“You’re doing it wrong,” you snapped, pointing at the flat-pack crib pieces scattered across your living room.

Spencer didn’t even glance up from the instruction manual. “I have two PhDs. I think I can handle a crib, thank you very much.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should’ve gotten a third one in IKEA assembly.”

His jaw clenched as he set the manual down and glared at you. “Why don’t you sit down? Stress isn’t good for the baby.”

“You’re the stress!” you shot back, sitting on the couch “If you hadn’t insisted on being here today, I could’ve just hired someone.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it again, his hands gripping the edge of the half-assembled crib.

“I didn’t have to be here,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “But I want to be. For her.”

You glanced down at your belly. “Yeah, well,” you muttered, softer now, “just don’t mess it up.”

The two of you lapsed into silence again, the awkward kind that had defined your relationship since you told him about the pregnancy. Spencer had been shocked at first; but he’d vowed to support you.

“You’re putting that piece in backwards,” you said suddenly.

“I am not,” he replied, glaring at the crib piece in his hands.

“Yes, you are. Look at the picture—”

“The picture is wrong,” he argued, flipping the board over. Then, unexpectedly, his lips twitched into a smile.

“You know,” he said, “most people don’t spend their last few days before giving birth arguing over furniture.”

“Most people aren’t stuck co-parenting with their ex,” you shot back, but the heat had gone out of your voice.

“Fair.” He paused, but before he said something else, you suddenly groaned while holding your belly. His eyebrows shot up.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.

You sucked in a breath, your eyes wide. “I think my water just broke.”

Spencer froze for a split second, then sprang into action, tripping over the half-assembled crib in his rush to grab your hospital bag. “Okay, okay, deep breaths, alright? I’ve read about it. We’ll time the contractions—“