Page 62 of Owned In Misty Mountain

He shoots up like I screamed.

—-

“Breathe,” I tell him, even though I’m the one having the contraction.

He’s already on his feet, grabbing the bag he packed six weeks ago like we were going to war. Tossing on clothes. Talking to himself.

“You need water? Pillows? Your charger—where’s your charger?”

“Mike.”

He stops. Looks at me like I’ve just told him I’m dying.

“I’m okay,” I say, soft. “But I think my water’s about to—”

And that’s when it happens.

Warm. Sudden. I blink down at the sheets. “Okay, now I’m sure.”

—-

He carries me to the truck.

Doesn’t even argue when I say I can walk. Just picks me up like it’s instinct, muttering, “No way in hell you’re walking through a snow-covered driveway with my baby about to come out of you.”

It should be ridiculous.

It should be over-the-top.

But I’ve never felt safer in my life.

—-

The drive is short, but intense. Every time I groan, his grip onthe wheel tightens.

“You okay?” he asks for the fifth time.

“Still okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’m pretty sure the baby’s still in there, Mike. So… yeah.”

He makes a sound like he’s trying not to smile—and failing.

—-

The hospital lights are too bright, the beeping too much.

But Mike’s right there.

Every second.

His hand doesn’t leave mine. His voice is in my ear every time the contractions hit.

“You’ve got this, baby. You’re doing so good.”

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

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