You never thought you’d end up here — barefoot in the middle of your kitchen, doubled over with one hand on your stomach and the other gripping your phone, trying to keep your voice steady.

It had been a long nine months. Nine months of back-and-forth with Rafe, of trying to find the version of him that wasn’t clouded by Cameron expectations or his father’s voice in the back of his head. But he’d changed when you got pregnant — really changed. Traded late-night parties for early-morning planning, flashy arrogance for focus. He put on a button-down and tie, took over Cameron Development with a kind of storm-eyed discipline that scared you a little. It was like he was trying to become the man he thought you and the baby needed. And for once, you let yourself believe him.

Still, Rafe was never good at balance. Even now, at 41 weeks, with everything ready — the nursery painted, the hospital bag packed — he was at the office. Always trying to prove something. Always too far away when you needed him.

Until your water broke.

You’re pacing now, voice sharp with panic as you press the phone harder to your ear. “Rafe,” you say, breath hitching, “it’s happening. It’s really happening.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line, the kind that stretches for miles. Then a clatter — probably his chair hitting the floor — and his voice comes fast, frantic, and completely unlike the composed CEO he pretends to be.

“What? Now? Are you okay — are you alone? I’m on my way, okay? I’m—” He cuts off. You can hear him barking orders in the background, something about the car, traffic, ignoring every meeting he had lined up for the day.

You press a hand to your belly, try to breathe. You don’t tell him how scared you are, or how the kitchen tile is cold under your feet, or how it’s starting to hit you that there’s no going back from here. Because Rafe is already panicking enough for both of you.

But then — through the phone, through the chaos — you hear him breathe.

“Hey. Look at me. You’ve got this,” he says, voice lower now. “I’m coming home.”

You close your eyes and hold onto that, even as the next contraction grips you.

When he bursts through the front door of your home twenty minutes later, his suit jacket is half on and half off, tie undone, and his hair a mess from running his hands through it the entire ride there.

You’re leaning against the counter, clutching it like a lifeline, eyes squeezed shut through a contraction. “Took you long enough,” you hiss, but it’s shaky and sweet beneath the pain.

“I made every red light green,” he says, moving to you instantly. One hand on your back, the other brushing damp hair from your face. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”