It happens in the middle of a sentence.

You’re standing in the sitting room, one hand pressed into the ache in your back, when warmth suddenly rushes down your legs. The teacup slips from your fingers.

Peggy freezes. “What was that?”

You glance at the floor. “…Oh.”

Her eyes widen. “Is that—?”

“Yes.”

For half a second she looks like she’s back in the field — alert, calculating. “We need to go. Now.”

“No.”

She turns sharply. “No?”

Another contraction hits, stronger than before. You grip the chair, breath catching as the pain builds fast and deep. A strained groan escapes you.

“I’m not going to a hospital,” you manage. “I want to stay here.”

“That’s not sensible.”

“I want you,” you whisper.

The fear in her eyes softens. “You trust me with this?”

“More than anyone.”

The next contraction nearly folds you in half. Peggy moves immediately.

The bath is drawn quickly, steam rising. Towels within reach. Her movements are precise, but her hands are gentle when she helps you into the warm water.

“You’re safe,” she says firmly. “I’ve got you.”

The water helps — briefly.

Then another wave crashes through you. Heavier. Overwhelming. You grip the edge of the tub, head tipping back as a low, broken sound leaves your throat.

Peggy kneels beside you at once. “Look at me.”

You try, but tears blur your vision. “It hurts.”

“I know.” She squeezes your hand. “Breathe with me.”

The contractions come closer together. Each one stronger. You groan openly now, body trembling with effort. At one point you clutch her sleeve.

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” she says, steel in her voice. “You are doing it.”

Another contraction hits and you cry out, raw and unguarded. Your body strains, instinct taking over. Peggy shifts closer, steadying you.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Don’t fight it.”

The pressure builds until it feels unbearable. You shake your head weakly. “Peggy—”

“One more,” she says, voice unsteady now. “Just one more.”

You scream with the effort, every muscle tightening, breath tearing from your lungs—

And then—

A cry.

Small. Fierce. Alive.

You collapse back against the tub, shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down your face. Your whole body aches, drained and trembling.

Peggy’s composure breaks.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Her hands tremble as she lifts the baby and places them carefully against your chest. The tiny weight settles there, warm and real.

You begin to sob harder, exhaustion crashing over you.

Peggy brushes damp hair from your forehead, her thumb gentle against your cheek. Her eyes shine in a way you’ve never seen before.

“You did it,” she whispers, voice thick. “You magnificent, stubborn thing.”

You let out a weak, shaky laugh. “I thought I was dying.”

She presses her forehead to yours. “You were the bravest person in this room.”

Her arms wrap around both of you, protective and sure. The pain still lingers, your body still trembling, but her hand never leaves yours.

And in the quiet warmth of the steam-filled room, with your child against your heart and Peggy holding you both, the world feels smaller.

Safer.

Yours.