Page 118 of Mile High Daddy

One moment, I’m lifting Lila into my arms, carrying her down the steps as she whimpers against my chest, and the next, we’re inside, bright lights flashing past me as nurses wheel her into a room.

I stay right by her side, my hand gripping hers, her fingers clutching mine tight enough to bruise. She’s breathing hard, her body tense, and even though I’m used to handling pressure—used to keeping my cool when the world is burning around me?—

This is different.

This is her.

Lila winces again, and I feel helpless in a way I’ve never experienced before.

A doctor comes in, a woman in her forties with calm, kind eyes, and starts checking over Lila. The minutes stretch on painfully long.

And then, finally?—

“It’s false labor,” the doctor says.

My entire body releases a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Lila, still tense, blinks up at her. “False labor?”

The doctor nods, giving her a reassuring smile. “Braxton Hicks contractions. They’re common in the third trimester—especially with twins. Your body is preparing, but this isn’t active labor yet.”

I feel Lila’s grip on my hand ease slightly, but she still looks uncertain, shaken.

I squeeze her fingers, grounding her. “You’re okay,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over her knuckles.

She exhales, shaky, but steadier than before.

The doctor watches the exchange for a beat, then turns to me. “You need to keep her stress levels down,” she says.

I lift a brow. “What do you mean?”

She sighs, glancing at Lila before lowering her voice slightly, like she doesn’t want to speak in front of her.

“She’s under a lot of stress,” the doctor explains. “More than she should be at this stage. If she continues like this, it could trigger preterm labor for real. And that’s dangerous for twins.”

A cold feeling settles in my chest.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” the doctor presses.

I nod once. “I understand.”

But as I glance down at Lila—pale, exhausted, still curled in on herself?—

I know I need to fix this.

Whatever is eating at her, keeping her up at night, making her cry in silence?—

It ends now.

I don’t like hospitals.

They smell like antiseptic and bad news, and there’s always a sense of waiting—waiting for answers, for time to pass, for things to either get worse or miraculously better.

I sit beside Lila’s hospital bed, watching her tug at the thin blanket, her movements absent, like she’s lost in her own head.

She hasn’t looked at me since the doctor left.

Her fingers twitch against the sheet, and I know she’s replaying everything in her mind. The pain, the panic, the words the doctor said. She’s thinking too much.

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