Chapter 138: Waiting
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Charlie
Cade goes into labor at two seventeen in the morning.
I know the exact time because I’m awake.
Not intentionally.
I’ve reached the point where every small sound in the house wakes me—the heater clicking on, a car passing outside, Cade turning over beside me. For the past two weeks, I have been sleeping like a security system with anxiety.
So when Cade shifts beside me and makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, my eyes open immediately.
The room is dark except for the pale blue numbers on the clock.
2:17.
I hold still.
Cade breathes slowly through his nose.
Then he exhales.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
Maybe he’s uncomfortable.
He’s always uncomfortable now. Our son has apparently decided Cade’s ribs are furniture, his bladder is a trampoline, and sleeping is optional.
I start to close my eyes.
Cade shifts again.
His hand presses against his stomach.
This time, the sound he makes is sharper.
I sit up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s fine.”
He keeps his eyes closed.
“That also doesn’t sound like fine.”
“Charlie.”
“What?”
“Stop panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re sitting straight up like someone announced a fire.”
“I’m alert.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I am not.”
He opens one eye.
Even in the darkness, I can see the disbelief in his expression.
I force myself to lie back down.
“See?”
“You still look terrified.”
“I’m calm.”
“You have one hand on the lamp and the other on your phone.”
I look at my hands.
He’s right.
I put both down.
“Better?”
“No.”
“Cade.”
He closes his eyes again.
For almost a minute, the room settles.
I listen to his breathing.
Then his body tenses.
His fingers curl into the blanket.
He draws in a slow breath and holds it.
I am sitting up again before I can stop myself.
“How long has that been happening?”
“What?”
“That.”
He opens his eyes.
“That was nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“It was a cramp.”
“What kind of cramp?”
“The kind where a muscle contracts.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you’re trying to interrogate me at two in the morning.”
“Because you might be in labor.”
“I might not be.”
“But you might.”
He exhales.
The scent of cinnamon and vanilla has changed.
It is still him, but stronger. Warmer. Mixed with a faint thread of stress that makes every instinct in me sharpen.
I place my hand over his stomach.
The curve beneath my palm is firm.
Our son shifts.
Then Cade’s abdomen tightens beneath my hand.
His face changes.
Not dramatically.
His lips press together. His eyes close. His breathing turns deliberate.
I count.
Not because I know what I am doing.
Because every book says to count.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty.
Forty.
The tension eases.
Cade opens his eyes.
“That,” I say, “was a contraction.”
“It could be false labor.”
“At two seventeen in the morning?”
“False labor doesn’t check the time.”
I reach for my phone.
He catches my wrist.
“Don’t call everyone.”
“I’m not calling everyone.”
“You’re going to call your mother.”
“I was checking the contraction timer.”
“You already downloaded one?”
“I downloaded three.”
His eyes close briefly.
“Of course you did.”
“They had different reviews.”
“Charlie.”
“One tracks intensity.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I rate it.”
“You are not rating my contractions.”
“Fine.”
He releases my wrist.
I open the simplest app.
“When did the first one happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cade.”
He turns his face away.
My stomach sinks.
“How long have you been awake?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Cade.”
“Since one.”
I stare at him.
“You’ve been having contractions for over an hour?”
“I’ve been uncomfortable for over an hour.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“How far apart are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t time them?”
“I was trying to go back to sleep.”
I throw the blanket off.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Getting the hospital bag.”
“We are not going to the hospital yet.”
“You don’t know that you aren’t in labor.”
“Neither do you.”
“That is why we should go.”
He groans and pushes himself upright.
The movement takes effort now. I reach for him automatically, one hand supporting his back.
“I’m not rushing to the hospital because of three mild contractions,” he says.
“Four.”
“What?”
“You had one before I woke up.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You made a sound.”
“That could have been anything.”
“It was a labor sound.”
“What does a labor sound sound like?”
“Like that.”
He gives me a look.
I help him swing his legs over the side of the bed.
“Bathroom,” he says.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
“What if—”
“I’m going fifteen feet.”
“I know, but—”
“Charlie.”
His voice has the patient warning of someone speaking to a particularly anxious dog.
I stay beside the bed.
He takes three steps.
Stops.
His shoulders stiffen.
I cross the distance immediately.
Cade grips my forearm.
His other hand presses to the underside of his stomach.
This contraction is stronger.
I can tell before he says anything.
His scent surges through the room.
Cinnamon.
Vanilla.
Fear.
My alpha instincts rise hard and fast, demanding I do something.
Protect.
Fix.
Control.
There is nothing to fight.
No threat I can remove.
Only pain moving through the person I love.
“Breathe,” I say, because it is the only useful word I can find.
He glares at me.
“I am breathing.”
“Right. Good. Keep doing that.”
His grip tightens.
I count silently.
Nearly a minute passes before he relaxes.
“That was stronger,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Are you ready to admit it?”
“No.”
“Cade.”
His gaze drops.
Water spreads across the floor between his feet.
We both stare at it.
The silence lasts half a second.
Then I say, “Your water broke.”
“I can see that.”
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
The calm agreement frightens me more than an argument would.
I grab my phone.
“Call the doctor,” Cade says.
“I’m calling the doctor.”
“And don’t call Liam yet.”
“I have to call Mom.”
“No.”
“He will never forgive us if we wait.”
“He will show up here before we’re dressed.”
“He has a key.”
“That is exactly my point.”
I dial the hospital number with shaking fingers.
Cade carefully steps away from the puddle.
“Sit down.”
“I need to change.”
“Sit first.”
“I am not sitting in wet clothes.”
“You could fall.”
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”
Another contraction hits.
He grabs the dresser.
I’m beside him before he can breathe my name.
This one steals the argument from him.
His forehead drops to my shoulder.
I brace one arm around his back and place my other hand over his stomach.
“You’re okay,” I murmur.
The words feel insufficient.
“I’ve got you.”
That feels more honest.
His fingers twist into my shirt.
I breathe slowly, hoping he follows.
His scent wraps around me, rich and distressed, and my own pheromones rise instinctively. Rain and ocean air fill the room.
Cade’s shoulders loosen slightly.
He presses closer.
“That helps,” he says through clenched teeth.
“What?”
“Your scent.”
I release more without thinking.
The room fills with storm air.
Not violent.
Steady.
Cool rain against warm cinnamon.
The contraction eases.
Cade remains against me for another second.
Then he lifts his head.
“Call.”
“Right.”
The hospital tells us to come in.
I listen carefully.
At least, I try.
I write down instructions that I won’t need because the instructions are mostly to come to the hospital and drive safely.
When I hang up, Cade is changing with slow, irritated movements.
I grab the hospital bag from the closet.
Then I grab the second hospital bag.
Then the third.
Cade looks at them.
“What is all that?”
“Our things.”
“We’re having one baby, not relocating.”
“One is yours. One is mine. One is his.”
“He does not need an entire suitcase.”
“It’s not a suitcase.”
“It has wheels.”
“That doesn’t make it a suitcase.”
“It absolutely does.”
I wheel all three into the hallway.
Then stop.
“Car seat.”
“It’s already installed.”
“I should check it.”
“You checked it yesterday.”
“I might have missed something.”
“You made Chase inspect it.”
“I should still—”
“Charlie.”
He grips the doorframe as another contraction begins.
The bags are forgotten.
I move behind him, supporting his weight as he leans back against my chest.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Quiet.”
I close my mouth.
He breathes.
I breathe with him silently.
When it passes, he looks exhausted.
“We should go.”
“Yes.”
I help him downstairs.
Halfway down, the front door opens.
Liam rushes inside wearing sweatpants, slippers, and a coat thrown over his pajamas.
He carries two grocery bags.
Behind him, Dad enters with Cade’s forgotten coat over one arm.
I stare.
“How did you know?”
Liam gives me an offended look.
“You called.”
“I did not.”
“You sent me a message.”
I look at my phone.
Apparently, while trying to call the hospital, I sent Liam a single word.
LABOR.
In all capital letters.
“Oh.”
“I told you not to call him,” Cade says.
“I didn’t call.”
“You alerted him.”
“That was an accident.”
Liam is already in front of Cade.
“How far apart are the contractions? Did your water break? Are you bleeding? Did you call the doctor? Have you eaten?”
Cade blinks.
“Yes, yes, no, yes, and no.”
“You need food.”
“He does not need food right now,” Dad says.
“He might.”
“The hospital told us to come in,” I say.
Liam turns toward me.
“Why are you standing there?”
“I was helping him downstairs.”
“Then help him.”
“I am.”
“You’re arguing with me.”
“I can do both.”
Dad takes two of the bags.
“I’ll load the car.”
“Careful with the blue one,” I say. “That’s the baby’s.”
Liam looks at the rolling bag.
“He has more luggage than I do.”
“He might need options.”
“He will be wrapped in a blanket.”
“Different blankets.”
Cade closes his eyes.
“Please stop discussing luggage.”
We stop.
Another contraction comes before we reach the door.
Liam immediately begins breathing loudly.
Cade opens one eye.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you breathe.”
“You sound like you’re inflating a raft.”
Dad turns away, hiding a smile.
Cade grips my hand instead.
I step close enough for him to lean into my scent.
His fingers are cold.
I rub my thumb over his knuckles.
“You’re doing good.”
“Don’t say that yet.”
“You are.”
“We haven’t left the house.”
“And you’re still doing good.”
He looks at me.
Fear flickers beneath the irritation.
I see it because I know him.
I lower my forehead to his.
“I’m right here.”
His eyes close.
“I know.”
The drive to the hospital takes eighteen minutes.
It feels like three hours.
Cade sits in the passenger seat, one hand gripping the door handle and the other holding mine whenever I can safely reach across the console.
Liam and Dad follow behind us.
Jordan calls halfway there.
I answer through the car speakers.
“Is he okay?” Jordan asks immediately.
“I’m fine,” Cade says.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m in labor.”
“That’s not fine.”
“It’s normal.”
“Where are you?”
“Almost at the hospital,” I say.
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t have to,” Cade says.
“Yes, I do.”
“Jordan—”
“I’m coming.”
The call ends.
Cade stares at the dashboard. “He’s scared.”
“So am I.”
He looks at me.
I keep my eyes on the road.
The truth sits between us without shame.
“I’m scared too,” Cade says quietly.
I tighten my hand around his.
“We can be scared together.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“It’s the best offer I have.”
His mouth curves faintly.
At the hospital entrance, I nearly leave the car running.
Dad reaches through the open driver’s door and turns it off before I can walk away.
“You need the keys,” he says.
“Right.”
“And Cade.”
“I have Cade.”
“He’s over there.”
Cade’s standing beside a nurse with a wheelchair.
I hurry toward him.
“I knew where he was.”
Dad says nothing.
His expression says enough.
The next hour becomes paperwork, questions, bright lights, and nurses who are far calmer than anyone in my family.
Cade is admitted.
He changes into a hospital gown and immediately complains that it was designed by someone who hates dignity.
I stay close.
His contractions are five minutes apart.
Then four.
The room fills with family.
Jordan arrives with his shirt buttoned wrong and his hair damp, like he showered in under a minute.
He hugs Cade carefully.
Then he hugs me harder than expected.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Good.”
Liam brings food, bottled water, extra pillows, two blankets from home, and a folder of Cade’s medical information that no one asked him to bring.
He questions the nurse about every machine as if he hasn’t been in labor multiple times himself. To be fair, though, it has been a decade since he last gave birth.
“What does that number mean?”
“His heart rate.”
“That one?”
“The baby’s heart rate.”
“Is that normal?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
The nurse smiles with professional patience.
“Yes.”
Liam adjusts Cade’s blanket.
Cade moves it back.
Liam adjusts it again.
“Mom,” I say.
“He’s cold.”
“I’m hot,” Cade says.
“You might feel cold later.”
“I’ll tell you.”
Liam touches Cade’s forehead.
Cade stares at him.
Dad gently takes Liam’s wrist and lowers his hand.
“Let him breathe.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re hovering.”
“This is my first grandson.”
“You have announced that seven times.”
“Because no one seems to understand the importance.”
Jordan sits beside the window, watching Cade.
His face is pale.
I cross the room when Cade begins another contraction.
He reaches for me without looking.
I give him my hands.
His grip is strong enough to hurt.
I welcome it.
“Look at me,” I say.
He does.
“Breathe with me.”
He follows my rhythm.
My scent rises.
His eyes stay on mine.
The room disappears.
The machines.
The family.
The fear.
For one minute, there is only Cade and me.
Then the contraction passes.
He sags back against the pillows.
Jordan stands.
“Do you need anything?”
Cade looks toward him.
The question seems to surprise him.
“No. I’m okay.”
Jordan nods but doesn’t sit.
He moves closer to the bed.
“I can stay out of the way.”
“You’re not in the way.”
Jordan swallows.
Cade reaches for his hand.
Jordan takes it.
“I’m okay,” Cade repeats.
Jordan nods again.
This time, he believes him a little.
Hours pass.
Labor doesn’t care about clocks.
It moves by contractions.
By nurse checks.
By cups of ice Cade doesn’t want.
By the pressure of his fingers around mine.
Afternoon light replaces morning.
Then evening approaches.
Liam is finally convinced to go to the cafeteria with Dad after I promise to call if anything changes.
Jordan leaves to bring everyone clothes and chargers.
For the first time since we arrived, the room is quiet.
Cade lies on his side.
His face is tired.
His hair sticks to his forehead.
I sit beside him, holding his hand against my chest.
“You should sleep,” he says.
“I’m not tired.”
“You’ve been awake since two.”
“So have you.”
“I’m doing something.”
“So am I.”
His eyes open.
“What?”
“Staying.”
The word hangs between us.
His expression softens.
Another contraction begins.
I see it take hold.
His fingers tighten.
I move closer.
He presses his face against my chest and breathes in my scent.
I hold him through it.
There’s nothing else I can do.
No way to shorten the pain.
No way to take it into myself.
Every protective instinct I have demands action.
But love is not always action.
Sometimes it’s endurance.
Sometimes it’s becoming something steady enough for another person to hold.
When the contraction passes, Cade doesn’t move away.
His forehead remains against me.
“I hate this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“What if I can’t do it?”
The fear in his voice cracks something inside me.
I hold his face carefully.
“You are doing it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is.”
He shakes his head.
I press my forehead to his.
“You don’t have to do the whole thing right now.”
His eyes close.
“Just this minute.”
His breathing slows.
“Then the next one,” I say. “And I’ll be here for that too.”
His hand slides around the back of my neck.
“You promise?”
The question is quiet.
Not really about labor.
It’s about every fear he’s ever carried.
Every reason he tried to push me away.
Every part of him that still expects love to leave when things become difficult.
I kiss his forehead.
“I promise.”
The door opens.
A nurse steps inside with the doctor.
Cade lifts his head.
The room shifts again.
More checks.
More instructions.
The doctor smiles.
“It’s time.”
My heart stops.
Cade’s eyes find mine.
Fear and exhaustion and wonder move across his face.
I stand.
My hand stays in his.
Outside the room, our family waits.
Inside, the world narrows to the two of us and the child we are about to meet.
I can’t take Cade’s pain.
I can’t control what happens next.
I can’t guarantee that every moment will be easy.
But I can stay.
And for once, staying feels like enough.