The bathroom was already a sanctuary of steam and lavender by the time John pushed the door open, carrying two extra plush towels over his shoulder. Inside, at thirty-five weeks pregnant, I was standing by the sink, gripping the marble edge so hard my knuckles had turned white. Another wave of Braxton Hicks contractions had hit me ten minutes ago, locking my stomach into a tight, agonizing band of pressure, coupled with a lower backache that felt like a hot poker.

"Easy, sweetheart. I'm right here" John’s gravelly voice was a steady anchor in the dim, warm room. He didn't ask questions; he never panicked. As a captain, John thrived in chaos, but right now, his entire focus his entire world shrank down to the bathroom tiles and the woman trying to catch her breath.

He set the towels down, stepped up behind me, and wrapped his strong, calloused hands gently around my swollen belly. He pulled me back against his chest, letting me lean my dead weight into him. I let out a shaky exhale as his thumb rubbed slow, soothing circles into my hip.

"Still gripping?" he murmured against my hair, his stubble scratching softly.

"It won't let go" I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek from sheer exhaustion. My feet were swollen, my lower back was screaming, and the sheer weight of carrying a full-term baby felt insurmountable tonight. "I’m so tired, John."

"I know, love. I've got you" he said softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "The tub’s ready. Let's get you in the water. Take some of that weight off."