[Sophie’s POV]

Maggie decides to arrive two weeks early.

I wake at 3 a.m. to a sensation that feels like the entire ocean has relocated to my midsection, followed by a cramping pain that steals my breath and makes me grab for Adrian’s arm with desperate strength.

“Adrian.” My voice comes out strangled, barely recognizable. “Adrian, wake up.”

He’s alert instantly, years of crisis response kicking in before his eyes are fully open. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“My water just broke.”

The words hang in the darkness for a moment, dense with meaning. Then everything becomes motion.

Cassian is awake within seconds, summoned by our urgent whispers or by some instinct that cuts through sleep. He’s pulling on clothes while Adrian helps me sit up, both of them moving with a coordination that would be impressive if I weren’t currently drowning in the reality of what’s happening.

“The hospital bag is by the door,” Cassian says, his voice calm despite the chaos. “I’ll bring the car around. Five minutes.”

“I need—” Another contraction hits, sharper this time, and I grip Adrian’s hand hard enough to leave marks. “I need to breathe. I need to—”

“You need to stay calm.” Adrian’s forehead presses against mine, his breath warm on my face. “We practiced this. Remember? In through the nose, out through the mouth. You’re going to be fine. Maggie’s going to be fine.”

The contractions come faster than expected, closer together than the books suggested for early labor. By the time we reach the hospital, I’m gripping the door handle with white-knuckled intensity, trying to remember the breathing techniques from the prenatal classes while my body does something entirely beyond my control.

The next several hours blur together in a haze of pain and pressure and the constant presence of Adrian and Cassian on either side of me. They take turns holding my hand, wiping my forehead, whispering encouragements that I cling to like lifelines. The medical staff moves around us in efficient choreography, monitoring vitals and dilation and all the clinical measurements that reduce the miracle of birth to numbers and charts.

“You’re doing amazing,” Adrian says, his voice rough with emotion. “She’s almost here. Just a little longer.”

“I can’t—” The word dissolves into a groan as another contraction crests. “I can’t do this.”

“You can.” Cassian’s hand finds my other one, completing the circuit. “You’re the strongest person I know. You survived everything this year threw at you. This is just one more challenge, and you’re going to meet it the way you’ve met everything else.”

“By crying and complaining?”

He laughs despite the tension. “By not giving up. Even when you want to.”

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