#Labors AU | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

warpdrive-witch · 23 days ago

Text

It Worked (22/23)

CW: Childbirth.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader Summary: like a prayer—hands shaking, mouth falling open in a breathless, reverent sob.“Please, my Love,”

A Breath From Becoming

The wind rushed ahead of you as the front door swung open, curling into the house like it was announcing your arrival. You crossed the threshold slowly, your hand still pressed low over your belly as Agatha stepped in behind you and reached instinctively to close the door, her palm guiding it shut with a soft click. And just like that, the outside world vanished.

No more university tile beneath your feet. No fluorescent lights. No committee waiting for you to speak. Only the hush of home—the kind of hush that hummed with memory. The hallway smelled faintly of lemon balm, lavender, and the low warmth of wood and old books. You paused there a moment, breath heavy, eyes fluttering shut as the silence folded itself around your shoulders like a shawl. The weight in your hips made itself known again—low, pulsing, deep. You exhaled slowly. Carefully. Like you were afraid to wake something sleeping.

Agatha moved past you, quiet and watchful, setting your bag on the entryway bench. Rio brushed her fingertips over your back as she stepped into the kitchen, her keys already dropped into the dish by the door. Their movements were soft. Practiced. But tense, like even they could feel the way the house had stilled.

You stepped forward, bare feet sinking into the rug just past the doorway, the cool weave catching beneath your toes. The air in the house felt heavier now, warmer than outside, tinged with the scent of lemon balm and something faintly sweet, like old cedar and skin-warmed cotton. Rio’s hand found the small of your back as you moved down the hall. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable,” she said softly, already veering toward the bedroom like she knew exactly what your body was begging for before you could say it.

The bedroom welcomed you like a held breath. The lights were off, but the storm had dimmed the windows anyway. Everything inside was still—the comforter half-tossed from the morning, the soft folds of the curtains shifting slightly from the cracked window. You moved toward the dresser, but Rio was already crouching by the laundry basket, pulling out a pair of soft shorts. “Here,” she murmured, rising again to help you.

You braced yourself against the bed frame as she gently peeled the waistband of your slacks down your thighs, careful not to jostle you too fast. Her touch was gentle, reverent. She pressed a kiss to your hip before helping you step out of them, folding the fabric over one arm. You reached back and unclasped your bra with a frustrated grunt, shoving it down and off like it had offended you just by existing. Your skin sighed at the release, your shoulders falling half an inch in relief.

Then your hand reached for the shirt. Agatha’s. The one she’d worn last night. Still soft with the imprint of her sleep, with the memory of her warmth pressed into the seams. You gathered it slowly, almost reverently, the fabric cool beneath your fingertips. It smelled like her—like lilac and something older, something quieter. A scent you’d come to think of as home.

You pulled it over your head inch by inch, careful with your breath, careful with your body. The cotton caught slightly on your damp shoulders, clinging for a heartbeat before falling low around your belly in a loose, familiar sweep. It barely reached your thighs now—everything about your body had shifted. The curve of your abdomen stole the shape of the fabric, made it hers.

And just as the shirt settled, another contraction. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t panic. You breathed. Your hand shot out to the edge of the bed, gripping the comforter in tight, white-knuckled silence. Your knees bent slightly, instinctively. The pressure spread through your pelvis like heat blooming from stone—low, wide, steady. It pulled through you in a wave, curling into the base of your spine, cresting just behind your hips.

Your jaw clenched. Your eyelids fluttered closed. You swayed. Not wildly, not from fear—but from something deeper. Something older than you. The body’s slow dance with time and arrival. Rio stepped in behind you without needing to be asked. Her palm pressed firm and low against your back, right where the ache had bloomed—right where you needed her most. The warmth of her skin seeped into you through the cotton, steadying the sway, guiding it. You didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

You breathed. And when it passed—when the worst of the pull began to ease—you felt your fingers loosen on the blanket. Your spine released notch by notch, the curve of your back finding something like softness again. You exhaled, not loud—but deep, long, necessary. A letting-go kind of breath. The contraction ebbed, its ghost still braided through your hips like the final tremor of a storm disappearing underground.

Your lashes were damp now. Your breath uneven. But the world came back in pieces. The hush of the room. The creak of floorboards. The soft exhale of the air vent. The heat of a hand still anchored against your lower back.

Rio hadn’t moved. Her palm was steady as a vow, cupping the weight of you, thumb curved to the slope of your spine. She didn’t rush. Didn’t fill the air with questions. Her eyes were already there, on you—not hunting for signs of distress, but watching with reverence. With something wordless. You turned toward her.

And kissed her. Not quickly. Not hungrily. But truly. The kiss was not a question. It was not a flare of passion meant to distract or seduce. It was something older than both. Something holy. The kind of kiss that pressed the air still, that folded time at the edges. The kind that whispered: Thank you. I love you. Holy shit, this is happening.

When your lips parted, your foreheads stayed together. You didn’t move. Her hands slid instinctively to your waist, thumbs grazing the round sides of your belly like she was trying to memorize her. Her nose brushed yours. Her breath caught. She smiled. Small. Soft. Full of everything. Her eyes shimmered, glassy with the pressure of something she hadn’t said yet, might never find words for. And still, she stayed.

You laced your fingers through hers. One last squeeze. Then you stepped past her. Your feet were bare against the hardwood, the weight of your body pulling down with each careful step. The hem of Agatha’s sleep shirt swayed around your thighs, still warm from the heat of your body, clinging slightly with each movement. Your hips rolled instinctively now, as if the baby had taken control of gravity. As if your bones were beginning to open. This wasn’t just pacing anymore. This was ritual. This was survival. The scent met you halfway down the hall—herbal, gentle, familiar. Chamomile and lemon balm, honey warmed by steam. You turned the corner, drawn toward it like tide to shore.

And there she was. Agatha. Lit in the low glow of the kitchen light, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other stirring slow circles of honey. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, forearms flexed, hair loose from the rain. A few strands curled against her temple, still damp from the walk back. The windows behind her shivered as the wind pressed against them, soft groans of glass echoing through the frame.

She hadn’t heard you yet. But you smiled anyway. That small, lopsided smile—crooked with awe, tiredness, and something like wonder. The one that somehow always rose, even now, even like this. She looked up. And when your eyes met, it hit her. Not as panic. Not as fear. But something cellular. The tension in her shoulders didn’t vanish, but it shifted—like her whole body was saying there you are,andI’ve got you.

She moved before you could take another step, slipping around the counter like a tide breaking over a dock. Her hand found your cheek, fingertips featherlight but unshakable, like she was grounding herself through the touch.

You leaned into her. Not just from exhaustion—but from instinct. From muscle memory. From love. The kind of leaning that wasn’t about weight but about belonging. Your cheek pressed into the curve of her shoulder, your breath catching where her collarbone rose to meet you. Agatha didn’t pull back. She adjusted around you like the earth itself might shift to cradle you better. No startle. No question. Just presence. Her arms were a quiet circle around your frame, one hand steady against the small of your back, the other still carrying the warmth of the mug she’d set down moments ago.

Behind you, Rio’s voice floated through the kitchen’s hush, low and sure. “Do you want tea, babe? Or… anything else that might help?”

You didn’t lift your head. Couldn’t, just yet. The world still felt like it was unfolding in pieces, and this—this quiet hold—was the only thing keeping you from slipping through the cracks. “Maybe just water,” you murmured, the words leaving you on a breath, so soft they barely reached the air. “Right now.”

You felt Agatha nod more than you saw it. Her chin brushed the top of your head. Then, after a second—after you let yourself breathe in the citrus and honey on her skin—you added, “I had another one. Before I came out… in the bedroom.”

That got her attention. Not with alarm. Not even surprise. But with a stillness that said she was listening. Fully. Her hand, still resting at your back, shifted slightly as she reached into her pocket. You could feel the movement more than see it—the brush of her knuckles near your hip, the weight of her coat swinging open.

She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. The light washed up her face in a soft, silvery glow. “Okay,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Her brow furrowed as she studied the list. You could feel her thumb hovering before the soft click of contact confirmed it. Another contraction, noted. A beat of silence. Then, she said it. Gently. “They’re getting closer.”

But she didn’t press the words between you like a warning. She didn’t rush or brace or make a plan. She let the sentence hang there, open-ended, like a truth that had always been coming. She didn’t say it aloud—not right away. Just let it settle in the space between her breath and yours, that invisible thread that always hummed between you when things got quiet. When things got real. Her hands found you again. Not like a startle. Not like a reaction. But like a promise. Slow, warm, deliberate, she moved one hand up your arm in soft, sweeping passes. Her thumb brushed over your sleeve—the sleeve of her sleep shirt, which now clung to your skin in places where sweat had begun to gather. She didn’t comment on it. Didn’t flinch. Just kept moving, the way someone rocks a newborn even after they’ve fallen asleep. Rhythm. Safety. Touch without weight.

Not to comfort. Not to fix. Just to be. Her fingers glided down the slope of your arm, pausing at your elbow before tracing gently back up again. That repetitive motion—the whisper of skin through fabric, the faint scent of lemon balm and something else herbal still clinging to her—lulled you deeper into the moment. The cotton was damp at your lower back, your body still echoing the contraction from earlier. You could feel your muscles twitch there, residual and slow. But her touch wasn’t overbearing. She didn’t try to hold you still or upright. She didn’t crowd. It was presence. Constant. Faithful. The same way she’d always been.

You exhaled slowly, feeling your body release a fraction of tension. Your arms stayed at your sides, one foot braced against the floor like the room might tilt. Like gravity itself had a heartbeat now, and it was pacing in time with yours. It already had.

Something in the air had shifted—so quietly you’d almost missed it—but Agatha felt it, too. You knew she did. Knew it in the way her body stilled with yours, the way her breath synced without trying. Her hand lingered now just beneath your shoulder, her palm wide, grounding. Like she could absorb the weight of everything—your body, your fear, the inevitability inching closer—with that one silent, sacred touch.

------

A few hours later, the storm was no longer a suggestion.

Rain lashed the windows in uneven bursts, smearing the glass in quicksilver sheets. Outside, the sky had turned to bruised slate, and distant thunder rolled like something ancient waking in the deep. The wind hummed low against the house, a sound you could feel more than hear—like breath along the ribs of the walls. Light flickered on the hardwood floor in brief, haunting flashes. Midday, but the world had dimmed.

And your body—your body had shifted too. You were bent now over the edge of the kitchen table, elbows braced wide, one hand gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles had gone pale. The other cupped your belly, fingers splayed like a question and an answer all at once. Your forehead rested against your forearm. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Focused.

The contraction moved through you like molten stone—low and grinding, pushing deep into your pelvis with all the force of something real. No longer preparatory. No longer theoretical. This was her. This was progress. Each wave wasn’t just a marker of time now—it was a gate swinging open.

Your shirt clung to the small of your back, soaked through with sweat that had beaded along your spine and hairline. Strands of your hair stuck to your cheeks, curling where they met damp skin. The cotton was dark where it met heat, molded to every breath, every tremble.

Agatha stood just beside you, one hand pressed gently between your shoulder blades. Her touch wasn’t heavy—just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone. Her voice followed a beat later, soft and sure, like music timed to your breath. “Breathe, sweetheart. That’s it. You’re doing so good.” You tried to nod, but didn’t manage it. Not yet. You inhaled through your nose, slow, dragging the air into the tightest part of your lungs. Exhaled through your mouth in a shaking stream.

The pain didn’t vanish. But it moved. It changed shape. It made room. From the corner of the room, Rio’s voice came like a thread pulled through velvet. “How long was that one?” Agatha shifted slightly, her free hand pulling her phone from her pocket. Her fingers moved quick and practiced across the screen. “Just over a minute,” she murmured. Then, more firmly: “Close to five minutes apart now.”

You managed a sound that might’ve been a laugh—crooked and winded, snagging somewhere in your throat. Or maybe it was just breath shaped like humor. Either way, it came out with the barest curve of your lips, your body still folded over the edge of the table like a prayer unfinished. “She’s timing it with the thunder,” you said, voice low and dry, the words stitched with something between wonder and disbelief.

And right on cue, the sky answered you. Thunder cracked open above the house like a divine exhale—loud, guttural, the sound of something ancient splitting wide in the heavens. The windows shuddered in their frames. A fork of light flashed against the walls, pale and momentary, bathing the kitchen in a glow that seemed to hold its breath.

Agatha let out a quiet laugh behind you—not a full one, but the kind that tugged at the corner of her mouth and softened her whole chest. “Making an entrance,” she murmured as her fingers began to glide gently down your spine, tracing the line of your vertebrae like a familiar road. “Just like her Mommy.”

The way she said it—low, teasing, reverent—made something catch deep in your chest. Not pain. Not contraction. Just a bloom of knowing. A flare of love so strong it felt cellular.

Rio’s footsteps entered the moment like a rhythm returning—bare, deliberate, each step padded against the hardwood. You didn’t need to look to feel her. The heat of her body announced her before her hand ever reached you.

She said nothing at first. Just set a glass of water down within arm’s reach—close enough to take, but not forced into your hand. Then her fingers brushed your hair back from your face, slow and featherlight, tucking the damp strands behind your ear. Her touch lingered at your temple for a breath longer than necessary.

Then softly, in that voice she only ever used for you— “Do you want to sit? Or keep standing through the next one?” The question didn’t rush you. It waited. You didn’t answer right away. Not because you didn’t hear her. But because your body was already moving toward something deeper than words. The contraction had passed, yes—but its shadow still pulsed through your thighs, your hips, your breath. And beneath that shadow, something else had begun to rise. Not pain. Not fear. Momentum. A sacred shift. The kind you could feel in your bones. It was happening. Agatha behind you, her hand still warm against your spine. Rio beside you, one palm hovering just above your belly now, not quite touching—waiting for you to invite it.

They didn’t ask again. They didn’t fill the silence with encouragement or instruction or worry. They just stayed. One as your root. The other as your flame. The rain battered harder against the glass, wind pressing like breath against the seams of the house. Thunder rolled again, low and distant, and you felt your body begin to unfurl. Slowly, trembling, you straightened from the table. Not all the way. Not fast.

The power flickered. A blink. A breath. The overhead lights dimmed, then surged, then dimmed again—until, with a soft, final sigh, they went out. The kitchen dropped into shadow. The low hum of the refrigerator vanished. The faint classical music playing from the small kitchen radio cut off mid-note.

For a second, the whole house held its breath. A stillness fell that felt almost too quiet, as though the walls themselves were bracing.

Rio stepped toward the window just as the silence settled, brow furrowing as her gaze swept up. The sky outside had darkened to near-night, streaked with threads of silver rain. Wind curled around the corners of the house, rattling the glass with restless fingers. “That storm came in faster than they said—” she began, but her words stopped short the moment her eyes landed on you.

You were standing, yes—but only just. One hand was pressed hard against the underside of your belly, your spine curled forward, your breath coming fast and shallow through parted lips.

“It’s fine,” you started—but the next contraction crashed into you like a freight train, no warning this time, no mercy. The pain was sharp and deep and all-consuming, blooming hot and full across your lower body.

Your knees buckled. But Agatha was there. She surged forward, arms wrapping around you before gravity could claim you. One arm caught beneath your ribs, the other curled protectively behind your back as she guided you to lean into her, anchoring you like roots in the storm. Her breath was close to your ear, steady and soft.

Rio moved without hesitation, her hands pressing firm and familiar against your lower back, adjusting for the shift in your weight, grounding you from behind. The room glowed now in fragments—lamplight flickering from the far corner, two thick candles already lit on the windowsill from earlier in the day. Their flames trembled with each breath of wind that crept through the house’s bones.

Agatha’s mouth was at your temple. Rio’s hand pressed flat at the base of your spine. “We need to text Ezra,” Agatha whispered, not in panic but in motion, already reaching toward the phone that no longer buzzed in her pocket.

“We need to go,” Rio said at the same time, voice tight with urgency, her gaze flicking to the storm outside.

“We need—”

“We need to breathe,” you said.

And the words left you on a laugh—trembling, sharp, half-wild. A sound stretched thin between panic and surrender. You weren’t sure if you were laughing or crying or somewhere in between. But you meant it. Every word. Every syllable forged in sweat and thunder.

Outside, the sky split again. And the storm broke. Rain slammed against the roof like a wave breaking across a ship’s hull, wind howling through the trees beyond the house. The windows shook, thunder following close behind. The world outside turned soft and furious and holy. And inside the house, you stood—barely—between them. Agatha’s arms still around you like a ring of warmth and iron. Rio’s hand still pressed to the small of your back, the weight of it more grounding than gravity. The storm hadn’t made them falter. Not once. And that knowledge settled under your ribs like breath finally drawn.

The silence after the thunder was almost sacred. You tilted your head back, pressing your forehead to Agatha’s collarbone for just a moment, your chest rising and falling against hers. “Okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure who it was for. Yourself. Your daughter. The storm.

“I’ve got you, you’re so strong” she whispered. Agatha’s lips settled against your skin like a promise, her arms still wrapped around you, holding your weight with more than muscle. Her cheek rested just beneath your shoulder blade, breath slow and synced to yours, as if she could will you through it by sheer presence alone. You nodded or tried to. Your body didn’t move much, but the yes lived in you. In the way your chest lifted against her. In the way your grip on Rio’s fingers tightened.

And then—like some cruel reminder—the storm answered. You’d never liked storms. Not as a child, not now. Something about the uncertainty of them always curled beneath your skin like a whisper you couldn’t shake. The way the wind could shift direction without warning. The way lightning lit up a room for a second too long, revealing everything in stark relief—too honest, too exposed.

Even now, still held in Agatha’s arms, that same fear echoed in you. Not loud. Not screaming. But there. The rumble of thunder rolled low across the sky like a warning bell in the bones. It didn’t crash; it moved—vibrating through the floorboards, crawling into your knees, threading its way up your spine until it nested just behind your ribs.

The next contraction didn’t wait. It didn’t build gradually like the last few. It slammed through you like a breaker rolling in from the deep, cresting high and hot and immediate. Your knees buckled again—this time not from shock, but sheer force—and Agatha caught you without hesitation, her arms wrapping tighter, her hand at the base of your skull.

“You’re okay.” Her voice was right there in your ear, threading through the pain. It bent you forward like your body already knew to bow to it, your hands white-knuckled where they gripped the edge of her body. Your breath caught in your throat. Your belly clenched. Your thighs began to shake. “It’s just a storm,” Rio said softly behind you.

Her palm moved in slow, deliberate circles across your lower back, pressing firm where your muscles had knotted tight. Over and over, her hand chased the heat. Grounded your breath. Matched your tension with steadiness. “Just a storm, baby. You’re safe.” The words landed in pieces. Not fully heard, but felt—like warmth in the cold. You let out a sound. A low, raw thing. Not quite a cry. Not quite a word. Just air forced through fear.

It cracked out of you without shape—just pressure and pain pushing hard against the edge of your resolve. Your jaw clenched. Your knees buckled. Agatha tightened her hold just in time, catching you like she always did. Your breath was ragged now—no rhythm, just gasps caught in your throat as your hands reached for anything. You found Rio. Her shirt. Her shoulder. Something. Your fingers curled into fabric, anchoring there.

“Breathe,” she said again, steady but breathless. “Just like that. Let it happen.”

You did. You had to. You let the pain move through you. Let it tear open something you hadn’t known was still closed. Your mouth opened but no sound came, your brow pressing hard into Agatha’s shoulder as your hips rocked forward with the force of it. You felt your whole body shift around the contraction—your spine arching, your thighs shaking.

Time narrowed. It passed. Again. But this time, you stayed collapsed in their arms, too spent to straighten, your breath sobbing against Agatha’s neck. You felt Rio’s palm flatten across your back again. Her other hand found your wrist and wrapped around it, thumb stroking once. Just once. It was enough. “You’re okay,” Agatha whispered into your hair, her lips barely moving. “We’re here. We’re with you. Let it come. We’ve got you.”

The storm wailed against the windows. The candles flickered. The lights hadn’t come back on. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows—soft and rhythmic, like a clock ticking down. You were still in Agatha’s arms, chest heaving, limbs trembling from the last contraction. Her hands stayed gentle, but there was no mistaking the strength beneath them—her whole body wrapped around yours like she could absorb the pain, slow the storm, stop time itself.

“You’re everything,” she whispered again, her breath warm against your temple. You nodded—or something like it. A gesture more breath than motion. Another breath. Another pause. Another warning bell.

You stepped back slowly, peeling yourself from her body with effort, like your muscles didn’t quite want to separate. Her hands lingered for a beat—one sliding down your arm, the other brushing your waist—then fell away, letting you find your balance. That moment held. Rio stood beside you, solid and unwavering. She hadn't left your side. Not once.

The storm flashed again, lightning lighting her profile in a brief silver burn. Another breath. Another pause. Another warning bell. “I think we should go,” Rio said quietly, her voice like a tide pulling toward shore. Not loud. Not sharp. But impossible to ignore. The softness hadn’t left—but now it was threaded with iron. “Now. Before the roads get worse.” You didn’t respond at first. You couldn’t.

Another contraction slammed into you—hard, fast, deep. It folded you in on yourself, your body bowing under the weight of it before your brain could even register. Your hand flew to the couch for balance, your breath slicing out in jagged bursts. Your teeth clenched. You tried not to cry out. Just breathe. Just breathe.

Agatha moved instantly,“Ezra said the hospital hasn’t lost anything yet,” she said gently. “She’s still on standby for us.”

You nodded once, barely. You knew the plan. You’d written it with them. But still—God. The thought of leaving now, inthis—in a body that felt like it was unraveling by the minute, with the wind outside shrieking like something ancient come home.

It made your throat tighten. Your hands shake. The room felt suspended again. Three of you in the storm’s lamplight. Rain like breath against the glass. Candle shadows dancing up the walls. The smell of eucalyptus oil and sweat, thick in the air. The sacred hush of rising fear and rising purpose. Agatha reached for your hand. “It’s time.”

You hesitated. The thunder cracked overhead—deep and bone-shaking—and you flinched. “In this?” you whispered, voice thin, almost breaking. “What if we get stuck?”

Rio didn’t flinch. She was already moving—already reaching out to make sure you looked at her. Steady. Unshakable. “We’re not staying here,” she said. “Not with how fast she’s moving.” Agatha’s voice followed, low but filled with steel. “We’re not risking you. Or her.”

You stood between them, one hand braced on the table, the other curled tight into Rio’s. The storm was closing in around the house like a fist—lightning stuttering across the windows, thunder dragging low across the floorboards like chains being pulled through the dark. The air felt different now. Charged. Alive. As if the world outside was keeping time with the one unraveling inside your body.

Then came the flash. Blinding.

A bolt of lightning split the sky just beyond the living room window, flooding the room in a harsh, electric white. For one breathless second, everything stopped—the walls, the candlelight, your lungs. Then the thunder landed like a hammer. Violent. Immediate. It cracked overhead, so loud and so sudden it didn’t just shake the glass—it shook you.

You flinched—jumped—your whole body recoiling instinctively, a cry nearly catching in your throat. Rio’s arm shot around your waist before you could wobble a step. Her hold was firm, instinctual, like muscle memory. Like gravity. You felt her pulse against your spine—fast, but steady. She leaned in, her voice low and sure even as the storm howled behind her. “That’s it,” she said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “We’re calling.” The words rang clear, cutting through the thunder, the tension, the ache still humming through your lower back.

Before she could move. Before Agatha could reach for the phone. Before your lips could even form a reply, you felt it. Pop. A strange, tight shift deep in your belly. Low and sudden. A sensation that didn’t hurt—not exactly—but startled you all the same. Like something had given way. Like the seal between now and next had been broken.

Then came the warmth. A rush. Immediate. Spilling low and fast, soaking through the inner curve of your thighs before your brain could catch up to the sensation. You froze, breath locked in your chest, eyes wide as the heat kept coming—unstoppable, real, holy. You heard the sound of a wet pat as it hit the floor beneath you. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just… true. A rhythm of liquid against wood. The kind of sound that carried finality in its hush. The kind that said there’s no going back. Your hands trembled. The hem of Agatha’s shirt clung to your legs, boxers growing darker by the second. Your feet were wet now. Everything was wet.

The room went still. Agatha had gone perfectly quiet, her hands now hovering slightly, like she didn’t want to move too fast and shatter the moment. Like reverence had wrapped itself around her wrists. Rio's hand was still on your spine. Her thumb was still pressed to your ribs.

All three of you stopped breathing. You looked down. The water pooled around your feet in a glistening crescent, like moonlight spilled on hardwood. It was still spreading—slow, sure, certain. Your vision blurred slightly from the adrenaline spike. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your heart felt like it was slamming against the inside of your ribs.

You looked up. First to Agatha. Her lips parted. Her eyes glassy, glowing with something you couldn’t name. Then to Rio. And suddenly you smiled. The kind of smile that cracked you open a little. The kind that held awe and absurdity in equal measure. You shook your head once, dazed, and the words came without thinking—gentle and breathless, like a laugh trying to be born. “Of course she would listen to her Mamí.”

Rio stared at you like she was seeing God for the first time. Her mouth parted, then closed again, her throat bobbing as she tried to swallow the wave of emotion rising fast behind her ribs. Her eyes were full now, swimming with light. One laugh escaped her—a single, stunned sound—and then she kissed your temple without even thinking, her hand tightening on your back like she might never let go. Agatha’s hand found yours again, and she squeezed.

You squeezed back.

And for a moment—just a moment—you all stood suspended in that hush. The puddle still warm beneath your feet, your body still echoing the last contraction, the weight of the storm pressing against the windows like a second heartbeat. But the next wave didn’t come right away. Just quiet. Just the slow creak of floorboards beneath shifting feet. The day was fading, finally, slipping into the cool edge of a spring evening. Candlelight flickered against the walls, casting soft halos across familiar faces.

You let out a breath and glanced down again at the mess. At your soaked socks. At the cling of Agatha’s sleep shirt now plastered to your thighs and belly like a second skin. Then you looked up—really looked at them—and noticed it for the first time:

They hadn’t changed either. Agatha’s blouse, once neatly tucked and buttoned under a blazer, was now wrinkled and half-open, the sleeves shoved to her elbows. Rio still wore her dress pants and undershirt from earlier, but the collar was stretched, soaked from sweat and tension. They had peeled off their layers hours ago, when everything had first started to shift, but they hadn’t gotten past that.

“I want to clean up a little,” you said softly, your voice hoarse from breath and quiet pain. “You both should, too.”

Agatha blinked, as if only now becoming aware of her own body. Rio raised an eyebrow, then looked down at herself, finally taking in the state she was in—soaked shirt, wrinkled waistband, curls frizzed and clinging to her neck. Her mouth curved, the corner lifting in something between a grin and a grimace.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” you added, rubbing your hand gently over the swell of your belly, your skin still buzzing from the intensity of everything. “And I’m not meeting our daughter like this. No way.”

Agatha opened her mouth—likely to argue, to suggest there wasn’t time—but then paused. She looked around: the slick puddle beneath your feet, the sheen of sweat on your collarbones, the shadows moving on the wall with each flicker of candlelight. The storm pressed steadily against the windows, rain sliding down the glass like clockwork.

She dragged a hand through her hair, blowing out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicked down to her own rumpled blouse, the sleeves shoved to her elbows, buttons uneven where she’d rolled them up in a rush.

The three of you moved together—slowly, carefully—out of the candlelit living room and into the hall. The storm trailed behind you in soft percussion, each footstep syncopated to the rain. You leaned into Rio as you walked, one hand clutching the edge of her shirt, the other braced around your belly as another faint pulse stirred low in your hips. Not a full contraction. Just a whisper of the next one building. Agatha stayed just behind, one hand hovering near your back, ready if you faltered.

The bedroom welcomed you like a deep exhale—dim, warm, lived-in. The scent of books and candle wax clung to the corners. Soft shadows pooled across the floor where light bled through the curtain seams. The bed was turned down now, towels stacked at its edge. A quiet kind of readiness waited here. Like even the walls knew what was coming.

You paused in the doorway, blinking against the weight behind your eyes, your fingers still curled tight in Rio’s. Agatha moved ahead, stepping toward the dresser where the clothes had been laid out days ago. She pulled open the top drawer without thinking, eyes scanning for something—anything—until she stopped cold. Her brows pinched, mouth parting slightly as her gaze locked on the carefully folded stack of T-shirts, hoodies, joggers, and soft socks.

And then—quietly, to herself, like a thought that slipped out too fast to catch—“What the fuck do you wear when your wife’s in labor and you’re about to meet your daughter?”

You stopped mid-step. Turned toward her. And stared.

Then—laughing felt impossible until it wasn’t—you let out a breathy, disbelieving little laugh that tumbled up through the exhaustion. Light. Human. A moment of ridiculous clarity in a room made of nerves and sweat and stormlight.

Rio snorted beside you, her grip tightening on your hand. She turned toward Agatha, her face already cracking into a grin. “Oh my God, Aggie,” she said, shaking her head.

Agatha froze.

One hand still hovering over the drawer, the other mid-reach for a T-shirt. She didn’t even look at either of you at first—just winced and tilted her head up like she was bracing for divine judgment.

“Shit.” She turned slowly. Her voice was half-wince, half-wonder as she blinked between you. “You both heard that?”

You nodded, smiling through the ache in your body, your arm wrapped instinctively under your belly now, bracing for the next surge. “Every word.”

Agatha groaned and rubbed the back of her neck. “I meant to just think it.”

Rio chuckled and dropped the hospital bag on the floor beside the bed. “Then you’ve really lost the internal monologue, babe.”

“Clearly,” Agatha muttered. You were damp, sore, and breathless—but in that moment, with your wives stumbling through laughter and holy terror, the world felt as ready as it ever would.

You pointed toward the pile of sweatpants stacked at the foot of the bed. “There. Help me change before the next one hits.”

Without missing a beat, Rio moved to support you, her hand sliding beneath your elbow, the other brushing gently against your lower back. Her touch was grounding, as if she could feel the tremble in your thighs before you even registered it. Agatha moved ahead of you, unfolding the thick towel she’d carried in and laying it across the edge of the bed with practiced hands. She fluffed it once, smoothing it out in slow, sweeping motions like she was making a sacred space—not just a surface.

Rio helped you lower down, guiding your hips until you were seated, legs parted just enough for balance, your weight sinking into the soft layers beneath you. The towel caught the dampness, warm beneath your thighs. You leaned forward, bracing yourself with one arm against the bedframe, the other curled beneath your belly, protective and aching. Your clothes clung to you, heavy and humid.

Agatha knelt beside you, fingers already undoing the wet waistband of your underwear. She moved gently, her eyes flicking up once to check your face, then returning to her task. Her hands worked carefully, reverently—as if even in this, even in the mess and the sweat and the soaked cotton, she couldn’t help but handle you like something sacred.

She peeled the garments down your legs, her breath steady, her presence quiet. There was no embarrassment. No hesitation. Just care. Rio brought the warm cloth. She knelt between your legs now, the bowl of water just to her side, steam still curling into the air. She wrung the rag out once—soft, thick, still steaming—then pressed it gently between your thighs. You inhaled sharply, not from pain, but from the jolt of relief.

It wasn’t just warmth. It was tenderness. A balm. A reminder that you were still here—in your body, even as it changed shape around you. “It’s okay,” Rio murmured. “Just breathe, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Her voice was barely more than a hum, and her touch was just as soft. She cleaned you in slow, steady strokes—up the inside of your thighs, across your belly where your shirt had once clung, between your legs with care and reverence. You closed your eyes for a moment, just to feel it. To be held in this moment. Not rushing. Not panicking. Just prepared.

Agatha stood then, eyes sweeping the room again. You could see it in her face—that quiet, furious need to do something. “I’m gonna clean up the living room,” she said, already backing toward the door. “I won’t be long.” You nodded faintly, watching her silhouette disappear into the hallway, her cardigan trailing behind her like a second shadow.

Then Rio helped you step into the joggers. She held them open and steady, and you lifted one leg, then the other—slow, cautious, your belly shifting forward with the effort. She pulled the waistband up over your hips with gentle hands, smoothing them into place. Then came the shirt—an oversized, soft cotton thing that smelled like her. Like home.

She pulled it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves as you breathed through another cramp tightening low in your back. “There we go,” Rio whispered. “Almost done.” Outside, the rain pounded harder. It lashed against the window like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The storm had thickened again, its edges gone soft and relentless, smearing light across the glass and muting the sound of everything else. But here, in the hush of your bedroom, time had slowed.

Rio pulled the shirt down over your belly with careful hands, her fingers grazing the curve of you like she didn’t want to let go. It was one of her oldest cotton shirts—soft from a hundred washes, loose in the shoulders, clinging gently at the hem. The collar slipped wide across your collarbone, and you breathed easier inside it, as if it belonged to this moment. To you.

The door creaked open just as she was smoothing the fabric over your hips. Agatha stepped back into the room, the faintest smile ghosting her lips as she caught the scene: you perched on the towel-covered bed, cradled in Rio’s attention, dressed now in softness and scent and care. She stood still for half a second, her eyes warming, her chest rising with something deep and reverent—then she moved.

Without ceremony, Agatha peeled off her blouse. It dropped to the floor without a sound. Then her pants. Socks. She didn’t speak. Just moved with practiced grace—barefoot, bare-skinned, candlelight painting pale gold across her body like she was a statue built from storms. She grabbed a pair of her own sweats from the dresser. Then a college T-shirt—soft navy cotton with her department’s name faded across the chest, the sleeves loose at her shoulders. She threw them on in quick movements, her breath hitching faintly as she ran both hands through her hair to reset herself. Then she crossed the room and sat beside you, her thigh brushing yours.

She said nothing. Just rested her hand gently over your knee. Rio turned to kiss your cheek. “I’ll be right back, baby.” You watched her move across the room—fluid, fast, familiar. She pulled a pair of sweats from her drawer and a shirt from the back of the chair—black, soft, cracked lettering from her college basketball team stretched across the front. She tugged it over her head in one motion, then rolled the waistband of her pants once, just like she always did.

It was them. In every way. Uncomplicated. Sure. The rhythm of their movements syncing to yours. Rio knelt in front of you again once she’d finished, her hands brushing your knees softly. “Hey,” she said, voice quiet but sure, “you can change again once we get to the clinic, okay? Don’t worry about this stuff feeling heavy. We just need you warm and steady to get there.” You nodded slowly, your breath catching slightly as another wave stirred deep in your hips—not a full contraction, but the warning rumble of the next.

It took a few moments to steady yourself on your feet again, but you weren’t alone. Rio braced you beneath one arm, the other wrapped around your waist, her body warm and solid against your side. Agatha moved ahead, collecting the hospital bags without a word, her movements swift and practiced. One bag slung over her shoulder; the other suitcase handle looped around her wrist. She paused only once, to double-check the zipper and glance back at you like she was memorizing something about this moment. Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

Rio tugged a jacket from the hook on the back of the door and threw it over her shoulders, not bothering to zip it. Her fingers found yours as she crouched, helping you step carefully into your sandals. You watched her move, her touch gentle, deliberate, even now. Even as the contractions crept closer together. Even as the storm pounded against the house.

Your breath was shallow, but steady. The space between one wave and the next had narrowed. You paused in the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other resting low against your belly, where the pressure had become constant now, more hum than wave. The storm was still building beyond the glass, but it was the silence behind you that caught you first. The hush of the living room. The warm pockets of candlelight that now glowed a small ember from being blown out. The imprint of everything that had just happened pressed deep into the fibers of the floor, into the folds of the couch cushions, into the very fabric of the foundation.

You stood still, wrapped in Rio’s jacket, the oversized shirt soft and warm on your skin. Blankets clutched in one hand. Your body still trembled slightly from the last contraction. And it hit you. The next time you walked back into this house… you’d be carrying her. Your daughter. The air punched from your lungs in a slow, stunned breath. Your hand pressed to your belly—protective, reverent, anchoring. “This is it,” you whispered. The words came out thinner than you meant. A thread. A truth unraveling. The room stilled behind you. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath. Rio reached you first and cupped the back of your head, her palm warm against your scalp, fingers sliding gently into your damp hair. Her body moved close without pressing—no urgency, just knowing. She bent, kissed your temple, and rested there for a moment longer than necessary. The way she used to when you cried in your office. The way she did the first time you ever said I love you.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

Her voice wasn’t breaking, but it carried weight. You looked around slowly, the full gravity of the moment beginning to bloom under your ribs.

“Everything’s going to be different,” you said, voice catching now. “When we come back…”

Rio met your eyes. “You won’t be walking in alone. We’ll be holding her.”

Agatha stepped forward then, her hands settling firmly on your hips, her chin pressing against your shoulder from behind. You felt her heartbeat through the fabric, steady and close. “We’ll bring her home together,” she murmured. “All three of us.”

You let your head tip slightly against Agatha’s. You didn’t realize tears had gathered at your lashes until one slipped free, rolling warm down your cheek and vanishing into the corner of your mouth. “She’s going to live here,” you whispered, in awe more than fear. “Right here. Her little feet. Her little hands. In this room.”

Agatha met your eyes. Her forehead rested gently against yours now, her breath brushing your cheek, her hands cupping either side of your face like you might float away if she didn’t hold you there a moment longer. She smiled, but her eyes were shining.

“Want to go meet our daughter?” she asked.

The words landed low in your chest—soft, steady, unshakable. Your breath hitched. Your whole body pulsed with the weight of that question. Not can you. Not are you ready.Just want to.Like love asking love. You nodded.

Tears blurred the candlelight behind her as you whispered, “Yeah. Let’s go meet our girl.” For a moment, all three of you stood there in the doorway—suspended in something sacred, something that felt too big for language. Then the door opened. And the storm met you.

Even with the garage just steps away—even with the walls meant to shelter you—the wind howled in like it had been waiting at the threshold. It curled instantly around your legs, dragging cold air beneath the hem of Rio’s jacket. Rain rode the wind sideways, sharp and sudden, slicing through the space like it belonged there. It plastered Agatha’s shirt to her back in a heartbeat, tangled her hair in soaked strands against her neck.

The storm didn’t wait politely outside. It rushed in, wild and electric and alive.

Thunder cracked above like the sky itself was being split open.

But still—no one hesitated. You moved as one. Your wives flanking you like anchors as you crossed the narrow entryway into the garage, the storm surging around your ankles like waves at your heels. The air tasted like ozone, like something about to happen. Your footing wobbled once, but Rio caught your elbow instantly. Agatha’s hand pressed against the small of your back.

Together. The door shut behind you, but the storm still pressed in. Even inside the garage, it found you—rain blown sideways through the narrow seam beneath the door, wind howling through the frame like it was trying to follow. The moment the three of you stepped over the threshold, the motion-activated light flickered on overhead. A pale halo spread across the concrete floor, casting long shadows and catching the gleam of the waiting car.

Steam curled from your skin in the sudden temperature change, rising like breath from the base of your neck. The air smelled of damp concrete and engine oil, edged with the eucalyptus rising from Rio’s soaked shirt and the lavender still clinging to the pulse points of Agatha’s wrists. The scent wrapped around you in strange harmony—comfort and momentum. Safety and change.

They moved quickly, but carefully.

Rio opened the passenger door, shoulders braced as the wind tugged her curls loose again. Agatha laid the towels across the seat with practiced hands, layering them in a nest of soft cotton as you leaned against the side of the car. Your body ached from the inside out—your knees unsteady, hips heavy, your belly tight with the whisper of the next contraction beginning to rise.

“Okay, baby, right here,” Rio said, breathless but calm. Her hands slid under your arms, strong and warm. “We’ve got you.”

You lowered into the seat slowly, drawing in a shaky breath as you shifted one hand to the doorframe for balance, the other still cradling the underside of your belly. The contraction hadn’t fully crested yet, but it was building—tight and wide across your pelvis like a fault line warming to life. Agatha bent beside you again, her knees pressing into the concrete as she spread the blankets over your lap, tucking the edges around your legs with hands that moved steadily—even though her breath was trembling. Her eyes lifted to meet yours. There was so much in them. Wonder. Terror. Devotion. You’re still here, they said. She’s still coming.

Rio rounded the car, her soaked shoes squeaking against the garage floor. She slid into the driver’s seat, yanked the seatbelt across her chest with one swift motion, adjusted the mirrors with sharp movements. She glanced at you, just once, and it was enough.

Not fear. Focus. Agatha climbed in behind Rio, the back door clicking softly as she settled into the seat behind you. She leaned slightly forward, one hand bracing against your shoulder now, her fingers curled just in reach, her breath brushing the back of your neck.

The doors closed. The engine turned.

The sound of the storm shifted—louder now, but contained. Like it had been sealed outside the moment.

Rain blurred across the windshield in waves, and the wipers hissed and swiped in sharp rhythm, barely keeping pace. The garage door rolled up in a growl of gears and thunderlight spilled across the driveway.

The car drove into the night.

Streetlights bled across wet pavement in golden lines. Water shimmered beneath the tires. Trees bowed in the wind as you passed, their limbs like arms reaching for the roof. The storm moved with you now—inside you, beside you. Its rhythm syncing with your breath, your heartbeat, the rising ache pressing deeper into your spine.

“We’ll be there in ten,” Rio murmured. Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, her voice low but certain as she glanced at you. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

You tried to nod. Tried to find words. It rolled through you like thunder echoing through stone. Hard. It seized through your pelvis like a rising tide cracking a levee, rolling up through your spine with brutal grace. You arched forward with a moan—low, guttural, real. The sound cracked from your chest like lightning tearing through silence. Primal. Unapologetic. True.

Your hand flew out, reaching for anything. Rio caught it instantly. Her fingers curled tight around yours, grounding you in that bolt of pain. Agatha moved up and pressed her hand to your arm—steady, firm—moving closer until her chest brushed the back of the seat. “We’re almost there, love,” she said softly, her voice close to your ear, a thread of calm through chaos. “almost there.”

--------------------------

The car rolled to a stop beneath the covered drive, rain cascading down the sloped roof in steady curtains. Dr. Ezra was already waiting. She stood beneath the awning in a slate-blue rain jacket, hood up, hair damp where a few curls had slipped free. Her posture was easy, unfazed by the wind curling through the parking lot. Her other hand was raised in a wave, calm and steady even as the wind pressed against her legs.

Rio brought the car to a stop in front of the door. The windshield was a blur of water and wipers and electric sky, but you could see Ezra clearly now—tall, grounded, utterly still. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t afraid. Just waiting. Agatha was out of the car before it had even fully stopped. She opened your door with both hands, bracing against the gust of wind that tried to pull it back, her breath rising in quick clouds as she reached for you. “You with me?” she asked softly, ducking her head inside the car.

You nodded, eyes locking onto hers. Another contraction coiled low in your belly—not a crest, not yet, but close. You winced slightly as your fingers found hers. “Yup,” you whispered, voice uneven.

She helped you out of the seat, your legs trembling slightly as they found solid ground. The rain caught you immediately—soft but persistent, slipping beneath your collar, dampening the cotton of your shirt. Ezra was already moving forward her free hand reaching for Agatha’s shoulder in greeting. She said gently, her voice cutting through the rain with practiced ease. “Let’s get ya’ll outta the storm.”

The door opened ahead of you. And Rio was there. She appeared at your side before you could call for her—soaked again from moving the car, jacket dripping, curls clinging to her cheeks. She didn’t say a word. She just took your hand and squeezed, steadying you between her and Agatha as the three of you crossed the threshold together.

The difference was immediate. The moment your foot crossed the doorway, the storm softened behind you. Inside, it was warm. Dim. Safe. Warmth wrapped around your skin like a blanket. No fluorescent lights. No echoing footsteps. Just soft amber lamps tucked into corners, woven rugs lining the hallway, and the faint scent of vanilla and something herbal lingering in the air. The hum of quiet music drifted from a back room—low and melodic, like something older than pain. The walls were lined with framed artwork and shelves of folded linens.

Dr. Ezra led the way, guiding you with practiced ease. You could feel the steadiness of her steps—the kind born of decades in this work, but more than that… of love. Of history. Of family. She didn’t have to ask how far apart your contractions were. She already knew.

“This way,” she murmured, leading you down the hallway. “The room’s all ready.” The door swung open and warmth met you instantly—not just heat, but a kind of welcome. A hush. A breath at the end of a long descent. It wrapped around your shoulders as you stepped inside, one cautious foot after the other, the storm closing behind you like a chapter.

The room glowed with golden lamplight that spilled like honey across the floor, pooling over polished wood. The bed sat low and wide beneath a bank of softly curtained windows. No harsh fluorescents. No machines blinking like eyes. Only stillness. Only sanctuary.

The air smelled of vanilla and cedar, like comfort aged with time. The windows were streaked with rain, but the storm felt far away now, like it had been left behind at the edge of the property line. Or maybe just at the door. You stood in the threshold, unable to move for a moment. You just looked.

This is where she’ll be born. This is where I become something new.

Your chest tightened. Not with fear—but with awe. With the holy weight of knowing you’d made it here. Agatha passed you silently, jacket halfway off, curls damp and wild at her neck. She moved with purpose—toward the side table, toward the stack of towels, toward anything that might need doing. Her eyes scanned the room like she was checking it for harm, like she’d tear it apart with her hands if anything in it dared threaten you.

Rio followed, slower. Her hands moved up to her buttons, then to her sleeves, but her eyes never left you. She didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Her mouth was parted slightly, her chest rising and falling like she’d been holding her breath since the car ride, and was only just now remembering to let it go.

It rose. Without warning. Without mercy. The contraction gripped low—so low—in your belly, and pulled upward like a riptide. Like a thread being yanked tight from the inside. It coiled through your hips, your spine, your ribs. Your knees bent instinctively, and your hand shot out, groping for the nearest surface.

The bedframe met you like an anchor. You folded forward, the moan torn from you before you could stop it—low and raw, your lips parted, your breath catching hard. It wasn’t pain, not exactly—it was power. Too big to hold. Too much to name.

The air in the room thickened. Everything slowed. Your forehead pressed to your arm, your spine curving with the force of it. You couldn’t count the seconds. Couldn’t think past the burn. Your body had narrowed to sensation, breath, and the weight pressing down from within.

Behind you, Rio’s jacket hit the floor with a wet thud. She was there a heartbeat later, crouching beside you, one hand reaching for your elbow, the other sliding to the base of your back, pressing firm where the pressure was sharpest.

Agatha moved just as fast—her hand settling between your shoulder blades, the weight of her grounding you instantly. She didn’t ask what was happening. She didn’t need to. Her breath matched yours, close and steady, like she'd always known this rhythm would be written into the bones of the night. “Breathe through it, baby,” Rio murmured, her lips close to your temple now, voice low and sure. “Just ride it out.”

You nodded, but barely. Your whole body trembled. The wave still crested. But you didn’t fall. You moved through it. The wave began to recede—slowly, stubbornly—as if it didn’t want to let you go just yet. Your breath came in stuttering pulls, your body still trembling with the echo of it. For a moment, you stayed folded, your forehead pressed to the crook of your arm, the air thick in your lungs, the floor beneath you too far away to matter.

Then—inch by inch—you straightened back up. Your knees wobbled. Your arms trembled. But you rose. Rio’s hands followed you without hesitation, one steadying your elbow, the other bracing your back. She didn’t say anything this time. She just breathed with you.

Dr. Ezra hadn’t moved far. She waited just to the side, calm as the candlelight. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t fill the silence. Just stood there, gloves in hand, eyes gentle beneath the curve of her hood. “You made it just in time,” she said softly, stepping closer now as you caught your breath. “Let’s get you settled, sweetheart.”

You nodded once. Agatha eased in behind you, wordless, her hands moving to the hem of Rio’s jacket still clinging to your shoulders. She peeled it down slowly, tugging it off with reverence more than speed. Her fingers skimmed your arms as she worked, still soaked from the rain but warm all the same. “Is it okay if I check you?” Ezra asked quietly, her voice low but sure, anchored in the calm that only years and love could forge.

You nodded, this time without pause.

Yes. You needed to know.

The air still clung to you—vanilla, rain-soaked fabric, the faintest tinge of antiseptic beneath it all—but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t sterile. It was lived-in. Trusted. Rio was already crouching beside you, her hands sure as they slipped beneath the waistband of your joggers, easing them down your hips with practiced care. The cotton dragged slightly where your skin was damp, and her touch lingered at your thigh for just a second longer, grounding you.

No rush. No tension. Just care. “Let’s get you on the bed,” Ezra murmured, already turning down the linens, her hands familiar with every fold, every motion with the kind of muscle memory born from years of work and devotion. “You’ll be more comfortable there for this part.”

The bed wasn’t hard or cold—it was structured, yes, but dressed in clean layers that held warmth, not distance. Low and wide beneath its layers of worn, clean cotton. The corners were tucked neatly, the pillow firm beneath a soft cotton case. You climbed onto it with their help, your limbs slow and shaking, the ache in your hips making each shift feel seismic. Rio supported your back. Agatha offered her hands. Together, they brought you down into the center of that space.

Your legs were trembling again, your belly drawn tight. But the bed held you. And so did they.

For one breathless moment, you allowed yourself to melt. You didn’t have to hold yourself upright anymore. Not now. Not with them beside you. The sheets were warm against your skin, and the light above you was soft, casting no harsh edges. It was all meant for this.

Ezra snapped on a pair of gloves—the familiar sound of latex stretching, quick and precise. She moved to the foot of the bed and knelt beside it, her knee braced on the mattress, the pads of her fingers already preparing with gentleness and precision. “Just a little pressure, okay?”

You nodded. Braced. She moved quickly, professional and smooth, but the sensation still made your body jolt. Your hips flinched. A small, guttural sound slipped past your lips before you could catch it, half moan, half gasp. Not pain exactly, but the echo of pressure that ran deep. Your knuckles clenched tighter into the sheets. Or maybe into Agatha’s hand. It was hard to tell anymore—your world had narrowed to bodies, breath, and sound.

“I know,” Agatha whispered. She was beside you now, closer than breath, brushing her knuckles softly against your temple. “I know, sweetheart. Almost there.”

The moment was brief. Ezra pulled back, her gloves already crumpling in her hand, “Eight centimeters,” she said, her voice laced with steady awe. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Just... knowing. “You’re so close.”

You blinked. Once. Then again. Eight. You looked to Rio, who had risen again beside the bed. Her gaze met yours—steady, shining. Her eyes said everything: pride, readiness, that fierce, protective love that had never wavered. Agatha let out the breath she’d been holding.

Ezra rose slowly, her knees easing from the floor, gloves already half-peeled from her fingers as she stepped away toward the sink tucked along the wall. The hush of running water filled the space, rhythmic and clean. You stayed still, your hips sinking deeper into the mattress as you blinked up at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath. Rio shifted beside you, already leaning in, her voice low and warm at your ear. “What do you want to wear, baby? We packed a few things—remember?”

You turned your head toward the suitcase in the corner, the soft gray one with the hand-stitched initials and the tiny rainbow tag. You nodded toward it, breath still shaky. “The robe.” Your voice was hoarse but certain.

Agatha was already moving before you finished the sentence. She crossed the room quickly, opening the suitcase and pulling out the birthing robe with practiced hands—the plum colored, silky-soft fabric, the one they’d given you only a few days ago. She brought it over, holding it against her chest for a moment like it was something sacred, before she passed it into Rio’s waiting hands.

Ezra returned as they helped you sit up, her presence calm and professional—but still unmistakably Ezra. Not just a doctor. Not just an expert. Family. She wheeled over the Doppler with one hand and smiled, eyes landing on you gently. “The good news is that you’re doing fantastic.”

The small device was cool against your skin, but the moment it found its rhythm, the sound it pulled into the room was immediate, all-encompassing: Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The baby’s heartbeat—loud and strong. A perfect pattern. You felt your own eyes flutter closed as the tension in your shoulders eased. That sound. God, that sound. It was the same one you’d fallen asleep to some nights, phone speaker pressed to your belly, Rio’s hand resting on top. The same sound Agatha once said felt like lightning caught in a jar.

Ezra clicked the Doppler off and set it aside. Her smile was still soft, but her posture shifted— “The bad news,” Ezra said gently, the soft lilt of her voice carrying a weight that made the room still, “is that the anesthesiologist is stuck in the storm.”

The words didn’t drop like a stone—they spread like a ripple. You felt them first in your shoulders, then your gut, then your jaw where your teeth barely touched. She wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t try to cushion it with lies. That wasn’t her way. “I know we talked epidural,” she continued, stepping just a little closer, her gaze never leaving yours. “He’s trying to make it in, but I need you to prepare in case he doesn’t.” No thunder followed her words. No cinematic crack of lightning. Just breath. The hum of the room. The faint tap of rain whispering against the glass like a metronome counting down.

Ezra’s hand reached for yours—not professionally, not distantly, but like someone who had held this kind of fear before. Who had walked beside it and said: We go together anyway. “We have gas if you want it,” she added, quieter now, “and I’ll keep you looped in every step of the way. But I didn’t want any surprises. Not today. Not here. Not in this room.” The silence that followed wasn’t ominous. It wasn’t filled with dread. It was filled with truth.

You nodded once, slowly. And the way it moved through you felt like exhaling through stone. The tension didn’t vanish. It simply shifted. Settled. Like warm water into a vessel already near full. It didn’t spill. It didn’t break. It just was. You swallowed, the air around you suddenly thicker, warmer. And when you spoke, your voice emerged from someplace deeper than fear. “Is she okay?” Your voice cracked slightly. You met Ezra’s eyes like you were looking through her—into something much bigger than the room.

Ezra didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. She moved without ceremony, without pause—just reached for your hand where it rested near the edge of the mattress, fingers trembling slightly from the effort of holding everything in. She squeezed—firm, present. Like an anchor tossed into stormwater. “You’re healthy,” she said, her voice low and steady, grounding you like weight on the chest in the best way. “She is healthy.”

And then she turned—not away from you, but with you—her gaze shifting to where Rio stood by your side, chest rising too fast, and to where Agatha hovered just behind, one hand still resting on your shoulder like she could take some of it for you.

Ezra’s face softened. The sister in her, the friend in her, standing shoulder to shoulder with the physician. “Both of your girls are fine.” A pause. Then, gently but surely: “Your wife is doing beautifully. The baby’s strong. The only change we’re making today is the epidural.” Finally, she looked back at you again. “Everything else?” she said, her voice soft as rain on windows. A flash of reverence passed across her face—not clinical, not detached. “You’ve already got it, Mama.”

Ezra gave your hand one last squeeze, then let go slowly—like she was anchoring the moment before letting it drift. She straightened but didn’t step away just yet. Her tone shifted slightly, settling into something both professional and familiar, the cadence of someone who had done this many times and still never forgot the miracle of it. “Let the contractions do their thing, alright?” she said gently. “You’re doing so well. Every sound, every shift, every breath—it’s your body moving forward, not away.”

She looked around the room briefly, scanning like a sculptor appraising space. “I want to make sure you’ve got plenty of room to move—walk, lean, sit, sway. Don’t lock yourself into one position. We’ll work with your body, not against it.”

You nodded, slow and steady, your hand already drifting toward Rio’s again. Ezra stepped back then, giving you space but not retreating. “I’ll be in and out, just nearby,” she added, already pulling her gloves off again and tossing them into the bin. “Unless it’s time to check or you need something. When things start shifting closer, I’ll be right here.”

She didn’t linger after that—no long speeches, no false promises. Just a warm glance toward Agatha, a soft touch to Rio’s shoulder in passing, and then she slipped quietly through the doorway, the light from the hallway briefly cutting a line across the room before the door eased shut again. You were left in the hush of soft lamplight, the smell of rain and vanilla, the beat of your daughter’s heartbeat still echoing faintly in your chest. The sound had faded from the Doppler, but it lingered in your ribs like memory. Like a promise. Like the breath you hadn’t fully taken until now.

Agatha hadn’t moved far—she stood beside the bed, eyes fixed on you, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then it shifted. Not to fear. Not to urgency. But to wonder. She looked at you like she was seeing something ancient and holy unfold in real time. Like your body had become a scripture she didn’t dare interrupt. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her breath caught instead, and she reached for you—slow, steady. She didn’t speak—not yet. She just leaned in, her frame folding down beside yours, her breath brushing the side of your face. Then came the kiss. Pressed to your temple like a seal, a vow, something almost ceremonial. So slow. So sure. It made your eyes flutter closed with the weight of it. Not heavy—but whole. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for reassurance or offer it. The kind that witnessed you. You exhaled—shaky, stunned. Half disbelief. Half quiet joy.

Agatha’s kiss still lingered on your temple, a hush across your skin. And then Rio was in front of you. She moved with a kind of quiet determination—nothing rushed, nothing sharp. Just presence. The storm might’ve raged outside, but Rio was all stillness as she knelt down again, her curls still damp from the run in, her shirt clinging in places where the rain had caught her.

Her hand found yours. Warm. Solid. Anchoring. Her eyes swept across your face like she was checking the map of a place she knew by heart—searching not for fear, but for the shape of your strength. “Tan fuerte, mi amor,” she murmured, voice low and reverent. “Eres increíble.”

The words landed softer than the contraction that was already beginning to stir again—low and quiet and distant, but coming. You felt it like a tide far out, gathering itself. Rio’s thumb moved in a slow arc across the back of your hand. “Ready to change, hermosa?” she asked, her voice a hush inside the hush. A murmur under thunder.

You nodded, the movement barely more than a breath. But it was all she needed. Your fingers found the hem of your shirt, soaked through from the storm and clinging at your lower back. Slowly, carefully, you peeled it up over your belly. It caught once at your ribs, but Rio’s hands were already there—guiding, steady, warm. The fabric lifted away with a whisper, leaving you bare to the quiet air, your skin damp and flushed, your body working harder now than it ever had before.

There was no shame in it. No shyness. You weren’t thinking about covering. You were thinking about breath. About effort. About the next crest coming up over the horizon. Rio eased the robe around your shoulders, sliding your arms through with the kind of reverence that made your throat tighten. It draped low over your body, open but cradling, loose against your hips. As the fabric settled—

The next contraction rolled in. No warning this time. No mercy. It wasn’t a sharp strike—it was a pull, low and ancient, like something inside you was tightening on its own axis. Your jaw clenched as your spine bowed, and your hand reached, searching—

Rio was already there. You gripped her hand as she stood, your body leaning into hers from where you sat on the edge of the bed. Your forehead brushed against her hip, breath caught in your throat, the contraction pressing deep into your pelvis. Rio didn’t speak. She just stood tall, her free hand on your shoulder, fingers threading lightly into your damp hair, grounding you through the surge. When it passed, your body sagged, your knees open, your ribs fluttering with shallow breath.

And that’s when the door eased open again. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said gently, setting a small monitor on the rolling tray beside her. The straps folded neatly over her hand. “I’ve got the continuous Doppler here. We’ll get it wrapped around your belly so we can keep an eye on both your heartbeat and the baby’s.”

Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a steadiness beneath it. She wasn’t rushing you. She wasn’t nervous. “Just an extra layer of safety,” she added, as she reached for the bottle of gel. “It frees you up a bit too—I won’t have to interrupt you every few minutes to check. You just get to labor. I’ll keep watch.”

You nodded. Still catching your breath, still half-melted into Rio’s side, your hand resting low on the swell of your belly. Ezra moved with the kind of ease that made your body trust her before your mind had time to question it. She smoothed the gel across your lower abdomen, the cool slickness jolting your senses, and then she fastened the Doppler monitor gently into place—snug, not tight, the belt wrapping across your skin like a reminder that someone else was listening now too.

Steady. Strong. Your daughter’s heartbeat filled the room in rhythmic pulses. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Not just a sound. A presence. It filled your ribs. It curled behind your eyes. It centered you. Ezra smiled, her fingers adjusting the sensor slightly before letting it be. “Perfect,” she murmured. “She’s a champ.” Rio kissed your crown, her lips soft against your hairline, her fingers still wrapped tightly in yours.

The Doppler hummed steady between you all—your daughter’s heartbeat a quiet metronome in the lamplit room. The storm still murmured through the windowpanes, but here, in this space carved out by trust and breath and rhythm, it felt impossibly far away.

You leaned into Rio’s side, the robe wrapped loosely around you, your belly warm beneath the band. Then you spoke—voice low, dry at the edges, but still yours. “Both of you should change,” you said, glancing between them. “You’re soaked.” Agatha blinked like she’d only just realized it—her sleeves still clinging to her arms, the hem of her sweats damp at the ankles. Rio looked down at her hoodie, water-darkened across the chest. Both of them nodded, almost in sync, sheepish and grateful.

Dr. Ezra chuckled softly, already halfway to the door. “If you need me, just yell,” she said, smiling as she pulled it open. “You’ve got time. Just keep breathing.” And with that, she stepped out, the door clicking closed behind her. The room stilled again.

Agatha peeled her sweatshirt up and off in one smooth motion, her undershirt clinging slightly as she moved toward the spare bag in the corner. Rio tugged at the hem of her hoodie beside her, winking at you as she pulled it over her head, her curls springing loose in the low light. You watched them through a haze of breath and steady heartbeat, your body still for the moment, the robe soft against your shoulders, the Doppler’s rhythm echoing quietly in the background. Agatha gathered her hair and twisted it high, securing it with a band from around her wrist, her fingers quick, practiced. Rio mirrored her beside the bed, sweeping her damp curls into a loose bun with a soft exhale through her nose. No one said it aloud. But the shift was real. This wasn’t waiting anymore. This was preparing. You sat at the edge of the bed, hands resting on your thighs, the weight of your belly grounding you in the moment.

--------

Two hours later, the world had narrowed. To breath. To pressure. To pain and the hands that held you through it.

You were deep in the thick of it now—your body swaying in rhythm, your voice no longer your own but something lower, older, elemental. The contractions came like tides: rolling in hard, curling under your spine, pulling your breath from your lungs with no apology. They were longer now. Closer. No more easy breaks. No more rest without weight.

Rio was behind you on the floor, knees braced wide, her arms wrapped firm around your waist as you rocked forward on the birthing ball. She’d draped a warm towel over it earlier, the cloth soft against your thighs, the heat a steady anchor where the cold air met sweat. Her hands pressed into your lower back with each contraction—rhythmic, grounding, counting your breath out loud in time with your exhales.

“That’s it, baby. In through your nose… good. Good. You’ve got this. Right here. One more… just like that…”

Her voice was low and unshakable. She didn’t let go, not even once. Agatha crouched in front of you, holding a cool cloth to your brow, her other hand gently massaging your thigh. Between contractions, she brought the water bottle to your lips, whispering your name like a litany, like prayer. When your eyes met hers, even in the blur, you found her steady—eyes shining but focused, her hair tied back in a knot, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

You moaned low, long, and guttural as another wave mounted. Sweat gathered behind your knees. Your fingers clutched the edges of Rio’s forearms, holding on tight as the pressure climbed and climbed and climbed—

Outside, the storm still rattled the world.

----------

Contractions had come and gone, each one stronger than the last. Longer. Closer. There were no more clean edges between them now—just one low burn giving way to another, like the tide no longer receding.

You were swaying when it happened again. Standing, bent slightly at the hips, your weight shifting from foot to foot. Rio’s arms were draped low around your hips, her chest pressed against your back. The two of you moved like clockwork, like a pendulum wound by breath and heat and time. Her palms moved in deliberate circles along your lower back, right where it hurt most.

And it hurt. God, it hurt now. Your moan cracked out of your chest—long, low, torn straight from the marrow. You rocked forward, hands braced on your thighs, and she followed you through it, her lips near your ear. “That’s it,” she murmured, “One breath at a time, baby.”

Your knees buckled. Sweat rolled down your back, your shirt soaked straight through. Rio’s arms caught you before you slipped too far, her strength quiet, constant. Her body was the one stable thing in the room. A wall. A rhythm. A vow. Another wave climbed through your pelvis like fire pulling silk. “Lean on me,” she whispered, “I’ll bring you back.” You gripped her wrist with both hands, shaking through the center of it. Your forehead dropped to her shoulder. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

“God—” the word rasped out of you. “That one—”

“I know,” Rio breathed. Her voice broke, soft but fierce. “You’re so strong. You’re doing this.”

And you were. But the ache was a living thing now—hot and constant, threading through your bones. It pushed against the edge of what you thought you could survive. And still, you breathed. You were barely aware of the rest of the room anymore.

Until you saw her. Agatha. Standing on the other side of the birthing suite like the ghost of herself, arms crossed tight over her chest. She hadn’t spoken in some time—hadn’t touched you. A single cloth sat folded and refolded in her hands, her knuckles white, her jaw trembling. But her eyes never left you.

She looked like a woman trying not to break open. You knew why. It wasn’t fear of labor. It wasn’t doubt. It was love. The kind of love that saw pain and wanted to take it from you. All of it. The kind of love that wanted to bear it in your place. But that wasn’t what you needed now. Another contraction bloomed low in your back. You bent forward instinctively, hands braced on your thighs, breath caught mid-exhale as the muscles in your belly seized. Your voice cracked through the burn. “Harkness,” you rasped, “look at me.”

She froze. The cloth stilled in her hands. You breathed in sharp through your nose, already bracing. The contraction was rising fast, you could feel it burning wide across your hips. “I need both of my wives,” you said, your voice shaking, “to help me bring our daughter into the world.”

Agatha opened her mouth—but nothing came out. Then the wave seized you again. Your spine bowed. A moan tore through your throat, raw and wild. Your hands gripped the bed rail so hard your knuckles ached. “So stop panicking—” you tried to say, but the pain rolled over the words, devouring them whole.

Rio chuckled softly, pressing her lips to your temple. “God, I love you.”

You blinked at her through salt and sweat. And then you looked back at Agatha. She crossed the room in two long strides, everything else melting from her face. Her spine unfolded as she came to your side, towel forgotten, jaw softening. There was no wall now. No distance. She reached for you. Not like a professor. Not like a caretaker. Just Agatha. “I’m here,” she whispered, one hand rising to cup your cheek. Her thumb stroked the tear she hadn’t asked about. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked at her, dazed, breathless, and managed a crooked smile. “Hi.” Her face cracked, her composure crumbling like salt in the rain. She leaned in and kissed your brow. Then your temple. Then the edge of your jaw. Each one slow, sacred, meant for no one else but you. “Hi, my love.”

Rio pressed her forehead to the back of your neck, her voice quiet with awe. “Better now.” And it was.

------

Your moans had long since turned to cries.

Raw. Guttural. No shape, no shame—just sound. Your body wasn’t asking anymore. It was demanding. Each contraction crawled up your spine like fire wrapped in thunder, and you could feel it now, the truth of it in your bones: she was close. Too close. And your body wasn’t waiting.

The sweat on your skin ran cold now, gathering in the hollow of your throat, behind your ears, between your fingers where you clenched Rio like a lifeline. You wept. Not from pain alone—but from everything. The pressure. The panic. The weight of every hour that had brought you here. It cracked out of you in a single sob, small and breathless.

Agatha was behind you again—her arms wrapped around your ribcage, her hands splayed flat against your belly, her face buried in your shoulder. Her voice was in your ear, soft and rhythmic, grounding you when your breath wouldn’t come. “Sweetheart, just breathe. That’s it. Breathe into me.”

Rio was in front of you, her forehead nearly touching yours, hand pressed firm and sure against your lower belly, trying to match the rhythm of your breath as you started to spiral. She could feel it too—how fast you were spinning up. Your muscles locking. Your gasps getting shorter.

“Hey—hey, baby—look at me.” You couldn’t. You gritted your teeth and cried out again, breath hitching as your hips rocked forward on instinct, searching for something to push against. The bed felt too small. The air too thick. The whole room too bright. You cried out, your hands shaking. “Oh—God—oh God, it’s too much, it’s—”

Rio whispered, kneeling beside you. “We’ve got you.”

“You’re safe,” Agatha murmured into your temple.

Then the door opened behind you. Ezra entered with a quiet steadiness that sliced through the panic like wind through still water.

Another contraction surged before she could speak. It wasn’t like the others. It pressed. Low and deep. It wasn’t a wave—it was a force. Like something ancient had taken hold inside you and would not be denied. Your hips lifted without asking, your heels digging into the mattress, and a cry ripped out of your throat, keening and wild.

Your body was opening. You weren’t riding contractions anymore. You were being taken.

Agatha’s grip tightened around you, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as your spine arched. Rio braced her hands on either side of your arm, eyes wide and reverent, breath coming with yours. And still—Ezra didn’t rush. She waited until the peak passed, until your hands relaxed just slightly in the sheets, until your breath came back in fragments.

Then: “Can I check you?” she asked softly.

Your head jerked in a shaky nod without hesitation. “Yes—yeah—please—”

You moved toward the bed on instinct, clambering up with Agatha and Rio helping you settle against the pillows. The sheets were warm beneath you. Rio moved with you, her arm supporting your back. You were on your side first, then shifted onto your back — but Ezra gently placed a hand on your thigh. “You don’t have to be on your back unless you want to be,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. “You can push in any position that feels right. Whatever’s most comfortable. Whatever feels strongest. We follow your lead.”

“This feels right,” you whispered. The weight. The stillness. The warmth of Rio’s arm cradled beneath your shoulders, and Agatha’s hand interlaced with yours. This felt possible.

Ezra crouched beside the bed, her voice low and soothing. “Take a breath for me. Let’s see where we are.” You did. You closed your eyes. Agatha kissed your fingers. Rio kissed your crown. And then Ezra looked up, smile soft and steady. “You’re fully dilated.” The world seemed to still. “You can push whenever you feel ready.”

Another contraction began to build — but this one was different. It wasn’t something that happened to you. It was something your body asked for. Urged for. And you nodded, breath catching. “Okay.”

------------

You were upright now — legs drawn up, belly taut and trembling. Your body was no longer your own, and yet it had never been more yours. You were a storm within a storm, crowned in sweat, crowned in breath, crowned in the silent scream of almost.

Agatha was behind you, cradling your upper body against her chest like you were something sacred. Her arms wrapped around your ribcage, her hands flat over your heart as if trying to anchor it to hers. Her knees framed your hips, steady as iron, breath matching yours like a prayer. Her body a second spine. Her voice a tether, her lips brushing your temple between pushes, whispering sacred things — “Almost there, my love… she’s so close… you’ve got her…”

The bed creaked softly beneath you with every tremor.

Rio crouched by your right side, sleeves rolled to her elbows, curls damp with sweat and rain. One of your legs rested in the crook of her arm, her other hand gripped yours tightly, fingers laced together like roots. Her thumb stroked your knuckles in rhythm— a pause, a vow, a grounding.

The contraction rose — hard and merciless. You screamed. It ripped through your body like the thunder outside, like the lightning inside your hips — a sound you couldn’t control, didn’t want to. It was your voice and something older, something wilder, pouring through you. Your body arched into it. Your thighs trembled.

Ezra glanced up from the foot of the bed, sleeves already rolled, gloves on, her expression calm and alight. She knelt between your knees, her voice the stillest thing in the room.

“You’re doing so good.”

“You’re safe.”

“Keep going just like that.”

Outside, the storm was unrelenting — rain tearing sideways at the windows, thunder rolling so loud it shook the glass — but the birthing suite remained its own world. A cocoon. Warm. Steady. Lit in soft golden lamplight that made the sheen on your skin glow.

Dr. Ezra’s voice wove through it all like a lifeline.

“You’re almost there.”

“I can’t—” you sobbed, panting hard, your jaw trembling, voice near-breaking. “I can’t do another—”

“You can,” Agatha whispered, her lips brushing your cheek, her voice cracked open with awe and ache. “You are.”

“We’re here,” Rio said fiercely, now kneeling beside you, her hand slipping under your left knee. “Push with us. We’ve got you.”

You nodded once, jaw clenched. A sob curled in your chest. Ezra met your eyes and gave the faintest nod. Whenever you're ready. You closed your eyes. You pushed.

The burn was like lightning — white-hot, splitting you from the inside out. Your head dropped back against Agatha’s shoulder. Her grip tightened. One hand slid beneath your thigh, helping you hold position. The other brushed hair from your cheek with reverence. The storm had raged outside for hours now, rain tearing at the windows like it wanted in. You again — but it wasn’t pain alone. It was becoming.

Rio stayed with you — her hand still locked in yours, the other pressing into your thigh with steady strength. Agatha kissed your temple between surges, voice tight with love. “Just breathe with me, baby. You’re doing so good.” And then— Rio’s breath caught. Her eyes flicked toward Ezra. “Is that—?” Ezra smiled, her eyes glinting in the glow. “She’s crowning.”

The pressure was blinding. Your hips lifted again. You moaned low and deep, the sound vibrating through your chest like the hum of earth, a sound that came from somewhere deeper than your lungs. Your body wanted to split and fly all at once.

Agatha’s arms wrapped tighter around you, her kisses peppering the shell of your ear, the slope of your cheek. “Yes, yes, yes—she’s almost here, love—she’s almost here—”

The next contraction surged. It wasn’t yours to command — it claimed you. You bore down with everything you had. You cried out, voice hoarse, back arched, every tendon in your body alight. The pain was holy. The strength was ancient.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She whispered, “That’s it. Let her come.” Another bolt of lightning seared the sky outside. A shudder ran through the room. “Of course she’d want to be born in the middle of a fucking storm,” you groaned.

Ezra chuckled softly, then steadied her voice with calm clarity. “Just a few more, and she’ll be here.”

You nodded. Not because it was easy. Not because you weren’t afraid. But because your daughter was almost here.

“That’s it,” Rio said, her voice thick, trembling, wrecked with wonder. “I see her, love. I see her. You’re doing it.”

Agatha’s arms locked around your shoulders, holding you upright, your spine flush to her chest. Her lips brushed your temple, her breath warm and shaking against your skin. “Yes, yes, yes—she’s almost here—my brave girl—”

The contraction surged again—unforgiving, absolute. It stole your breath and gave you something truer in return. You bore down, your voice cracking open as you roared through it—raw, not broken. A sound of claiming. A declaration. A door opening inside you that could never be shut again.

You gasped between the waves, your voice catching. “Rio—catch her”

Your hand reached blindly—shaking, slick with sweat and trembling muscle memory—and she caught it before the question even formed. Her fingers curled around yours, steady as bedrock. Your chest heaved. Your eyes met hers. You choked on the contraction, but forced the words through anyway — your voice wet with tears, with truth:

“Catch her. Bring your daughter into the world.” you said, voice trembling, wet with tears, soaked with truth.

Rio blinked, startled—but only for a second. You blinked through the haze. Nodded. “Okay.”

Ezra looked between you both and nodded, her face already soft with understanding. “Gloves are right there,” she said gently, motioning beside her. “I’ll guide your hands.”

Rio’s mouth parted—then she moved. A quiet, reverent rush. Her fingers were shaking as she pulled the gloves on, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice a breath.

You nodded. “There’s no one else.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, I’ve got her. I’ve got you, baby.”

Ezra’s voice, low and sure: “Let’s do it. I’ve got you both.”

And then it all happened at once. Agatha pressed her mouth to your shoulder. “Push, love. When you’re ready.” You nodded, curling forward as the next wave crested. Fire seared through your hips. Weight bore down from the heavens.

You pushed. The sound that broke from you was ancient—a cry older than language. Your jaw clenched. Your body surged forward. Agatha held your weight from behind, hands strong across your belly. Rio stood now, right there between your legs, hands braced and ready, her face flushed, damp curls stuck to her forehead, eyes wide with a love so overwhelming it cracked her open. Ezra’s hand hovered over Rio’s, steadying her as your daughter crowned. “I see her,” Rio whispered — voice broken, trembling. “Oh my God, I see her.”

You cried out, voice hoarse, your whole body trembling. Agatha pressed her lips to your shoulder, whispering over and over: “That’s it, my love. That’s it. She’s coming.”

The fire was back — stretching, tearing, opening. Your body surged forward. Agatha whispered low, steady. Rio crouched at the edge of the bed, hands guided by Ezra, her eyes wide and wet with joy and awe.

“That’s it,” Ezra said calmly. “One more—just one—” You bore down again, the scream twisting from your chest as your body opened to meet your daughter. Rio cried. “You’re almost there. She’s right there, my love. You can do it.” The pain blurred into pressure. The pressure blurred into something else. There was motion — a rush, a weight, a gasp. The feeling of everything shifting. Like the sky opened inside your body.

The world cracked open.

And then—silence.

Not total. The storm still lashed the windows in sheets of sound. Wind moaned at the edges of the house like something ancient trying to get in. But inside the room, time went still. Agatha’s breath stuttered against your shoulder, warm and sharp. Rio’s hands moved between your legs with sacred precision, fingers sure but trembling. Ezra leaned in, ready. But the world held its breath.

Because for one suspended second, your daughter did not cry. She simply arrived. A stunned creature of heat and slickness, limbs curled tight, her body still folded like the secret she’d been for so long. Her skin shimmered wet in the low light, impossibly small, impossibly complete. Rio caught her like a prayer—hands shaking, mouth falling open in a breathless, reverent sob.

“Breathe, baby girl,” she whispered. No louder than a heartbeat. Not an order. A benediction.

And behind you—barely audible, barely spoken—Agatha’s voice surfaced, a thread pulled from the deepest part of her:

“Please, my love…”

Not directed. Not demanded. Just offered—like breath. Like instinct. Like a soul cracking open.

And then—

A cry.

Thin. Tremulous. Like the world was remembering how to echo. Then again—sharper this time, rising with force and fury, breaking open the silence with something primal and real. A cry that sliced through the space and claimed it.

Everyone exhaled. The room breathed again. Still gloved, still trembling, Rio stared at the daughter resting in her hands—tiny, slick with life, red-faced and wailing. Her breath caught in her throat, her lips parting as though the sheer realness of it had knocked the language out of her. Dr. Ezra smiled as she helped Rio, her voice quiet and sure, place the baby on your chest.

She landed with a weight that shattered you. A thump so soft it could have been missed—but it hit you like prophecy. Like the final answer to a question your body had been asking for months. Thunder. Salt. Heat. Love.

She was warm. Sticky. Screaming. And she was yours. She squirmed the moment she touched your skin—furious, alive, announcing herself in no uncertain terms. Her fists balled tight beneath her chin. Her legs kicked against your belly with startling force, like the storm outside hadn’t passed through her but had taken up residence in her bones. Thunder still lived in her tiny limbs.

And then that cry—sharp and holy—broke through the world like lightning through glass. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw, declarative, full of rage and breath and something ancient. It rang through the room like a bell tolling for a new era. Your daughter had arrived, and she would not go unheard.

You couldn’t look away. Your whole body shook. “Hi, little sprout,” you choked out, the words wrecked with wonder. “I love you.” The tears came in waves, cresting faster than you could wipe them away. They traced down your cheeks as your arms folded around her instinctively—no hesitation, no doubt. Just pure, bone-deep knowing. She belonged here. With you. Against you. As if your body had only ever been waiting for this exact weight. This exact heat. This cry. This girl.

Ezra worked calmly beside you, already reaching for the flannel blanket folded on her tray, her hands sure and steady. She didn’t speak—just leaned in with practiced grace and began rubbing your daughter down in wide, rhythmic circles. The towel moved across that tiny back, those damp arms, the curled legs—coaxing breath to deepen, color to bloom. Every stroke of her hands was like a hymn being sung softly beneath the storm.

Ezra smiled softly, voice steady. “That’s it. Let her talk.”

Her mouth opened again, a furious little gasp sharpening into another full-throated wail. It split the air like lightning, piercing and high and absolutely, unmistakably hers. The sound rang through the room, through your bones, like something sacred had been summoned and could not be silenced. You sobbed, clutching her closer, your voice cracked and trembling. “Keep talking, little one,” you whispered. “Let it out. Let the whole world hear you.”

And she did. Another cry. Then another. Not just air anymore—but story. Command. Proof. Your arms tightened instinctively around her, your whole body curling protectively. Your breath came in shallow bursts, but for the first time since the final push—it came. Not because the pain had passed, but because her voice was here. Loud. Demanding. Alive.

“She’s okay,” you whispered again, more to yourself than anyone else, your eyes wide and wet as you looked down at her. “She’s okay. She’s really okay.”

Rio stood frozen near the end of the bed—gloves half-peeled, eyes locked on the tiny body screaming against your chest. Her hands had stilled mid-motion, one glove clutched tightly in her fingers, the other hanging loose. Her mouth parted, but for a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

And then—her voice, low and reverent, like a psalm torn open. “That’s it,” she murmured, not looking away from the baby. “Tell us all about it, sweetheart.” The cry only grew louder. Sharper. Richer. Like she’d heard her Mamí’s voice and knew—knew—it was safe to scream.

The sound filled the room like it had always belonged there. Like she had been waiting her whole life to scream her way into yours. Her arms flailed wildly against your chest. Her fingers flexed and splayed like tiny spells cast on instinct. Her heels kicked hard in protest, pressing into your skin as if she were still trying to fight her way back into the world she came from—or stake her claim to this one.

Your heart thrashed behind your ribs, overwhelmed with awe. She wailed again—high and fierce and alive—as Ezra’s steady hands moved across her body, checking vitals with smooth, practiced grace. The cries didn’t fade. They rose. Stronger. Steadier. Louder.

Until they filled the corners of the room. Until they filled the hollow spaces inside each of you. It was music. It was proof. It was the sound you hadn’t even realized you were begging to hear. Even with her cheek pressed to your chest, curled into the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat—the same one she’d known from the beginning—this was what sealed her arrival.

Now, with the sound of her Mommy behind her and her Mamí just steps away, her cries surged. Her body moved more, her head shifting like she was searching—already seeking the voices who had summoned her into being.

The women who wanted her to scream her way into existence. Your gaze never left her. Her chest rose and fell fast against yours—fragile, certain. Her skin was damp with birth. Her mouth stretched wide in protest. Her whole form curled in on itself like a question just beginning to be answered.

You pressed your lips to her temple, voice barely audible above the storm of her. “Hi, my little love,” you whispered again, lower now. “Mama’s right here.”

Your voice cracked around the words, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t. They were the only ones that mattered. The only ones that tethered you to the moment. Your hand cradled the back of her head, fingers spread wide, reverent, barely daring to touch the fine, damp wisps of her hair. She was warm. So warm. So impossibly new and already familiar. And then, everything clicked back into place.

The haze—the floating, the distance—cleared like mist off glass. Your muscles, your bones, your skin—all of it returned to you in one aching, sacred sweep. Your breath caught and, without effort, found rhythm with hers. Your pulse slowed, no longer thundering in panic but moving in awe. You could feel it in your fingers. In your chest. In the impossible space between heartbeat and miracle.

It felt like every part of you had been flung to the corners of the universe to bring her into the world. And now, piece by piece, those fragments returned—settling into place with a kind of aching relief. You weren’t whole before. But you were now.

She kicked again, a sharp little foot pressing into your skin with enough force to make you gasp. Her cries climbed higher, cutting through the space between you and everything else. She was a storm inside a body no bigger than your forearm, and she wanted to be known.

Behind you, Agatha held you like you might vanish. You felt her before you heard her. Her body trembled against your spine, breath warm and uneven in the curve of your neck. One of her hands slid across your ribs, firm and grounding, while the other folded over yours, fingers wrapping around where you both cradled your daughter’s damp face. Her touch was reverent. Terrified. Anchoring.

You collapsed back into her fully—no hesitation, no restraint—your body giving in with the full weight of everything it had just endured. Hours of labor, of screaming, of gripping the edges of yourself and tearing them wide to let life through. It all poured out of you now, and Agatha caught it. Caught you. Her strength didn’t waver. She didn’t shift beneath your weight, didn’t flinch. She absorbed you like gravity—solid, sacred, inevitable. Like her arms had been made not just to hold you, but to wait for this exact moment. The one where you no longer had to be strong. Your body surrendering with the full, aching weight of what it had just done. Not just the hours of labor, not just the push, not just the tearing open—but the letting go. Of fear. Of control. Of everything you’d held clenched inside. You didn’t need to hold anything by yourself. Not your muscles. Not your breath. Not your grief or your awe or the years of tension you’d carved into your spine.

“She’s so…” you choked, the words catching in your throat before dissolving into a laugh that bled into tears. “She’s so loud and so small.”

Where Agatha held you up, Rio met you eye to eye. And behind you—just as your daughter let out another sharp, writhing cry—Agatha’s breath caught like it had snagged on a star. “She is…” she whispered, and then stopped. The words trembled against the edge of her lips, too full to land cleanly. “She is so perfect.”

A broken sound escaped her throat, low and cracked and holy. Her shoulders began to shake where they pressed to your back. Her arms tightened instinctively, wrapping around you, around the baby, around the space between everything that had just happened and everything that would come after. She buried her face in your neck, her lips warm and wet against your skin. You felt her tears before you heard them, falling soundless into the hollow of your throat. Her breath stuttered there, breaking into you like a vow that had no words—only closeness, only weight.

You sobbed again—half a sound, half a release—and that was all it took for Rio to move. She had stood frozen for what felt like forever, still, except for the rise and fall of her breath, eyes wide and glassy, watching the shift in you like someone witnessing resurrection. The way your head tilted, the way your shoulders softened, the way your fingers curled tighter around the baby’s back—it was like she felt it across the room. The way your eyes dropped to your daughter with clarity now, not just shock. The way your voice—cracked and raw—had said “Mama’s right here” like it was a vow written into your marrow.

Her hands flew to the gloves still clinging to her skin. She tore them off with jerky, urgent movements, her breath hitching in her throat. The latex snapped, the sound sharp and careless. The first glove hit the floor before the second was even fully free. She didn’t look down. Didn’t blink. Her chest rose too fast, heart sprinting toward the three of you. She climbed onto the bed without ceremony, like reverence and chaos could coexist. Her knee hit the mattress, then the other, one palm bracing as she pulled herself up beside you.

Her other hand reached across your shoulder, and then—finally—she touched her. Her palm trembled as it settled against the baby’s back, her fingers trailing with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts or shooting stars. She stroked once, then cupped the tiny cheek, her thumb tracing a perfect circle, like she could memorize her this way. Anchor her to the world through touch alone.

Rio didn’t speak. She hovered there, breathless, completely undone. Her mouth parted, but her breath broke on the edge of sound. Her eyes were soaked. Her hands never stopped moving, gentle and unsure, like she couldn’t figure out which of you to touch first—like her body had fractured into love too big to contain.

Then her hand moved to your face. “Hey,” she whispered—so soft, so stunned, like the word had never meant more. “Mi amor…” Her thumb brushed a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen, catching it with the tenderness of someone who had waited lifetimes to wipe it away. She kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Her lips were wet, and every touch held the weight of something sacred. “You did it,” she breathed. “Look at her. Look at our girl.”

Your daughter let out another cry, this one breaking on the end like a note held too long—and the three of you laughed softly through the tears. Ezra stepped in again, her calm undisturbed, stethoscope already ready. She lowered the disc to your daughter’s tiny chest and listened, her expression serene even over the cries.

“Heartbeat’s perfect,” Ezra said softly. “Breathing strong. She’s just letting us all know.”

You laughed — a soft, stunned thing that broke into a sob at the edges.

---------

Time had fractured into something non-linear—no ticking clocks, no sharp edges. Only breath. Only skin. Only the weight of her, impossibly real and impossibly small, pressed to your chest as the storm softened into rain beyond the window.

Ezra worked quietly at your side, tending to the aftermath with hands so practiced they barely seemed to move. The lighting was dim, golden, as if the entire world had agreed to hush.

And in that hush—you watched your daughter live.

Her cries had softened now, no longer frantic but insistent. Rhythmic. Her tiny fists curled near her mouth, her chest rising in sharp, fluttery gasps. The sound didn’t overwhelm the room. It filled it. It belonged.

Your body was still shaking.

The tremble of spent muscles, of aftershocks still rippling through your legs, through the hollow of your belly, through the place just beneath your ribs that had once held her. The echo of it all pulsed in your joints, in your breath, in the way your eyes couldn’t stop blinking like you were afraid to miss something.

And still—you held her.

Skin to skin. Your heartbeat under her cheek. Your soul tethered in full.

Agatha’s arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders from behind, her chest firm against your spine, her chin tucked into the curve of your neck. Her hands splayed across your collarbone like she could anchor you from the inside out. You were leaning fully into her now, every breath taken from the center of her strength.

Rio laid at your side, one hand resting on your thigh, the other gently stroking your daughter’s damp back. Agatha’s voice came low, reverent, cracked from crying.

“You did so good, baby. You were… God, you’re incredible.”

She was on your chest, slick and small, her cries a steady flutter against your skin. You held her like instinct—your arms curling protectively even as your body slumped with exhaustion. Your forehead pressed against her soft, damp head, breath hitching as tears slipped down the bridge of your nose.

Then Ezra stepped beside the bed. Her voice was low, calm, full of the space she always carried like light.

“May I clean her up a bit?” she asked gently. “—get her weight, check her over. Only when you’re ready.”

You hesitated. Your arms tightened.

Agatha kissed your temple instantly, like she felt it too. Like she knew.

You nodded—slow, aching—and turned your head toward her.

Ezra’s hands were reverent as she lifted your daughter—no longer as a doctor, but as someone who knew. Her movements were careful, never hurried. Like she understood what it meant to hold a life that had only just begun to breathe.

“Agatha… go with her. Go.”

She kissed your temple again. You felt her hesitate—just for a moment—but then she pulled away from behind you. The loss of her warmth made you sway slightly, but Rio steadied you with a hand at your shoulder.

“I love you,” Rio whispered, voice thick. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.” Her lips found your forehead, then your cheek. “You brought her into the world. You’re… God I love you..”

You heard Agatha’s breath, uneven, as she joined Ezra at the foot of the bed. She offered the scissors to Agatha, already clamped and pulsing faintly with the last thread of connection between you.

Agatha took them—hands suddenly less steady than they had been all night.

Ezra looked to you. You nodded again, slower. “Right between,” Ezra said softly. And Agatha did.

Her hand moved. Her jaw tightened. The cord snapped. Your daughter let out a sharper cry—just a heartbeat louder—before settling again. Agatha moved forward.. Her eyes shimmered. She handed the scissors back with a breath like a cracked violin string, then turned fully to your daughter, who was still crying, chest rising in soft, urgent little hiccups.

Ezra helped cradle her into a towel, supporting her head, and the two of them walked to the warming station just steps away. Ezra called out the weight a moment later. “Seven pounds even.” Rio’s hand curled tight around yours. You both watched—motionless, breathless.

Then you turned your head. Nodded again. Go. Rio didn’t hesitate once you nodded.

She brushed your cheek with her thumb—one last grounding touch—then moved quickly to the warming station, her shadow falling in line beside Agatha’s. Your daughter lay there beneath the soft, golden heat, still crying, still red-faced and new to the world. The halo of her arrival hadn’t faded—it hovered in the room like steam.

Ezra stood beside them, calm and sure, and handed Agatha a fresh cloth soaked in warm water. “She’s still adjusting to the cold,” she murmured. “Start gentle. Down the chest first, then the legs.”

Agatha’s hands trembled slightly. But she dipped the cloth and wiped—tender strokes over her daughter’s chest, her belly, her tiny legs. The baby shivered at the change, her little limbs curling, her mouth opening in protest. Her cries came sharp and startled, like the air itself was too loud.

Agatha’s voice cracked. “Mommy’s got you,” she whispered. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

The water caught in the light—small ribbons of warmth curling from her skin, rising like breath into the hush of the room.

Ezra reached beside her and guided Rio’s hand next. “Back of her neck. Shoulders.” Rio took the cloth, slower than Agatha, but no less reverent. Her lips parted, breath shallow as she dabbed gently behind her daughter’s ears, across the folds of her arms, over the small round of her back.

Your daughter let out another cry—softer now, hiccupping and strong. Her tiny feet kicked against the towel beneath her, searching. “Mamí te tiene en sus manos,” Rio murmured. “I’m here.”

Agatha leaned in instinctively, one hand resting under their daughter’s head as Rio’s hand stayed curled protectively around her back. The two of them—side by side, steady and shaking—worked in quiet rhythm beneath the glow of the warming light. They didn’t need to speak. Their bodies said it for them. Ezra watched, quiet and warm-eyed, offering only gentle guidance when needed. Her hands moved with calm precision, but it was the way she stepped back—just slightly, allowing space for the three of them—that said the most.

She handed over the receiving blanket, the one Rio bought weeks ago. They wrapped her together. The pale cream blanket—patterned with soft blooms, little sprouts, and tiny butterflies stitched like dreams into the fabric—was lifted, tucked, and folded with sacred care. She vanished into its warmth like she belonged there. Like she always had.

They held her together — Agatha’s hand under her head, Rio’s hand across her back — and looked at her like you’d given them the stars. Like you had built them a new galaxy, and she was the center. And in that soft light—her face still wrinkled with effort, her fists still curled like stars just beginning to burn—Agatha and Rio looked down at her with an awe that bordered on grief. Like the beauty of it hurt. Like it was too big for breath.

Their daughter blinked slowly, the cries softening into wet sighs, her mouth still working around sound. Still finding it. Rio’s hand pressed against the blanket’s curve. Agatha’s hand stroked her cheek with a knuckle, careful not to overwhelm her.

She was so small. Wrapped tight, warm, barely more than a flutter of breath and blinking eyes in the blanket they’d chosen together. But in their arms—she was weight and wonder, thunder and prayer. Rio looked at Agatha. “Let’s get her to Mama.”

Your arms moved before your mind caught up. Reached out like breath, like instinct. There was no thought—only pull. Only knowing. Your body already lifting. Already calling for her. And they came. Agatha moved first, stepping softly to the side of the bed, her arms steady, her breath tight. Rio followed, guiding the blanket with one hand, their daughter cradled carefully between them. She was placed in your arms like an answer. Like something lost had been returned.

Curled against your chest once more, her body tucked into the valley between your breasts, her head settling beneath your chin with a soundless sigh. She didn’t cry this time. She didn’t wail. She simply… settled.

Rio draped the edge of the blanket over her back, smoothing it down with quiet reverence—her fingers brushing your collarbone, then your shoulder. As if grounding the moment in your skin.

The sound that left your body wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t relief. It was older. A sound made of marrow and dust and stars. A sound of something sacred being completed. It was the exhale of a gate unlocking. Of the last part of you returning home.

You held her. Still slick with tears. Still trembling. But steady now. Her breath was warm against your skin. Her tiny hand twitched near your sternum—reflexive, reaching. Her body settled like a weight you had carried in dreams for years, and only now were allowed to hold awake.

Your chin dipped toward your chest, your cheek brushing the top of her head as your arms tightened around her. You closed your eyes, and in that moment, everything else fell away. But theirs stayed on you.

They watched—held in the hush of something too large for language—as your body wrapped around this new life. As your arms curved. As your hands steadied. As your pulse moved in sync with hers.

You looked up once, unable to stop yourself—and caught Rios face just as it broke open—stripped bare of her usual composure, too full and too fragile to keep standing still. She tried to smile. But it wavered, cracked at the edges. She covered her mouth for a breath, blinked hard, and then turned into Agatha’s arms like gravity itself had pulled her there. She caught her instantly. No hesitation. Just arms and breath and body. Rio’s face pressed to her shoulder, and her body began to shake. Not loud. Not broken. Just... spilling over. The weight of it finally finding a place to land. Agatha held her close—hand cupping the back of her head, the other firm at her waist. Silent tears streaked down her face too, but she didn’t hide them. She just tucked Rio in tighter, rocking them both. She whispered something into her hair, you couldn’t hear, her own voice catching in her throat.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The three of you had built a universe and watched it take its first breath. Agatha’s fingers curled in the fabric of Rio’s shirt, her forehead pressed into her shoulder. And then—together—they turned. Back to you. Their daughter. Their wife. The love on their faces—raw, unhidden, shattered with joy—made your throat ache. You smiled, your voice a low rasp: “Come here.”

And they did. No hesitation. No noise. Just the quiet sound of feet shifting over the floor and breath catching in the air between you. Your daughter lay nestled against your chest, her skin warm beneath the blanket Rio had draped with such care. Her tiny cheek rested just below your collarbone, soft and damp, rising and falling with the rhythm of your breath. Her body so small, so impossibly new—still damp with birth, still unfurling into the shape of the world.

She wasn’t crying anymore.

Just making those newborn sounds—the wet flutter of lips, the breathy almost-whimpers that sounded like memory itself. Like she was still trying to remember where she’d come from. Her knees were tucked in, fists curled under her chin. You traced soft, looping circles across the fragile curve of her back, your fingers memorizing her before you even understood what it meant to do so.

Rio lowered herself beside you first—her movements slow, reverent. Her arm tucked under your shoulders, her body curling toward yours like she was returning to center. Her forehead rested gently against yours, her breath catching on the inhale like she hadn’t realized she was still holding it.

Agatha moved just as quietly to the other side of the bed, climbing up beside you both. Her palm settled against your chest—fingers spread, warm and sure—just above where your daughter’s cheek rested. She was still watching you, her eyes rimmed red, her mouth parted like she might say something but couldn’t find words. Her touch didn’t press—it floated. Just enough to feel your heartbeat under her fingers.

The blanket shifted slightly as you turned the edge down, exposing your daughter’s small, perfect form. Her skin was flushed a dusky rose, soft as breath, still warm from the cradle of your body. Wisps of brown hair clung damp to her scalp in loose, curling spirals—already thickening in the light, already hers.

You tilted her gently, just enough so they could see—so you could all see her. And both of them leaned closer at once, breath caught in their throats. Her lips—delicate, bowed, unmistakably Agatha’s—parted in a silent sigh, as if she were trying to speak the air into something new. That little cupid’s bow, tender and pink, carried the same softness that had kissed your temple through the hardest hours.

Her nose—your slope, maybe, but Rio’s bridge. Familiar. A hybrid of history and home. Something in it made your chest ache, the way Rio’s used to when she laughed in the dark.

Her cheeks were already full, flushed from effort, the faintest touch of down still dusted across them. Her hands curled up beneath her chin like she was still dreaming her way out of the womb. Fingers the length of possibility. Her mouth opened once—not a cry. Just a breath. Like she was listening.

Like she already knew your voices. Already knew she was theirs, and yours, and home. You couldn’t stop staring. None of you could. She was impossibly small and entirely real—your daughter. A girl built from your blood, Agatha’s breath, Rio’s steadiness. The three of you made flesh. Agatha’s hand never left your chest. Rio’s fingers traced slow circles along your shoulder. The room felt paused in time—warm and flickering, still.

Rio’s voice came next, barely louder than the wind outside. A question laced in reverence, like she was asking the storm itself for permission. “Do you want to say it?”

You blinked. Your eyes fell back to your daughter—her little mouth moving soundlessly, her fingers curling like she was still dreaming her way into the world. You didn’t speak right away. You just leaned forward, your nose brushing hers, your breath catching as you whispered into the small hush between her cries: “Hi, baby girl.”

Another beat. Then, softer—like it had always been waiting on your tongue: “Hi, Raffi.” Agatha’s breath stuttered behind you. You felt it in your spine. Her forehead touched your shoulder just as her hand cupped your daughter’s head with aching care. “Hi, Raffi,” she echoed, voice trembling. “Welcome home, little sprout.”

Rio let out a shaky breath beside you. Her thumb brushed your cheek, her eyes locked on your daughter like she’d never seen anything more sacred. You nodded slowly, your voice hoarse but certain. “Ayla Raffaela Vidal Harkness.”

The name filled the air like something elemental. Not loud. Not shouted. But final. Whole. The kind of truth you don’t need to explain. Agatha kissed your temple, then leaned in and kissed Raffi’s crown, her lips barely touching the soft down of her daughter’s hair.

Rio whispered it again beside you, just to feel it shape her mouth, the sound trembling out of her like prayer: “Ayla Raffaela.” And then, smiling through tears: “Raffi.”

The baby stirred—her tiny body shifting like she recognized the name, like it landed somewhere just behind her ribs and started growing roots. You looked down, your voice almost gone, but somehow still sure. “Hi, Raffi,” you whispered again, brushing your lips across the top of her head. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

--------

Later, after the blood had been cleaned away and fresh linens had been drawn tight beneath your limbs. After Ezra had whispered kind things while checking your vitals. After someone had finally closed the window just enough to hush the wind’s edge. After the water had been sipped, after warm blankets had been draped across your shoulders, and the only sound left was breath—yours, theirs, hers — and the rain murmuring against the brick…

You shifted the blanket gently and held your daughter out to Rio. Your arms ached from the weight of her. Not because she was heavy—she wasn’t, not yet—but because something in your body understood she was never meant to be held alone. She was meant to be held by all of you.

Rio removed her shirt and took her like she’d done it a thousand times. Her hands were so steady. So soft. One cradled beneath Raffi’s bottom, the other curled beneath her delicate head, holding her close to the warmth of her chest. The baby’s face turned inward, nose tucked beside the slope of Rio’s collarbone, her breath making the smallest rise of fog over Rio’s skin.

Her skin was already deepening. That soft, golden undertone that would match Rio’s perfectly was blooming into color. Just the subtlest shift of pigment, but it made your throat tighten. That little girl belonged. She was the sum of every love that had carried her here. Agatha’s hand slid across Rio’s forearm, her palm curving to cover the tiny span of Raffi’s back. She leaned over her gently, as though afraid the sound of her breath might startle the moment away.

Then Rio began to murmur. Spanish came low and reverent from her mouth. Words filled with awe, tenderness, and a kind of magic only love could translate. You couldn’t catch all of it. But your body knew it. Your bones did. And your daughter?

She sighed. A big sigh — too big for such a tiny chest. It spilled out of her in one long, uneven exhale, her lips parting, her whole body shifting against Rio’s arm. It was one of those strangely ancient sounds — like she was already tired of the world, but glad to be in it. Like some piece of her had seen all this before, and had simply chosen to return.

All three of you froze.

The room was already quiet, light flickering in the humid stillness, but now it held its breath. Rio’s arms instinctively tightened, pulling your daughter closer as if to say I heard you, baby girl. I’m here. Agatha let out a breath of her own — but hers came shaped like a smile. Wide. Wordless. It cracked something open in the room that hadn’t been touched yet.

You laughed softly. A wet, joy-broken sound. The kind of laugh that only comes after pain and love collide and leave you breathless in their wake. Rio looked up at you — the corners of her eyes crinkled, her lashes damp, her mouth tilted in a crooked, exhausted grin. She was still rocking gently, like her body hadn’t quite let go of its rhythm from birth.

“It’s been a busy day, huh?” she whispered, voice hoarse with wonder. “First defending Mama’s dissertation… then greeting us in the middle of a storm.”

You nodded, overwhelmed, your lips parting but unable to speak just yet. Rio looked back down at Raffi and pressed a kiss to her head — soft and slow, her lips lingering against the fine damp hair, her breath catching in her throat. Then she passed her to Agatha, whose arms were already reaching, bare and open. She’d been holding you this whole time in her sports bra and sweatpants — skin warm against your spine, still damp with effort, still humming with awe. Now, her hands moved like an invocation.

Your daughter didn’t cry. She simply shifted — her tiny limbs stretching in that strange, newborn way, like her body was still trying to remember how to be separate, as if she wasn’t yet sure where she ended and Agatha began. Agatha took her like she was made of starlight and secrets. You saw it — the way her breath caught when Raffi settled against her chest. The way her shoulders folded forward, her body forming a roof over her child like a temple being sealed. Her fingertips moved instinctively, one hand on Raffi’s back, the other supporting her head, and then she looked down — and her whole face softened.

Every sharp edge. Every guarded line. Gone. Just this. Just a mother and her daughter. Your daughter. Your wives. Your family. You smiled, your body finally sinking into Rio’s side. The effort of everything — the labor, the pushing, the joy, the storm, the defense — all of it gave way to warmth. Rio’s arm curled around your shoulders, drawing you close, her fingers brushing softly along your collarbone. She didn’t need to say anything for you to feel it — the pride, the awe, the relief.

“I’d say it’s been a busy… I don’t even know what day it is anymore,” you murmured, your voice low and rough, your throat raw from hours of storm and screaming and love. Rio laughed, quiet and radiant. She kissed your temple, her lips brushing your skin like punctuation to a sentence only your bodies understood. Agatha cradled your daughter like a psalm — her eyes locked on Raffi’s face, her mouth parted in reverence, like she was reading something holy. And in the hush that followed — wrapped in blankets, in breath, in candlelight and heartbeat — you knew. Deep in your marrow, deeper than thought:

You had hung the moon and stars.And she? She was the galaxy.Rio’s voice came again, soft as cotton, low as a lullaby. Her hand brushed your cheek just as your head dropped to her shoulder.

“Rest, my love,” she whispered. “We got her. We’re right here.”

------

You slept like someone held in the arms of gods.

Curled beneath warm blankets, body softened at last into the contours of the sheets, your breath rose and fell with the same rhythm as the rain still tapping at the windows. Light flickered across your face, casting long shadows against the wall behind the bed. Your hair was damp with sweat and sleep. Your lips parted, a small exhale threading into the quiet.

Across the room, Agatha and Rio sat together on the couch, the baby nestled between them like the most fragile, perfect secret.

Agatha held her now—cradled in the crook of one arm, her fingers brushing slowly over the baby’s soft cheek, just beneath the edge of the receiving blanket. Her touch was light, reverent. Almost afraid to press too firmly, like any moment might break the dream. Raffi made a tiny sound, breath catching in her throat before falling back into silence. Her fingers curled against Agatha’s chest.

Rio leaned in, shoulder pressed to Agatha’s. Her hand rested just over Raffi’s foot beneath the blanket. The shape of her daughter’s body was barely visible beneath the soft cotton—only the rise of her chest, the faint angle of a knee, the dark smudge of her hair barely drying against her crown.

Neither woman spoke for a long time.

They just watched you sleep.

Agatha’s gaze drifted across the room, pulled by something quiet and gravitational. You were barely a shape beneath the layers of blankets now—your knees curled inward, one arm flung over the pillow as if reaching for something even in dreams. Your face was turned toward the wall, half in shadow, mouth slightly open, lashes damp and resting against your cheekbones like fallen wings. She didn’t speak. Just looked.

Her expression softened slowly. Then shimmered.

“She looks like her,” Agatha murmured, voice caught between reverence and disbelief. Like saying it aloud might make the truth hold.

Rio turned, eyes already on her. “She looks like all of us,” she said, but not to correct—just to expand. Her voice was low, reverent. A statement of fact braided with wonder.

Agatha nodded, slow and aching. Her thumb moved instinctively, tracing a slow, sacred line across Raffi’s temple where she lay curled in her arms. The baby stirred, not yet waking, lips pursing in a dream-like suckling motion. Her body was so impossibly small, so warm against Agatha’s chest it made her breath hitch.

Rio exhaled, a tremble buried inside it. “Do you remember the first time she walked through our office door?” Her eyes stayed on the baby’s hand—so tiny it barely wrapped around her finger. “Books in one arm. Coffee in the other. So goddamn sure she was going to flunk that theory class.”

Agatha let out the ghost of a laugh. “And you offered to tutor her, like the good professor you are.”

Rio smiled, her thumb now stroking the arch of Raffi’s foot through the blanket. “I just wanted to hear her talk,” she said. “I wanted to see if the fire in her eyes was real.”

Agatha tilted her head, her cheek brushing Rio’s hair as she spoke. “She nearly burned us alive,” she whispered. The words held no regret—only awe. “I was terrified of it. I’d never thought someone else could make me feel like you did. To want to be known like that.”

Rio turned, her cheek now resting against Agatha’s shoulder. There were no words for a moment. Only the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing and the lullaby hush of storm outside.

“And now look at her.”

They did. At you, tucked beneath the blankets, utterly still in the cradle of deep, earned sleep. Your face looked younger somehow. Unburdened. Like the pain had peeled something old away. They looked at her, the daughter born from that fire. From love. From labor. From lightning. Her fingers flexed against Agatha’s chest like she was still swimming through memory. Her mouth twitched. Her breath was steady. “I don’t think I believed we’d ever get here,” Rio said, barely louder than the rain at the window.

Agatha swallowed hard. Her eyes traced the curve of your sleeping body, the edge of your smile that lingered even in sleep. “I think we were always meant to.”

Raffi twisted in Agatha’s arms, face scrunching into a storm of newborn rage. Her mouth opened and the sound poured out—thin at first, but rising. Expanding. Another cry followed, louder, rawer. Her legs kicked beneath the blanket. Her arms jerked in that wild, perfect flail only new babies could manage.

Agatha reacted without thinking—swaying instinctively, whispering against her downy crown. “Shh, shh—little sprout, it’s alright—it’s okay—Mommy’s here—”

Rio leaned in, her hand smoothing over the baby’s belly. “You’re alright, mi amor—shh, Mamí’s got you—Mamí’s right here—”

But Raffi didn’t settle. Her cries only grew, carving space in the silence, wrapping around the walls like music with no end. You stirred at the sound, your lashes fluttering once—twice—and then you opened your eyes. No panic. No fear. Only the soft pull of a smile.

You knew that voice already. That cry. That tiny, indignant storm. Your body moved before your mind could catch up—your arms twitching beneath the blankets, readying without command.

“Bring me our girl.” A pause, eyes flickering from Raffi to Agatha, to Rio. A smile on your face as you watched the word settle around them

Rio stepped to your side, her presence grounding you before her hands even touched you. She kissed you softly—lips warm, reverent—then rested her forehead against yours for one breath, maybe two. You were upright now, back cushioned, exhaustion draped around your limbs like fog. But through it, something deeper moved. Something holy. “My love,” she whispered, brushing her knuckles over your cheek. “Can I?”

You nodded.

Her hand slipped beneath the edge of the robe — fingers grazing your shoulder first, then smoothing along your collarbone with the kind of tenderness that made you ache. She moved with care, never rushing, as if unveiling something sacred. The fabric parted under her hand, folding open across your chest like the page of a book not meant for the world, only for this room.

Agatha moved toward you with the gravity of a moon pulling the tide. Her arms curved protectively around Raffi, hands adjusting the blanket as she stepped closer. You could see her rocking her slightly, her voice low.

“I know, sweetie,” she murmured, her lips near Raffi’s temple.

Then she began to peel the blanket back. Raffi’s cries sharpened at once. The moment the cool air met her skin, she kicked harder—legs jerking in uneven bursts, arms flailing wide as if the world itself had betrayed her again. Her face twisted with protest, mouth open in a fresh wail, tiny body pulsing with panic and need.

Agatha only held her tighter. Not to hush her—but to let her know Mommy had her. She reached the edge of the bed just as Rio smoothed the robe fully aside, baring your chest to the moonlight and the quiet gravity of what came next. Rio met her in motion as she lowered her toward your chest. Your arms lifted instinctively, trembling but sure.

Raffi landed like breath returning, her body still red in places with the effort of arrival. Removed from the warmth of the pale cream blanket now, her body met yours with more fury than grace.

The moment she realized her tiny, warm body was placed on yours, her cries — newborn, urgent, breathy little hiccups of frustration — only grew louder. She squirmed against you, face wrinkling, her limbs flailing in confusion, her mouth opening wider as if the air itself had betrayed her. Her legs tucked under her in little spasms, knees curling close to your ribs as she pressed instinctively into you.

You pressed your lips to her damp curls. “It’s okay, baby girl. Mama’s right here.”

Her face wrinkled deeper with each movement. Her mouth opened in another wail, searching and hungry, her whole body squirming up your chest like she was trying to burrow through skin and bone, back into the world that had kept her safe.

Your voice cracked as you spoke again, eyes still locked on her. “You sound just like I dreamed you would.” She wailed again, her mouth wide, her body small and burning against yours.

A quiet knock. A door easing open. Ezra entered—soft, clean-scrubbed in fresh scrubs. Her smile was calm, fond, already reaching the corners of her eyes. “Someone sounds hungry,” she said warmly, eyes flicking from Raffi to you. “Do you want to try feeding her, Mama?”

You didn’t even blink. Just nodded. Slowly. Deeply. Your voice emerged like earth after rain—cracked open, raw and warm and rooted in something bottomless. Raffi’s face burrowed forward, searching, mouth opening in little gasps of instinct and confusion. She let out a short, sharp cry. Then another. Tiny arms flailing now. Growing more frustrated by the second.

You winced softly, adjusting your grip, your chest and body still sore. “It’s okay—I know this is new for me to sweetie—”

Ezra moved beside you before the sentence could fall apart. She didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to. Her hands were sure, gentle. She crouched beside the bed, scanning Raffi’s face, your posture, your shaking arms. “Let’s try this,” she said softly, the kind of softness that came from years of witnessing this exact moment—the quiet edge between panic and miracle. “Support her head with this hand. Right there—yes, just like that. Tilt her, gently. Good. Now bring her a little closer… let her find you.”

With practiced calm, Ezra guided your hands, adjusting your hold, Her hands never replaced yours—only guided. Corrected, helped your body find the right shape to hold your daughter.

Your body reacted before your mind could name the feeling. A sound escaped your mouth—part sigh, part sob. Your head dropped back against the pillows, your jaw trembling. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t ease. It was everything. A tightening and a softening all at once.

The moment her mouth found you, her cries cut off mid-breath, the silence sudden and absolute, Her body—so taut, so urgent—melted, settled with eerie precision, like she'd always known you. A small, almost startled sound left your throat—a cracked laugh wrapped around a sob—as you watched her latch, watched her settle. One leg tucked itself under, the other pressing lightly against your ribs. She began to feed. Her body moved with small syncopated swallows, breaths fluttering between each one like she was still stunned by her own ability to be held, to feed. Her jaw worked in tiny, perfect pulses. Her cheek brushed your skin, flushed and velvet-soft, damp with effort. One leg tucked itself under her belly. The other pressed against your ribs in a steady, unconscious push—just enough to remind you she was real.

You cupped the back of her head with one hand. The other wrapped around her back, your thumb tracing a slow line down the space between her shoulders, still stunned by the sheer reality of it, the way her whole being had found yours like gravity had drawn her there. She was so tiny against your chest, but she felt infinite.

Agatha’s hand rose to your cheek, her thumb catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. Rio’s fingers swept through your hair, combing it back from your temple in slow, circular strokes. You weren’t crying. Not yet. But you were close. Your eyes had gone wide, glassy, locked on the miracle pressed against your chest. The world had narrowed to the sound of Raffi’s breath. Her swallowing. Her becoming.

Ezra stayed just close enough, watching with her practiced calm. “She’s got a strong latch,” she murmured, pleased. “Let her take her time.” She didn’t ask to stay. She didn’t need to. Her presence wrapped around the edges of the room like a guardian spell—quiet, calm, eternal.

You only nodded, too full to trust your voice. One arm curled protectively around Raffi’s back. Your other hand was tucked beneath her thigh, holding her close, anchoring both of you to this sacred now. Time passed. Soft. Undisturbed. You whispered something, a nothing-phrase, against your daughter’s scalp. You kissed the crown of her head. Ran your thumb down the bridge of her nose.

You watched as she began to slow—her suckling losing rhythm, each pull softer than the last. Her mouth went slack around you, then stilled. Her body, once taut with effort, now grew limp in your arms—boneless, heavy with sleep. Her tiny fingers unfurled. Her legs stilled. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic breath puffing softly against your skin.

Carefully, you drew her back. She released you with a soft, almost reluctant sigh. Her lips remained parted, a fine sheen of milk clinging to the corner of her mouth. Her face—flushed, full, radiant with the exertion of new life��rested against your palm for a long moment, as if she didn’t want to go far.

Your arms ached—not from strain, but from the raw, spent glory of holding her through it. “Rio?” you murmured, voice hoarse from silence.

She was already in motion. She rose without hesitation, as if her body had only been waiting for that call—your voice, soft and worn, was all the invitation she needed. Her eyes found yours across the space between you, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. She just looked at you. At her. At what the three of you had created.

Her gaze shimmered, wide with awe. But beneath that shimmer was something steadier. Ancient. Fierce. You passed Raffi into her arms. Your hands brushed, a silent exchange stitched together by touch alone. Rio’s fingers moved with instinct she hadn’t known she’d earned. One hand slipped beneath Raffi’s bottom, the other curved gently at the nape of her neck, thumb cradling the fragile weight of her skull. There was no fumbling. No pause. Just an unspoken knowing, like her arms had memorized this shape in dreams.

She brought Raffi close—slowly, reverently—until her daughter’s small body met her chest. For a breath, Rio stilled. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Her eyes fluttered shut. She leaned in and pressed her lips to Raffi’s forehead, letting them linger there as if to seal something sacred. “I’ve got you, mija,” she whispered, voice thick, threaded with something that shook.

She didn't just hold Raffi—she received her. Her body adjusted to the weight instinctively, spine curling just enough, her arms tightening in careful angles that made space for the fragile heat now pressed against her heart. Her head tilted slightly, cheek brushing against downy hair. One palm rose to steady the back of Raffi’s head. The other began to pat her tiny back—slow, steady, sure.

Raffi wriggled in protest. Her nose scrunched. She made a small, indignant mmph, then a louder one that rasped through the hush like a question. Like she wasn’t quite sure this step was necessary. Like she’d already done enough. “There we go,” Rio murmured, softer now, her voice a lullaby in motion. “Mamí’s got you.” The words landed like shelter. Raffi sighed again, the sound breaking at the edges before tapering into silence. Her small cheek came to rest flat against Rio’s chest, just over her heart. Her mouth worked once, then went still. Her fists relaxed against the fabric of Rio’s shirt, her breathing turning shallow and slow.

And Rio— She didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. Only held her like she’d waited her entire life for this weight. Her jaw trembled once, barely. Her chin dipped, and she pressed her cheek to the top of Raffi’s head, her arms curling tighter around the girl she would have caught in a storm, in a fire, in any world.

You didn’t look away. You watched Rio as if your heart were tethered to hers by invisible thread—as if by watching closely enough, you could memorize every breath that passed between her and the child in her arms. Then, beside you, the mattress dipped. Agatha sat quietly, legs drawn close, one arm curling behind your back as she nestled in beside you. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her warmth met yours in a slow exhale, and you leaned into her without hesitation.

Your head found her shoulder. Her cheek rested against your crown. She kissed the top of your head—once, lingering. A kiss that didn’t ask anything of you. A kiss that just was. “I love you so much,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath. Her fingers curled gently over your hip, grounding you.

Then she kissed you again, slower this time, her lips brushing your temple, her words following in a reverent hush. “You are so amazing. Do you know that?” She let the silence bloom after that—full, unhurried, complete. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. The kind that says you did it, and we’re here, and this is ours now. You leaned into her more fully, letting your weight melt against her side, the ache in your body finally softening into something close to peace.

Raffi’s breath was the only sound now—light, sleepy puffs into the hollow of Rio’s collarbone. You closed your eyes, just for a moment, and let yourself rest there.

Agatha’s warmth pressed into your side, her arm wrapped around your back, her thumb brushing small, absent circles into your hip. You could feel her breathing. Could hear Raffi’s breath, softer still—those tiny, sleepy puffs against Rio’s collarbone. And Rio… Rio was humming something under her breath now. Wordless. Steady. It moved through the room like a lullaby only her daughter would ever fully understand.

You didn’t need to open your eyes to feel it: The shape of your family. Held in this room like a spell still casting. Like a vision you weren't supposed to see.

And for a few breaths…you let yourself disappear into it.

Just long enough for your body to loosen a little deeper into the pillows. Just long enough for your shoulders to stop bracing. For your chest to rise and fall without catching. Your body was still sore, still trembling slightly—but it was yours again. And in this moment, safe.

You shifted slightly. The muscles across your lower back twitched as you lifted your head from Agatha’s shoulder, and a soft sound escaped your throat—half sigh, half groan. Just enough to make your presence known again.

Ezra’s head turned instantly. “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle but alert. “You okay?”

You nodded. The smile that followed was small, crooked, but real. Ezra smiled back, watching you carefully. Then her gaze shifted to Agatha, her voice warm but commanding.

“We’re going to get you set up with some fluids soon and pain meds. I promise, all safe for you and won’t impact your milk,” she told you, then turned to Agatha with a look that brooked no argument. “And she gets whatever meal she wants. No questions asked.”

Agatha let out a soft laugh, brushing her knuckles against your knee. “Deal,” she said, her voice still low with awe. You smiled, “I’ve got a list.”

Ezra chuckled under her breath, then leaned back slightly on the ottoman. Her smile bloomed wider now, the air relaxing again around her. She clasped her hands loosely between her knees and tilted her head just enough to let the mischief through.

“So…” Ezra said, her voice cutting gently through the quiet, tilting her head with a spark of mischief behind the softness. “Have you three decided on a name for my niece?”

Agatha smiled—low and knowing.

Rio didn’t answer at first. She was still caught in the moment, her eyes on the baby in her arms. Raffi had nestled in closer, her breath fogging against the curve of Rio’s chest, her tiny body curled into a position of perfect trust. Her skin had already begun to take on a golden hue—so close to Rio’s own. Rio’s hand moved in slow circles against her back, hypnotic. When she finally looked up, her eyes were shimmering.

“We did, actually,” Rio said, her voice still wrapped in wonder.

Ezra’s face lit up—giddy and expectant. Her fingers curled together in her lap like she was bracing herself. “And what should I be calling my niece?”

You reached out, brushing your fingers across Agatha’s wrist. A silent cue. She leaned into you again, her lips brushing your cheek. Her hand slipped from your waist with a soft glide, pausing briefly before she stood. Her fingers lingered on your shoulder for a beat—then she crossed the room. No rush. Just purpose. She knelt beside the pale-pink gift bag tucked neatly into the side pocket of your overnight case—the one you’d hidden for weeks, waiting for this exact breath in time. When she turned back, the small bundle in hand, something flickered across her face. Joy. Awe. Something older than both.

She returned to Ezra and lowered the gift into her lap with both hands, a kind of offering. “Full name or what she’ll go by?” Rio asked softly, still rocking their daughter.

Ezra held the bag like it was sacred. “Full name,” she said, firm, eyes gleaming. “Give me the whole thing.”

Agatha’s voice didn’t waver. “Ayla Raffaela Vidal Harkness.”

Ezra’s face changed in an instant. Her eyes flew wide. Her mouth opened, stunned, before it even formed a word. “You didn’t,” she breathed, already half-laughing, half-crying.

Her hands dove into the bag, peeling back the soft tissue with fingers that were just beginning to tremble. And then she saw it—folded carefully inside. She pulled it free slowly, reverently. A onesie. Cream-colored cotton, impossibly tiny, soft as breath.

Across the chest, stitched in delicate lettering:

Raffaela 2.0

The Niece Edition

Ezra let out a sound—part laugh, part sob—that cracked the quiet wide open. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears welled and broke before she could stop them. “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me…” she whispered, voice barely holding. She didn’t finish.

She just pressed the onesie to her heart and looked—to Rio, to the baby in her arms, to you still tucked against Agatha’s side. Her eyes darted to each of you like she needed to confirm it was real. Like part of her still couldn’t believe she’d just been stitched into this story forever.

Agatha’s voice came again, low and sure. “She already carries all of us.” Her fingers curled gently around your wrist. “But she needed someone to remind her that this family is bigger than blood. That it includes every hand that helped carry us through.”

Ezra wiped her eyes, shaking her head like she was trying to stay upright inside something too big. She turned her gaze back to the baby in Rio’s arms.

“Hi, Raffaela,” she whispered, her voice warm with awe. “You’re gonna wreck us, aren’t you?”

Raffi let out a tiny, sleepy grunt in response—half sigh, half agreement. You swallowed, breath catching again. “Raffi for short,” you murmured, your voice hitching around the syllables like they’d been waiting your whole life to be spoken.

Raffi stirred gently in Rio’s arms, like she knew. Her face scrunched, then settled again, her breath fluttering against Rio’s shirt. Her little fingers curled into the fabric just over her collarbone, holding tight. Claiming it.

Agatha kissed your cheek again, slow and deliberate. You leaned into her like gravity.

Rio smiled through a tear that tracked silently down her cheek, glinting in the low light. She looked down at Raffi again, her voice low, full. “She’s already got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”

Ezra let out a quiet laugh, cracking at the edges again. Her hand stayed pressed over her heart, the tiny onesie still resting in her lap like something too precious to fold.

Then she looked over at you. “I’m gonna go grab your fluids and meds, okay?” she said gently. Her eyes were clear now, her smile steady. “You did beautifully, Mama. I’ll be right back.” You nodded, your throat thick. She stood, giving Raffi one last look, then disappeared into the hallway with the soundless certainty of someone who would always come when called.

And in her absence— You noticed it.

The quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after. Beyond the windows, the last of the storm had faded. The rain had slowed to mist, the wind gone still. You could see the sheen of wet leaves, the faint glimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds as if the sky itself had softened.

The storm had passed.

Inside, the hush remained. Raffi lay nestled in Rio’s arms, her face buried in the curve of her mother’s chest. Agatha was pressed against your side, her hand stroking your thigh through the sheet without rhythm—just presence. You leaned into her, your temple resting against her shoulder, and let your eyes close again.

You didn’t need to speak. You didn’t need to move. Everything you loved was here. And in the stillness that followed the storm, in the breath between arrival and tomorrow...

You rested.

------

Let's talk about her name! I always work for things that have meaning. Her initials are A&R, after Agatha and Rio. Raffi means both "Born of three" & "God has healed.” Ayla means “moonlight” What did you think?

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