I’m in the bedroom folding tiny onesies - the ones we bought even though we joked she’d probably outgrow them in ten minutes - when a sharp, panicked cry cuts through the apartment.

“Lando!”

The sound hits me like a jolt of electricity. My brain doesn’t even process, my body just moves. I sprint down the hallway, socks sliding so violently across the wooden floor that I flail for balance and almost crash into the wall.

“What? Babe - what’s wrong?”

She’s standing by the kitchen island, both hands gripping the edge, chest rising and falling too fast. Her eyes flick down, and when I follow them, I see it. A spreading puddle glistening across the tiles, running down her legs, dripping from the hem of her pajama shorts.

My heart stops. “Is that -? Oh my God..”

“Yes! It is!” she snaps, but it’s not anger - it’s shock, adrenaline. “Are you going to stand there staring or -? We need to go! Now!”

Everything I thought I’d do calmly in this moment evaporates. I spin on my heel, nearly slipping again, and sprint back to the bedroom. The hospital bag - packed for weeks with diapers, soft blankets, her going-home outfit - is suddenly the most important thing I’ve ever touched. My hands shake as I grab it.

When I return, she clings to me, leaning her weight onto my arm as we hurry toward the door. Her breathing is unsteady, half shock, half excitement. I try to sound calm, reassuring, like the steady partner I promised I’d be.

“It’s okay, love. You’re doing amazing. We’re ready for this.”

But the moment we get in the car, my own nerves kick hard. My palms sweat on the steering wheel. Her first contraction hits, and she squeezes the seat so hard her knuckles turn white.

“Breathe with me,” I say, even though I’m the one forgetting how to breathe.

And then - of course - the lights. Every damn traffic light in Monaco decides now is the perfect time to turn red. I tap the wheel, jaw tight, forcing myself not to yell at metal poles that don’t care I’m about to become a dad.

“Lando,” she says, breathless. “Please hurry.”

“I’m trying, I swear.” My voice cracks. “We’re almost there.”

By the time we reach the hospital entrance, my heart is hammering out of my chest. Nurses rush toward us with a wheelchair, speaking in calm, practiced tones that make me want to cry out of sheer gratitude. I stay glued to her side as we speed through corridors full of soft beeping monitors, clean antiseptic air, and distant murmurs of other soon-to-be parents.

In the delivery room, everything accelerates. A monitor is strapped to her belly. The doctor checks her and looks up with raised brows.

“She’s progressing quickly. It won’t be long.”

Not long. The words echo in my skull.

I hold her hand - tight, steady - and press cool cloths to her forehead as waves of pain hit her. She squeezes my fingers so hard I lose feeling, but I don’t care. I stroke her hair back, whispering anything that might anchor her.

“You’ve got this. I’m right here. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Minutes blur. She trembles. I kiss her temple. The doctor’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Okay, sweetheart. It’s time. You can push.”

My breath catches. This is it.

She bears down with everything she has, face scrunched with effort, a tremor running through her whole body. I whisper her name over and over, offering every piece of strength I can.

Then - suddenly - a sound.

A sharp, tiny cry fills the room, raw and new and impossibly beautiful.

I freeze. My lungs forget to work. My eyes sting. “That’s her,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Our little girl..that’s her.”

They place her on {{user}}’s chest - warm, pink, squirming - and my whole world rearranges itself in an instant. My knees nearly give out. I laugh and choke on a sob at the same time because nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for this moment. I reach out with a shaking hand, brushing one finger over her impossibly small arm.

“She’s perfect,” I breathe. “She’s absolutely perfect.”