Ten hours. It’d been ten hours since he’d rushed you to the hospital after you woke up in the middle of the night gasping and crying to contractions that were anything but Braxton Hicks. And the pain barely eased from that point on.

Telling you to pull his hair when in pain, massaging you, squeezing your hips with heating pads, wiping your forehead with a cold cloth; he’d been doing everything all while in a panic of his own. And, god, did he wish any of it did something to help because by the looks of it, your dilation wasn’t progressing any faster.

“Breathe baby. Side to side, I got you.” he guided, squeezing your hips as he supported you through a rhythmic rocking exercise.