Breathless

Breathless
Aria’s POV

I scream before I even understand why. The sound rips out of my throat, sharp and raw, tearing through the quiet like glass shattering. Pain crashes through my body without warning, so sudden it steals my breath. My knees buckle and I grab the nearest surface, heart slamming wildly. When I look down, my stomach drops. The floor beneath me is wet. My water. Panic and disbelief collide in my chest all at once, and my hands start to shake as I call out their names, voice breaking, breath coming too fast to keep up.

Footsteps thunder toward me instantly, heavy and fast, like the house itself has come alive. Enzo reaches me first, his arms already around me before I fully register his face. Matteo is right behind him, hands steady, eyes sharp. Dante appears seconds later, his expression flashing from shock to fierce focus in a heartbeat. Voices overlap around me, orders barked with authority. Someone is told to get the doctor. Someone is told to bring the car. Someone clears the room. Hands are on me everywhere but careful, supporting my weight, keeping me upright, talking to me all at once. There is fear in them, raw and real, but beneath it is control, solid and grounding.

They guide me through the pain, slow and careful, moving me where I need to be. I cling to Enzo’s arm hard when another wave hits, fingers digging in without apology. Matteo presses close to my back, his presence steady and unmovable. Dante stays in front of me, crouching so I can see his face, his voice low and constant, telling me to breathe, telling me to look at him. Contractions start coming closer together, squeezing the air out of my lungs. My breathing turns uneven, frantic, but they help me find the rhythm again. None of them leave my side. The house feels loud with urgency, alive with movement and purpose.

Then a contraction hits stronger than the rest. It folds me in half, pain tearing through my body so hard I scream again, long and broken. My body shakes violently, sweat breaking out across my skin. One of them swears under his breath. Another murmurs reassurance right against my ear. Another presses a soft kiss to my forehead, grounding me for just a second. Through the pain, a clear thought cuts through the chaos. This is really happening. There is no stopping it now.

As the pain peaks, my focus turns inward. The room blurs at the edges. Sounds fade in and out like I am underwater. My mind drifts without permission, pulled backward by memory. I see the months after Dante came back, the slow rebuilding piece by piece. The patience they showed me when I flinched. The apologies that came without pressure or expectation. The way they gave me space when I needed it and stayed close when I could not stand alone. They never disappeared again, not once.

I remember the long nights talking until our voices went hoarse, sometimes crying, sometimes just sitting together in silence. Therapy conversations that hurt but helped. Enzo learning how to soften his edges for me. Matteo learning how to speak his fear instead of hiding it. Dante learning how to stay, even when staying was hard. They loved me better than before, more carefully, more honestly. They treated me like something precious, overprotective and gentle, checking on me constantly. They joked about me being fragile, calling me an egg, carrying things I could easily carry myself and getting scolded by me for it.

Another contraction slams into me and drags me back into the room with a cry. Pain crashes over me harder than before, stealing my breath. I scream again as the doctor arrives, the space filling with instructions and medical urgency. The air feels tight, crowded with voices and movement. One of them refuses to leave my side outright. The others stay close, hands gripping mine, voices steady and grounding. Their presence anchors me when everything else feels like it is slipping.

Hours blur together after that. Sweat, pain, shaking. Time loses meaning as my body takes over completely. I feel myself losing control, feel myself slipping in and out of awareness, fear rising every time I think I cannot do this anymore. They keep talking to me, encouraging me, telling me I am strong, telling me to breathe, telling me they are here. Their voices cut through the fog, and I cling to them because I have nothing else left. Somehow, I believe them.

Then the doctor tells me it is time. Panic surges through me, sharp and blinding. Fear overwhelms everything else as I push with everything I have left. I scream and cry and beg without words, my body burning, my vision swimming. One of them begs me to stay with them. Another tells me I am doing great, that I am almost there. Another tells me he loves me, voice breaking completely. I push again, harder, feeling like my body might split apart.

The final push brings blinding pain, then sudden relief that almost feels unreal. A sharp, living cry fills the room, loud and undeniable. For a second, everything stops. Someone laughs through tears. Someone swears openly. Someone whispers a prayer, thanking God over and over. I try to smile. I try to speak. But my head feels light, my body too heavy. The room tilts and the voices start to sound far away. I hear my name shouted in panic as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, and then everything goes black.