Ailish
The first contraction feels like a tightening rope pulled low across my belly—deep, insistent, impossible to ignore. It wakes me before dawn. I breathe through it, one hand pressed over the curve of my stomach, telling the baby softly that everything is fine, that it’s safe, that Father is close.
The second contraction steals my breath.
I clutch the sheets, whispering a shaky curse before calling out, and that’s when the midwife bursts through the door. She must have been waiting for this moment for days, hovering like an anxious guardian angel.
Her hair is pulled back, her sleeves rolled, her voice calm as stone. “It’s time, love,” she says. “Let’s get you ready.”
Time becomes something thick and slow after that. A fog of pain and pressure, of bodies moving around me, of hands supporting my back and voices coaxing me through each rolling wave of labor.
I grip the bed, the rails, my own legs—anything that anchors me to the room.
At some point, I hear shouting outside the safehouse, Liam barking orders through comms, someone running, something falling.
The world is chaos, but inside this room, there is only the rhythm of my breathing and the fierce, primal knowledge that my child is coming whether I’m ready or not.
When the door slams open the third time, I know it’s him.
Declan moves like he was dropped from a warzone directly into the room.
He’s covered in blood—not his, the midwife assures me immediately—but the sight still punches fear into my chest. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, and one of his knuckles is split open, dried crimson caked along the ridge.
His eyes, though, are clear and painfully focused.
They land on me, and everything else in him loses urgency.
“Ailish,” he breathes, coming to my side so fast a lamp nearly tips over. He takes my hand, warm and shaking, and presses it to his mouth. “I’m here. I promise. I’m here.”
I don’t have the strength to tease him for dramatic entrances. I can only cling to him as another contraction tears through me, my whole body tightening around the pain. He holds my hand through it, shoulders tense, jaw locked like he’s trying to take some of the pain for himself.
Labor becomes a blur after that.
At some point, he cleans up after a scolding from the midwife so that he’s ready to help if needed. He’s quick about it.
Hours stretch and collapse in strange ways.
Sometimes the room feels bright, crowded with voices and instructions.
Sometimes the world narrows to the sound of my own heartbeat.
I hear Declan counting with me, his forehead pressed to mine.
I hear the midwife warning me to breathe slower.
I hear my own voice cracking on a sob when the pressure becomes too much to bear.
And then, suddenly, everything shifts.
“Ailish,” the midwife says, her voice cutting through the haze. “It’s time to push. You’re almost there.”
Almost. Such a small, impossible word.
Declan tightens his hold on me, eyes wide with terror and awe. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re stronger than all of us put together. Come on, sweetheart. Breathe.”
I push.
The sound that leaves me is raw, scraped from somewhere deep in my soul.
My vision blurs, my muscles shake, my lungs burn with the strain.
I push again, and again, gripping Declan like he’s the last tether keeping me on this earth.
He murmurs encouragements with every breath, his voice breaking, his hand steady, his body bent over mine like he’s shielding us both from the storm outside.
I push one final time, and the world cracks open.
A cry fills the room—a thin, fierce sound that slices through everything. My heart stops, then races so violently I sway forward. The midwife lifts him, tiny and wrinkled and perfect, and suddenly the air is trembling with emotion.
“It’s a boy,” she announces softly.
Declan crumbles.
He doesn’t fall or make a sound, but something inside him breaks open in a way I’ve never seen. He presses a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking once, and when the midwife places our son against my chest, he leans in with tears spilling freely down his cheeks.
The baby cries, rooting instinctively, his skin soft and warm against mine. I stroke his cheek with trembling fingers, overwhelmed by the reality of him—his dark hair, his tiny fists, the softness of his breath.
“He’s…” My voice cracks as I look up at Declan. “He’s got your eyes.”
Declan lets out a strangled laugh-sob, half collapsing onto the edge of the bed. His forehead finds my temple as one hand strokes the baby’s back, reverent and terrified. “Jesus, Ailish,” he whispers. “He’s beautiful. He’s… God, he’s ours.”
The midwife works around us, checking vitals, murmuring reassurance, but I barely register anything except the weight of my son and the man falling apart beside me.
“What do you want to name him?” I ask softly, because this moment belongs to him too.
Declan pulls back—just enough to look at the baby again. His jaw tightens, and there’s something ancient in the way he whispers, “Cian.”
The name settles over the room like a blessing.
“Cian?” I echo, tasting it.
He nods, brushing a thumb across our son’s cheek. “It means ancient. Enduring. Something that survives everything thrown at it.” His voice drops, rough and vulnerable. “Like him. Like you.”
Something in my chest explodes with warmth.
“Cian,” I repeat, kissing the top of our son’s head. “Perfect.”
Hours later, I wake in recovery, the haze of labor replaced by a heavy exhaustion. The room is dim, the machines humming softly, something gentle and warm tucked around my shoulders. I shift slightly, enough to see a figure sitting beside me.
Liam.
He’s not in command mode—not barking orders, not scowling. He looks… tired, but softer than I’ve seen him in months. His posture is loose, one hand resting on his knee, the other draped over the back of the chair like he’s been sitting there a long time.
“Hey,” he says quietly, noticing I’m awake.
“Hi.” My voice is small, a little raw.
“Baby’s with the midwife,” he adds. “Declan’s pacing holes into the hallway carpet. Mackenzie threatened to sedate him.”
I laugh—weak, breathy, genuine.
Liam watches me for a moment, then his expression shifts. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“I scared myself,” I admit softly.
He nods, taking that in. For a long moment, the only sound is the quiet hum of machines and the faint echo of voices in the hallway.
Then Liam leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at me in a way that strips away all rank and all distance. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he says. “And I’m glad he was there for you.”
My throat tightens. “He was,” I whisper. “In every way that mattered. Even when he was falling apart, he held it together for me.”
Liam’s gaze softens—real, genuine softness that I rarely see. “He loves you. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
Emotion rises so fast it blindsides me. “I didn’t know if you trusted me,” I confess quietly. “These last months… I wasn’t sure.”
Liam exhales, leaning back in the chair. “I trusted you. Every step. But I had to balance it with the job. With the war. With all the eyes on us.” He pauses, voice low. “You’ve carried more weight than most people twice your size and twice your rank. And you did it while carrying a child.”
He looks at me like he’s seeing me differently now—not as a subordinate. Not as a friend. But as something more.
“You’ve earned your place,” Liam says, voice steady. “With or without Declan. If you want a permanent seat at the table—if you want to shape this organization going forward—it’s yours.”
The words land like a new dawn.
Part of me wants to cry again. Part of me wants to argue. But most of me just nods, because for the first time since this all began, I believe it too.
“Thank you, Liam,” I whisper. “Really.”
He gives a small, rare smile. “Get some rest, Ailish. Your boys are waiting.”
My boys.