Page 34 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

“A little to the left,” I say, watching Kellen wrestle with the crib. “No, your other left.”

He shoots me a look over his shoulder, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. “You sure you measured right?”

“Of course I measured right.” I shift on the rocking chair, one hand pressed to my enormous belly. Seven months pregnant and I feel like a beached whale. “I measured three times.”

“Because you’re a control freak,” he says, but there’s fondness in it.

“Yes. And I’m a control freak whose control freakery saved you from prison. Don’t forget it.”

He harrumphs.

I watch him work, the play of muscles under his t-shirt as he adjusts the crib’s position. Even after all these months, watching him still makes my mouth go dry. The scar on his chest is a constant reminder of how close I came to losing him.

“There.” He steps back, hands on his hips. “Perfect?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “I suppose it’ll do.”

He crosses to me in two strides, leaning down to kiss me. “You suppose?”

“Mmm.” I thread my fingers through his hair, still short but longer than the prison cut. “Maybe you should convince me.”

“Later,” he promises against my lips. “After we finish the nursery.”

I groan. “Slave driver.”

“You’re the one who insisted we needed everything perfect before the baby arrives.” He helps me to my feet, steadying me when I wobble. “Come on. Let’s see how it looks with the dresser in place.”

Our new apartment is nothing like my old downtown high-rise.

It’s in a quieter neighborhood, the kind where kids actually play on the sidewalks and neighbors know each other’s names.

Three bedrooms, ground floor with multiple exits—Kellen had insisted on that.

A small yard in back where he’s already talking about putting up a swing set.

It’s perfect.

“When’s your first class tomorrow?” I ask as we maneuver the dresser into position.

“Ten.” His face lights up the way it always does when he talks about the gym. “Got twelve kids signed up for junior boxing already.”

“You’re going to be amazing with them,” I say. Kellen’s partnering with social services to offer the classes. He’s trying to give kids the opportunities that he didn’t have.

“Hope so.” But I can see the doubt there, the worry that never quite goes away.

“Stop.” I catch his hand. “You’re going to be amazing because you’ve been where they are. You understand them in a way most people can’t.”

He pulls me close—as close as my belly allows—and rests his forehead against mine. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“Clean living and good behavior,” I deadpan, making him laugh.

We work in comfortable rhythm after that. Seven months of learning each other’s patterns, each other’s needs. He knows I’ll reorganize whatever he puts away at least twice. I know he’ll check every window lock before bed, sometimes twice. We’ve found our balance.

“I still think Oliver for a boy,” I say, folding tiny onesies. “After your foster mom. Olivia, right? The one who taught you to cook?”

He pauses in hanging the mobile. “You remembered that.”

“I remember everything you tell me.” I place a stack of clothes in the drawer, then immediately rearrange them by size. “She sounded wonderful.”

“She was.” His voice goes soft.

I move to him, wrap my arms around him from behind as best I can.

He turns in my arms. “Oliver Hayes-Warren?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Oliver Warren-Hayes.” He tests it out, then smiles. “I like it.”

“Good, because I already had it embroidered on three blankets.”

“Of course you did.” He kisses my forehead. “What if it’s a girl?”

“Then we have three blankets to return.” I pause. A sharp pain makes me gasp, hand flying to my belly.

“What?” Kellen’s instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just Braxton Hicks probably.” I breathe through it. “I’ve been having them all day.”

“All day?” His voice rises. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because they’re practice contractions. Perfectly normal. I’m not due for two weeks.”

“Milo—”

“I’m fine.” But even as I say it, another pain rolls through me, stronger this time. “Probably just need to sit down.”

He practically carries me to the rocking chair. “Water?”

“Please.”

He’s back in seconds with a glass, hovering like a mother hen. “Should we time them?”

“They’re not regular enough to—” I break off as another contraction hits, this one strong enough to steal my breath.

“That’s it. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Kellen, I’m fine. First babies take hours. Sometimes days. We have plenty of—” My water breaks with an audible pop, soaking through my pants and onto the new carpet. “Oh.”

“Oh?” His voice cracks. “What do you mean ‘oh’?”

“I mean my water just broke.”

“Fuck.” He’s already moving, grabbing the hospital bag we packed weeks ago. “Okay. Okay, we’re ready for this. We practiced. Remember the breathing?”

“I remember.” Another contraction, this one making me double over. “Oh god, that’s... that’s really close to the last one.”

“How close?”

“Maybe... a minute?”

“Milo, that’s not right. First babies don’t—”

The doorbell rings.

We both freeze, staring at each other.

“Ignore it,” Kellen says.

But then Penelope’s voice carries through the door. “Hellooo!”

“It’s Pen,” I manage between panted breaths.

He’s already moving to the door.

I hear it open, hear Penelope’s cheerful, “Hi! Sorry to drop by but I have those clothes I mentioned and—Kellen? What’s wrong? You look—”

“Milo’s in labor.”

“What? But he’s not due for—”

Another contraction rips through me and I can’t help the cry that escapes.

Penelope appears in the doorway, her own three-month-old daughter balanced on her hip. She takes one look at me and her face shifts into crisis mode. “How far apart?”

“A minute,” Kellen says. “Maybe less.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. He’s been having them all day but—”

“All day?” She moves closer, passing the baby to Kellen without hesitation. “Milo, honey, why didn’t you—never mind. Can you stand?”

“I don’t... I don’t think...” Another contraction. They’re coming faster now, barely any break between them.

“Kellen, call 911,” Penelope orders. “Tell them we have a precipitous labor.”

“A what?”

“Fast labor. Too fast. Go!”

He disappears with the baby, and I hear him on the phone, voice tight with barely controlled panic.

Penelope kneels beside me. “Okay, talk to me. When did the contractions start?”

“This morning. But they were mild, just—” I break off, panting. “Oh god, I need to push.”

“No.” Her voice is firm. “Not yet. We need to check—”

“I need to push now!”

“Okay, okay.” She helps me out of the chair and onto the floor.

Kellen reappears. “They’re sending an ambulance but there’s an accident on the highway. Might be twenty minutes.”

“We don’t have twenty minutes,” Penelope says grimly. “Get towels. All the clean towels you can find and put the kettle on for hot water. Bring me the first aid kit.”

“Pen—”

“Go!”

He goes, still holding Penelope’s baby in one arm.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” I gasp between contractions. “We had a plan. The hospital—”

“Babies don’t care about plans.” She helps me out of my soaked pants with efficient movements. “I’m going to check how dilated you are, okay?”

Thank god I have a friend who used to be an EMT, who is training to take the courses to do it again.

I nod, beyond caring about dignity at this point. The pressure is incredible, like my body is trying to turn itself inside out.

“Oh.” Her voice is carefully controlled. “Okay. You’re fully dilated. I can see the head.”

“What?”

“Your baby’s coming now, Milo.”

Kellen crashes back into the room, arms full of towels, Penelope’s daughter still tucked against his chest. “What do you mean now?”

“I mean right now.” She starts laying out towels. He sets the baby in the cot in the corner, then drops to his knees beside me. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

I grab his hand, probably crushing his fingers. “I’m scared.”

“I know. Me too.” He presses his lips to my temple. “But we’ve got this. You’ve got this.”

Another contraction and I can’t help but push. The pressure is overwhelming, consuming everything.

“That’s it,” Penelope coaches. “With the contraction. You’re doing great.”

“It hurts,” I sob.

“I know, honey. But you’re almost there. Next contraction, big push.”

I feel it building, that unstoppable wave. When it hits, I bear down with everything I have. There’s a moment of impossible pressure, a burning stretch that makes me scream.

“Head’s out!” Penelope’s voice is triumphant. “One more push for the shoulders.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” Kellen’s voice in my ear, steady and sure. “You’re the strongest person I know. One more push.”

The next contraction comes fast and I push, feeling something give, feeling—

A cry. Thin and angry and the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

“It’s a boy!” Penelope’s laughing and crying at the same time, wrapping our son in a clean towel. “He’s perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

She places him on my chest and the world stops.

He’s tiny. Wrinkled. Covered in blood. His face is scrunched in displeasure at being evicted from his warm home.

He’s perfect.

“Oliver,” I whisper. “Hi, Oliver.”

Kellen makes a broken sound beside me, one huge hand coming to rest on our son’s back. “He’s so small.”

“Six pounds, maybe seven,” Penelope estimates. “Good size for being two weeks early. The cord’s still pulsing. We’ll wait for the paramedics to cut it.”

I can’t look away from Oliver’s face. His eyes are dark blue, unfocused. A shock of dark hair like his father’s.

“You did it,” Kellen whispers. “God, Milo, you did it.”

“We did it,” I correct, then laugh, high and slightly hysterical. “I just had a baby on the nursery floor.”

“At least it’s clean,” Penelope says. “And the towels are new.”

“The carpet—” I start.

“Fuck the carpet,” Kellen says firmly. “We’ll get a new one.”