Page 174 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Jackson hurries to open the passenger door, his movements quick but careful. I lower myself in, one hand gripping my belly as another contraction crests. I breathe through it, counting in my head like they taught us in birthing class.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, his hands clamp around the wheel in a firm, unyielding grip.

I glance over, a soft laugh bubbling up despite the pain. “Breathe, Jackson. You’re going to pass out before I do.”

He exhales, then lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Right. Breathing. Got it.”

The drive is quiet. The roads are mostly empty, streetlights casting golden pools of light over the dark asphalt.

Every few minutes, I shift as a new contraction builds. Jackson keeps glancing over, torn between me and the road.

“Talk to me,” he says after a moment, his voice low. “What do you need?”

I reach over, threading my fingers through his. “Just you. You’re already doing everything.”

His shoulders drop just a fraction, and he squeezes my hand.

When we pull up to the hospital entrance, he’s out of the car and rushing around to my side. A nurse appears with a wheelchair, her face kind and calm.

“Looks like we’re ready to meet a baby soon,” she says, her voice warm.

Jackson steadies me as I lower into the chair, brushing a quick kiss to my forehead. Relief flickers in his eyes now that someone else is steering us inside.

They wheel me through the quiet, fluorescent-lit halls, the wheels humming softly against the linoleum. I can hear Jackson on the phone. It sounds like he’s talking to his mom first, then my parents. My fingers still cling to Jackson’s as he keeps pace beside me, his free hand drifting now and then to rest on my shoulder or squeeze my arm.

A nurse asks my name and a few quick questions; I answer between breaths, the contractions coming closer together now, stronger and more insistent.

Jackson stays close, his presence a steady anchor at my side.

Once we reach the labor and delivery wing, they help me into a room, dim and quiet except for the soft beep of monitors. The nurse hooks me up, checks my progress.

“You’re progressing well—almost there,” she says, her voice gentle. “You’re doing great.”

Jackson exhales hard beside me, his thumb brushing over my knuckles again and again.

I turn to him, our foreheads nearly touching. “This is really happening,” I whisper, the words catching on a mix of pain and awe.

He kisses me, soft but urgent. “Yeah. It is. You’re incredible.”

I cling to that, to him, as another wave builds, knowing that soon everything will be different in the best possible way.

The next few hours pass in a blur of biting edges and soft reassurances.

Jackson never leaves my side. Every contraction has me gripping his hand so tightly I’m sure he’ll lose circulation, but he never flinches. He just breathes with me, whispering steady words I can’t always make out but feel in my bones.

When I start to falter, my voice cracks around a groan, and my eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I gasp, tears slipping hot and fast down my cheeks.

Jackson presses his forehead to mine, his voice breaking too. “You can. You are. I’m right here.”

His words root me, pull me back every time I think I might float away from the pain.

The nurses move around us in quiet choreography: checking monitors, adjusting pillows, offering ice chips. One of them keeps telling me I’m strong, that I’m almost there.

When the doctor finally says, “It’s time to push,” something in me locks into place.

I bear down with everything I have left, the world narrowing to nothing but Jackson’s voice and the heat of his hand in mine.

Minutes feel like lifetimes. Each push steals my breath, leaves me shaking.