back quickly, full of reassurance and excitement, but I don’t linger on them.
I set the phone aside and turn my attention back to Addie.
She squeezes my hand as another contraction builds, her grip tightening, breath hitching before she finds her rhythm again.
I talk to her quietly, counting without numbers, reminding her when to breathe, when to let go.
I’ve done this before, coached women through pain that leads somewhere beautiful.
It’s different when it’s Addie.
Every sound she makes lands in my gut. Every shift of her body pulls at something deep and protective in me. I fight the instinct to fix, to intervene, to make it easier, because I know this part can’t be taken from her.
When the contraction eases, she exhales and leans into me, her forehead resting briefly against my shoulder. I press a kiss to her hair, grounding myself in the scent of her, the reality of her weight against me.
We’re in it now, suspended between what was and what’s coming, and all I can do is stay right here with her.
The next contraction hits harder, sooner, stealing the air from the room.
Addie’s hand clamps around mine, her fingers digging in with a strength that surprises me. I lean closer, bracing us both, my forehead nearly touching hers as she breathes. Her eyes squeeze shut, her jaw tight, every muscle focused on getting through the wave cresting inside her.
“You’re doing it,” I tell her. “Just like that. I’ve got you.”
When it finally breaks, she sags forward, breath shaking, and then she looks at me. There’s something raw in her expression, stripped down past pain and effort to something more exposed. She swallows. “I love you,” she says.
Before I can respond, she keeps going, her grip on my hand tightening. “I don’t want to do this alone. I don’t want to be a single mother.”
For a moment, the room falls away. There’s no monitor, no staff, no hospital hum. Just her fear, laid bare between us.
I shift closer, pressing my forehead to hers, holding her gaze. “You won’t be,” I tell her. “Not ever.”
The certainty in my voice surprises even me, but it feels solid, unshakeable. “I’m here. For all of it. Every part.”