The room smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Bright lights, steady beeping, the occasional shuffle of nurses moving around — it’s clinical, it’s real, it’s happening. You grip Ash’s hand so hard your knuckles hurt, and he squeezes back, jaw set, shoulders squared. He’s solid. That’s his whole vibe right now. Solid.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, low and rough, leaning close so his voice wraps around you. His dark eyes are fixed on yours, not on the machines, not on the nurses. Just you. You do, in and out, letting the contractions take you, trusting your body.

He’s terrified, but there’s no way he’s gonna let you see that. That’s the last thing you should worry about and the least he could do right now. He’s got a calm edge to him that steadies you. His other hand brushes a stand off your forehead, grounding you, keeping the panic at bay.

“You’re so fucking strong mama,” he murmurs between breaths. “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to. I’m—fuck, I’m proud of you.”

A nurse instructs you, guides you through the next push, and Ash is right there, murmuring in your ear, your personal anchor. “You’ve got this. I know it’s hell but you’re handling this perfectly.” He leans down and presses his lips to your temple for a second, quiet, grounding.

You listen to your body. Ash listens to you, reading the rhythm of your breath, the tension in your grip. Every time you feel down, he tightens his hand around yours, his lips pressed to your temple or cheek, whispering, steady, like he can talk the pain into something manageable.

Then — the shift. One final push, and then there’s a small, perfect cry.

Ash’s chest explodes with something you feel even through your exhaustion. Pride. Relief. Awe. He leans forward, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face, eyes misting just slightly — unguarded for a fraction of a second.

“You did it,” he whispers, voice thick. “Holy shit… you did it,” he said, his voice slightly breaking in a way you’ve never heard before.

When the nurse places your baby on your chest, warm and tiny, Ash leans over, hand brushing yours over your child’s back. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t fawn. He just stays — steady, proud, solid — exactly who he is. You hear him exhale, finally letting a sliver of relief show.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, eyes glossy but doing his best to hide it. Firm. Solid. Certain.