Zarah
It started with pressure.
Low and rhythmic.
Not sharp—yet.
Just an ache that felt like it had a direction.
A countdown.
I shifted in bed.
Fingers splayed over my stomach, my other hand reaching for the warmth of him behind me.
"Dominic..."
He was already stirring.
Even in sleep, he was tuned to me.
I sat up slowly.
Tried to breathe through it.
Then felt the warmth between my legs.
At first, I thought I'd lost control of my bladder again—
a humiliating but common enough part of pregnancy I'd learned to accept.
But when I pulled back the covers—
My breath caught.
The sheets were soaked.
And still warm.
"Dominic."
Not a whisper now.
A command.
He was up in a second.
Eyes still heavy, chest bare, voice rough—
"Zarah?"
I turned to him.
Heart racing.
Hands trembling.
"My water broke."
Silence.
Then the sharpest inhale I'd ever heard from him.
"Okay," he said immediately. "Okay. You're okay."
He moved to my side of the bed.
Grabbed a towel.
Lifted me gently—like I was something already cracking.
"Contractions?"
"Small. But... starting."
"Bags are packed. We're ready." He kissed my forehead. "You're safe."
I clung to him.
Because as strong as I'd been—
As brave as I'd felt—
This was real.
And terrifying.
And beautiful.
"I'm not scared," I lied into his neck.
"You don't have to be," he whispered back.
"I'll carry you the whole way."
Dominic
The windshield was a sheet of water.
I couldn't see the road anymore.
Didn't need to.
We weren't moving.
The bridge had flooded.
And Zarah was screaming.
I killed the engine.
Climbed into the backseat.
Pulled her against me as gently as I could.
She was drenched in sweat.
Hair clinging to her face.
One hand gripped her belly like she was trying to hold the world inside her.
"You're okay," I whispered.
"I've got you. I'm here."
Another contraction hit.
She arched.
Cried out.
Her hand found my wrist and dug.
"It hurts—"
"I know, little one."
"I can't—"
"You can. You are."
I checked her legs.
Fast. Careful.
And saw it.
The head.
The fucking head.
My heart slammed.
Not from fear.
From powerlessness.
I couldn't stop this.
Couldn't delay it.
Couldn't buy time or silence or safety.
I had to deliver my daughter.
Here.
In the dark.
In the storm.
With the only woman I'd ever loved bleeding into my lap.
"Listen to me," I said, gripping her face between my palms.
"You're not going to die."
Her eyes met mine.
Terror.
Trust.
So much fucking pain.
"You're going to push when I tell you," I said.
"You're going to roar like you're made of fire, and then you're going to hold our daughter."
"Do you understand?"
She nodded.
Barely.
And then the next wave hit.
"NOW."
She screamed.
Pushed.
And I—
I wept.
Because nothing in my life—
not money, not violence, not empire—
ever made me feel as small,
as sacred,
as needed as holding my trembling wife
while she brought our child into the world.
And when she collapsed in my arms
And I held our daughter, slick and warm and wailing between us—
I didn't thank fate.
Or God.
Or medicine.
I whispered two words into the storm:
"Thank you."
