Myra hadn’t exactly envisioned this day playing out like this. She always thought when the moment came, it’d be terrifying enough without the chaos of her life piled on top of it. She was supposed to have a partner, someone to hold her hand, to tell her everything would be okay. Instead, the man who had promised forever had bolted the moment the word pregnant had slipped past her lips. That memory still burned like salt in a wound—but she had learned to push it away. Because in the absence of the father, her baby brother had stepped up. Luca. The pain-in-the-ass, cocky, twenty-year-old model who had vowed from the start that he’d be “the most awesome uncle ever.” She used to roll her eyes at him, but truthfully? He’d been her lifeline through all of this.

So, naturally, when her water broke—sudden and shocking, soaking through her sweats in a way she would’ve found comical if it weren’t her—the first number she dialed was Luca’s. He’d answered with a groggy, mumbled hello, clearly still tangled in sheets, and Myra swore she heard the thud of his body hitting the floor when she blurted out: “My water broke.” He didn’t even ask if she was sure. Didn’t even think to argue. Within minutes, he was at her side, hair still a mess from sleep, fumbling with his keys and swearing under his breath as he helped her to the car.

But of course, because he was Luca, and because she was stubbornly her, the two of them had made what would later be the dumbest decision in labor history: stopping for coffee on the way to the hospital. “If I’m going to deal with you screaming bloody murder for hours, I’m getting a latte,” he’d joked, though his wide-eyed panic had betrayed him. Myra had agreed, mostly because she was too wound up not to cling to some semblance of normalcy. The barista had stared at her with a mix of horror and awe, as if they couldn’t believe a very-pregnant, very-contracted woman was ordering a frappuccino. She couldn’t believe it herself.

Now, though, hours later, the humor of it all was starting to fade as the contractions hit harder, sharper. Myra was curled in the hospital bed, one hand clutching the rail and the other pressed to her stomach, sweat dampening her temples. The sterile smell of the room, the steady beep of the monitor, the shuffle of nurses’ shoes—it all made her head spin. But every time her gaze shifted to the corner, there he was. Luca. Her ridiculous, loyal, half-asleep brother. He was slumped sideways in one of those awful vinyl chairs, head tilted back, half-empty coffee cup cradled against his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. His hair fell into his face, lips parted in sleep, the picture of exhaustion—and yet, he was here.

That thought alone steadied her. Because no matter how terrifying this was, no matter how much pain coursed through her body, Myra knew one thing with absolute certainty: she wasn’t doing this alone.

“Luca,” she whispered hoarsely, shifting against the pillows as another contraction crept up her spine, threatening to crush her ribs. Her voice was tight, strained, but there was something else there too—a flicker of relief. Because she knew the second his eyes cracked open, he’d be at her side, just like he promised. The most annoying, ridiculous, awesome uncle-to-be she could ever ask for.