It began with concern, soft but urgent, like a whisper before a storm.

“Angel, I really hope you’re not overdoing things,” came the gentle warning. “You need to think of the baby.”

The reminder was tender, but it struck against reality. For Angel, there was no forgetting the child she carried—not when every breath, every jab to her side, made its presence known. Still, her companion insisted on calm, on creating an environment of peace. As the birthing partner, he promised, it was his duty to make things simple.

But that single word—birthing partner—shifted the air. Angel stiffened. She wasn’t ready. Not after everything that had happened. She was still piecing herself together, still untangling the threads of trust, pain, and hope.

The plan, she insisted, was hers alone. Whatever she wanted. Whatever she could handle.

And so they drove, the road stretching long and heavy before them. Angel grew pale, her body betraying its secrets. “It’s not like I’m giving birth or anything,” she tried to joke, half-heartedly.

But the words barely left her lips before the truth hit.

The contractions had begun.

The Shattering Realization
Shock tore through the car like a lightning strike. “What? No—you’re not due for weeks!”

Angel groaned, clutching at her back. The pain was real, relentless. She had felt it building all night. A dodgy stomach, she had told herself. Nothing more. But she had been wrong. Terribly wrong.

The fear in her companion’s voice cracked as he admitted the truth: “I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I!” Angel snapped, her voice breaking with pain.

But there was no time for panic. No time for doubt. The contractions were intensifying, rolling like waves crashing against a fragile shore. The baby was coming, whether they were ready or not.

The Fight for Control
He fumbled with his phone, desperate to call for help, but the signal was dead. A suffocating silence mocked him from the empty bars on the screen.

“I’ll run—get someone, bring help,” he blurted.

“No.” Angel’s grip latched onto him with surprising strength. Her voice, ragged but commanding, froze him in place. “The contractions are too close. The baby’s premature… trisomy 21… I can’t risk anything else going wrong. You’re not going anywhere.”

And just like that, the choice was gone. He was not leaving. He was not escaping. He was her anchor, whether he was ready or not.