Luca's POV
My water breaks at 4 AM.
I wake to wetness and immediate panic. "Rian!"
He's up instantly, assessing. "Is it time?"
"Water broke. Oh god, it's really happening—"
"Okay. Okay, we're ready." He's moving fast—grabbing the hospital bag, helping me dress, staying calm despite his internal panic I feel through the bond.
The first contraction hits in the car. Strong. Painful. Real.
"Breathe," Rian says, driving carefully but quickly. "Just breathe, baby."
"It hurts—"
"I know. I'm sorry. So sorry." He takes my hand. "You're strong. You can do this."
At the hospital, everything happens fast. They check me—four centimeters dilated, progressing quickly.
"First babies usually take longer," the nurse says. "But you might be fast."
Another contraction. I squeeze Rian's hand so hard he winces.
"I can't do this," I gasp. "It hurts too much—"
"You can. You're already doing it." He wipes my forehead. "I'm here. Not leaving."
Hours blur together. Pain, breathing, Rian's voice coaching me through.
"Seven centimeters," the nurse announces. "Getting close."
"Drugs. I want drugs—"
"Too late for epidural. Baby's coming too fast."
"No, no, I can't—" Another contraction, stronger. I scream.
Rian's beside me, pale but steady. "You're doing amazing. So strong. So perfect."
"I hate you for this—"
"I know. Hate me all you want." He kisses my forehead. "Just keep going."
Transition hits—worst pain yet. I'm crying, screaming, begging for it to stop.
"Ten centimeters," the doctor announces. "Time to push."
"I can't—"
"You can." Rian's eyes lock on mine. "Look at me. Just me. You can do this."
I push. The pain is indescribable. But Rian's there, holding my hand, talking me through every moment.
"That's it. Doing so good. Almost there."
"I see the head!" the doctor says. "One more push—"
I push with everything I have. Then suddenly—
A cry. Loud, angry, beautiful.
"It's a boy!" the doctor announces, placing our son on my chest.
I'm crying, Rian's crying, our son is crying. Perfect chaos.
"Hi," I gasp, looking at him. "Hi, baby boy."
He's tiny, wrinkled, absolutely perfect. Dark hair like Rian's, already trying to open his eyes.
"Our son," Rian breathes, touching him carefully. "Oh god, our son."
They take him briefly to clean and check, but quickly return him. Rian cuts the cord with shaking hands.
"He's perfect," the nurse says. "Eight pounds, two ounces. Healthy and strong."
Rian's beside me, arm around my shoulders, both of us staring at our son.
"We made this," I whisper.
"We made him." Rian's voice breaks. "He's perfect."
Our son opens his eyes—golden, like Rian's. Already alert, already looking at us.
"Hi, little one," Rian says. "I'm your dad. This is your papa. We love you so much."