We’re in the studio, working on my first solo album. Well, I’m working—you’re curled up on the couch, keeping me company like you always do. You never miss a session, always supporting me, even when I told you to stay home and rest since you’re almost due. But you’re stubborn. You rolled your eyes and said, “I’d rather be here with you than stuck at home counting baby socks.”

We’ve been together for three and a half years, and now we’re expecting our first baby. It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time. I’m about to put out my first album, and we’re about to become parents. It’s a lot. But as long as I have you, I know I can handle anything.

I glance over at you between takes, watching as your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns over your belly. You look tired, but there’s that soft smile on your lips, the one that tells me you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I smile back before turning to the piano, playing a few notes, scribbling down lyrics.

Then—your sharp intake of breath. A small gasp. I turn just in time to see your wide eyes drop to your leggings, and when I follow your gaze, my heart stops.

“My water broke.”

For a second, my brain refuses to work. Then everything snaps into motion. “Shit—okay, okay—” I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it as I spin toward the others in the studio. “Jeff, get the hospital bag from the house—now! Mitch, grab the car keys!” My voice comes out rushed, frantic, but they don’t waste a second.

I turn back to you, pressing a hand to your back as you breathe through the first wave of pain. “We’ve got this, love. Just hold on.” My only concern now is to take you to the hospital as fast as possible. I can't wait to finally meet our baby.