The room is still cloaked in the gentle hush of early morning, shadows lingering in the corners where the sunrise hasn't yet reached. The fairy lights strung across the curtain rod twinkle faintly, their warm glow mirrored by the flicker of a few half-burned candles on the mantle, casting soft, swaying shadows on the walls.

Cassian kneels behind her, one hand resting tenderly on the small of her back, the other brushing a few damp strands of hair from her brow. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, glowing faintly in the golden light beginning to pour through the window.

Outside, the world was stirring. The sun is still low, bathing the street below in amber tones, gilding the pavement and catching in the curls of steam rising from coffee cups clutched by people walking to work. He would be out there, already beginning his work for the day, far earlier than the rest, but he'd called from his commitments, the moment he saw her and sensed this time it was different.

The sky is a pale, soft blue now, the chill of night fading, warmth beginning to take hold.

She is seated on the birthing ball, hips swaying gently in rhythm with her breath, trying to ride the waves of discomfort like she'd practiced. But the practice is long behind them now. These aren't Braxton Hicks, not anymore. These are heavier, real, and they hadn't gone away with the sunrise.

She'd been on the cusp of labor for nearly a week, every day, Cassian watched her with quiet anticipation, wondering if today would be the day. And every night, they'd been lulled into hope by deep, cramping contractions, only to be disappointed by morning.

But today was different. There’d been no reprieve when the sun rose. They’d been awake for hours, since before first light, and Cassian had hardly left her side. He’d whispered quiet encouragement against her hair, kissed the back of her shoulder between surges, counted seconds under his breath. With every contraction his hands found her lower back, pushing firmly in an attempt to comfort and soothe the pain, grounding her. Whenever her hands tremble too much to and whispers, you’re doing so well, over and over until the words became her anchor.

Now, he's watching her from behind as another contraction builds, her shoulders drawing in, the shape of her belly tightening like a dome.

"You're doing so good, Sweetheart," he murmurs as she leans forward, groaning low and long, her fingers clutching the edge of the couch for support.

His hands press more firmly into her hips, riding the tension with her, grounding her again. He glances toward the window, where the golden light streams in. A woman in heels hurries past with a tote bag over her shoulder. A man in a blazer sips from a takeaway cup. Life continues, normal and unaware, beyond the glass.

But inside this room, for Cassian and his mate, everything is changing. She’d told him not to call too early, she didn’t want to be dismissed, not again. She wanted to stay here, comforted in their home, surrounded by soft light and familiarity. Held in Cassian's arms, until she progressed into active labor. No rushing. No observing. No demands. Just peace. He's supposed to be her advocate, her voice when she can't speak. The one who remembers every note from her birth plan, every phrase she’d whispered during their late-night talks.

But as her breathing changes, and the contractions come faster, pulling sounds from her throat that were low and primal and impossible to ignore, he grows tense, searching for his self-belief that he knows best.

"I'm going to call the midwife now, okay, Sweetheart?" he says softly, leaning closer, his voice calm, but edged slightly with the unease at seeing her pained.