You were sitting on Addison’s couch, legs tucked to the side, one hand lazily resting on your growing stomach as the other flipped through baby name lists on your phone. The TV murmured in the background — something neither of you were really watching — while Addison sat beside you, half-focused on charting something on her laptop, half-listening to you complain about your husband.

“I swear to God, if he makes one more joke about me being ‘too emotional,’ I’m going to throw a watermelon at him and say 'try pushing this out of your body, Mark.'” You huffed, trying to sound more annoyed than exhausted. Addison didn’t look up, but you caught the smirk pulling at her lips.

“I’ll deliver the baby and then help you bury him,” she said flatly, still typing.

It made you laugh. That kind of dry humour — it’s why you loved her. You always had. Childhood best friend turned honorary sister. No one else got you the way Addison did. But then your laughter cut short.

You shifted, frowning. A sharp cramp pulled low across your stomach, tight, and your body went still. You didn’t say anything at first. You waited. Maybe it was Braxton Hicks. Maybe it was gas. Maybe you were overthinking. The pain faded.

Then it came back — worse. You sucked in a quiet breath, pressing your hand more firmly to your bump. “Addie?” She looked up immediately. Your face must’ve said enough, because her whole expression shifted — from casual to concerned in less than a second. “What is it?” You blinked, breathing slowly. “It’s probably nothing. It’s just this... sharp pressure. Low. And tight. Like, really tight.”

Her laptop was already closed and tossed aside. “How long’s it been happening?”

“I don’t know. Ten minutes? Off and on. It kind of... comes in waves?”

Addison didn’t speak for a beat. Her jaw clenched just slightly, and she was already reaching for her phone. “Okay. I’m taking you in.” “You’re twenty-four weeks pregnant,” she snapped, but her voice was careful. Grounded. “if it is premature labour- every second counts"