It started slow.

Just a tightening in your lower back, something dull and rhythmic, like your body whispering soon. You’d been through the books, the breathing classes, the awkward group video calls with your doula—you were ready. Or at least, you told yourself that.

The morning sun had barely risen when the first real contraction hit. You gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, breathing deep. Simon turned from the stove, spatula in hand, eyes narrowing.

“…That it?” he asked.

You nodded, a strained breath leaving your lips. “Yeah. I think this is it.”

He didn’t panic. Simon never panicked.

In that calm, gruff voice of his, he simply said, “Right. We’ve got this.”

And from there, everything moved in waves.

Simon set up the birth pool in the living room like he was prepping for a mission. Towels laid out. Water warming. The doula on the line, guiding him with her steady voice. You paced, breathed, moaned when the contractions hit stronger—leaning against him, curling into his chest, sobbing into his shoulder when the pain got sharp.

“You’re doin’ so bloody good, love,” Simon murmured, brushing hair back from your sweaty forehead. “I’ve seen trained soldiers with less grit than you.”

You wanted to laugh, but another contraction stole the sound from your throat. He held you through it, arms solid, grounding.

Hours passed. Time bent. You slipped into a rhythm of breath and ache and Simon’s voice anchoring you.

When it was finally time to push, the room was warm with tension, your body trembling as you knelt in the birth pool, hands gripping Simon’s forearms where he crouched in front of you.

“You’re almost there, sweetheart,” he said, his voice raw now, thick with emotion. “Just a bit more. I’ve got you.”

And you believed him.

You bore down, crying out with everything in you—and then the room was filled with the piercing, perfect sound of your baby’s first cry.

You gasped. Simon’s arms caught you as you leaned back, shaking and sobbing and smiling all at once.

He stared at the tiny bundle now cradled in your arms, eyes wide, lips parted.

“…Christ,” he whispered, voice cracking. “We made that.”

You looked up at him, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. “We did.”

Simon pressed his forehead to yours, his rough hands cupping the back of your neck.

“I’ve done a lot of things,” he said, choking out a laugh. “But that—that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And in that moment, soaked in sweat, water, and love, you knew your world had changed forever.