The living room smells faintly of lavender and the inflatable birthing pool takes up most of the floor space, glowing slightly blue in the filtered afternoon light. You’ve been having contractions since this morning—somewhere between “mildly annoying” and “you’ve got to be kidding me”—and now things are starting to ramp up.

You shift on the yoga ball next to the pool, breathing through another wave, and look up to see Simon crouched beside you with a cup of water and that familiar worried furrow between his brows.

“You alright, love?” he asks gently, brushing some hair out of your face.

“I’m about to evict a whole human from my body, Simon. Define ‘alright,’” you say through gritted teeth, then immediately grin as the contraction subsides. “I mean, aside from that, I feel amazing. Five stars. Highly recommend.”

He huffs a laugh, low and rough, leaning in to kiss your temple. “You’re bloody unstoppable.”

Another contraction hits and you close your eyes, letting the pressure crest like a wave. Simon holds your hand without needing to be asked, thumb stroking over your knuckles, and doesn’t flinch when you squeeze like you’re trying to break his fingers.

“That one felt… intense,” you mutter once it passes, cheeks flushed.

“You’re doing amazing,” Rachel, the midwife, reassures you, checking the water temperature in the pool. “Whenever you feel ready, the water’s perfect.”

Simon looks at you, eyes serious beneath the soft edges of his grin. “Want me to get in with you? I’ve got swim trunks and questionable dignity.”