Chapter Twenty-Eight - Lukin
I lay Zoe on the bed, her face contorted with pain, her breathing sharp and uneven. The moment her back touches the mattress, Maria is beside her, checking her pulse.
“We need towels, hot water, blankets. Now. She’s too far along—she’s not going to make it to the hospital,” Maria says.
I don’t hesitate. I spin toward the hallway and shout loud enough to shake the walls, “Towels! Water! Blankets! Move!”
I hear Zoe telling Maria she’s scared and as the staff scrambles, I return to Zoe, kneeling beside the bed with my phone still clutched in my hand.
The emergency operator is droning instructions, but it all blends into background noise.
I keep repeating our address. Keep checking to make sure they’re actually coming.
Zoe lets out a cry that shreds something in me. Sweat beads on her forehead, her fingers digging into the sheets. Maria is at her side instantly, calm and clinical.
“Zoe, I need you to breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
Zoe’s eyes flutter. She nods, trying—but the pain swallows her whole again. I wipe her forehead with my sleeve, even though I’m shaking.
“Don’t let go,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Fight, please.”
The staff returns with everything. Maria begins organizing it, efficient and steady, while I grip Zoe’s hand like a lifeline.
“She’s crowning,” Maria says a few minutes later, looking up at me.
“What?” I frown, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “Is that b-bad?” I stammer like a fool. “What does that mean?”
“The baby is coming. Calm down, Dad.”
My breath catches. The ambulance still hasn’t arrived. We’re doing this. Here. Now.
“Stay with her,” Maria orders me, her voice sharp. “She’s going to need you.”
I don’t think. I just move closer, pressing a kiss to Zoe’s temple. “You can do this,” I whisper. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
Zoe’s screams echo off the walls, and I can feel every one of them in my bones. Her nails dig into my arm. She’s soaked in sweat, her body trembling, fighting through the pain with a kind of strength I can’t understand, let alone describe.
Maria never falters. Not once. Her voice stays even, controlled, as she coaches Zoe through each contraction. But I see her hands shaking when she reaches down, when she braces for the final push.
And then—A sound cuts through the room. High-pitched. Raw. Alive.
A baby’s cry.
Everything stops. The air shifts. Zoe collapses back into the pillows, gasping, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
Maria lifts the newborn in her hands, her expression unreadable. For a second, she just stares at him. Then she looks up at me, her voice hoarse.
“It’s a boy.”
She walks over and places him in my arms. No words. Just the weight of him—tiny, warm, alive. My son. And for the first time in my life… I forget how to breathe.
He’s so small. So quiet now, except for the occasional hiccup of breath. I can feel his heartbeat against mine, and it does something to me. Something I don’t have words for. It settles deep in my bones like a vow I didn’t speak, but somehow made anyway.
I glance at Zoe.
She’s pale, drenched in sweat, eyes barely staying open. But she’s looking at me. At us. There’s something soft in her gaze. Raw. Like she sees through everything I’ve tried to be and still—still—chooses not to look away. I remember her voice, the way she said it to Maria like it hurt to admit.
I’m in love with him.
Did she mean it?
Or was it a shield? A way to keep Maria from turning on her completely? I want to ask. Fuck, I want to know. But not now. Not when she’s like this—torn open in every way, and still managing to look at me with something that feels dangerously close to love.
Across the room, Maria finishes cleaning up. She doesn’t say a word. Just wipes her hands, disinfects everything, her jaw tight. But I see it—the way her eyes shimmer just before she turns away. She doesn’t want us to see her like this. It’s an emotional moment for everyone involved.
I hold the baby a little tighter. My son.
And when I look back at Zoe, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, I know something inside me has changed. Permanently. Irreversibly.
I didn’t think I could belong to anyone again.
But right now, in this room, I do. The three people present are the most important people in my life. My family.
The sirens barely register until they’re right outside. The medics flood in, efficient, controlled, already asking questions I don’t really hear. Zoe is weak but alert, her hand still clutching the blanket like it’s the only solid thing in the world. I don’t let go of the baby.
Maria stands back, arms folded, her mask of calm slipping just slightly around the edges. As they start to wheel Zoe out of the room, one of the paramedics asks if she’s coming with us. She shakes her head.
“No. I have some things I need to do,” she says, voice steady but clipped. It’s bullshit. We both know it. But I don’t call her out.
She grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and heads for the door—then pauses. Turns back and walks over to Zoe. No words are exchanged. Just a look.
Something fragile passes between them—half forgiveness, half goodbye. Zoe’s lips tremble into a faint smile, and Maria nods, almost imperceptibly.
Then she walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
I’m left standing there, my son cradled against my chest, the medical team moving around me. Voices, questions, flashing lights. But none of it feels real. Except Zoe and the boy in my arms.
And the strange, terrifying peace that comes with knowing—for the first time in my life—I have something I can’t afford to lose.
The medics roll her into the ambulance on a stretcher, moving fast but careful. Zoe’s eyes are fluttering, but the color is starting to return to her cheeks. I climb in without hesitation, crouching beside her, but before I can sit fully, one of the paramedics turns to me.
“We’ll take the baby now, sir.”
For a moment, I hesitate. My arms tighten instinctively around my son, but I know they need to examine him—make sure he’s okay. I nod once, stiffly, and hand him over. The second he’s gone from my arms, something in me aches. Like I’ve just handed over a piece of my soul.
I sit beside Zoe, brushing damp hair from her face. Her skin is clammy, her lips cracked. She’s trying to stay awake, her lashes fluttering.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, low and firm. “You did it. He’s perfect. You were perfect.”
Her lips curve just slightly, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
The ambulance rocks into motion. The lights flash through the windows, red and urgent. The medics move around us, checking vitals, murmuring codes and numbers I barely register.
And then it hits me. All of it.
I bend down, press a kiss to her cheek, and I don’t care if anyone hears. I don’t care if it makes me weak.
“I love you so much, little bird,” I whisper, my voice thick. “Thank you for the gift of my son. I’ll cherish you both forever.”