Page 48 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

One month later…

I can now confidently say that watching the woman you love cut open on an operating table is fucking awful .

"If you don't stop looking at me with that terrified face one more time, I swear to God I'll kick you out of this room and have one of the nurses FaceTime you for the birth,” Wren threatens, her voice shaky but still somehow sharp as a scalpel.

She's strapped down to the operating table, her pink hair tucked into a surgical cap, as the medical team preps around us like we're not even there.

I force my features into something more neutral, though my heart's thumping so hard I'm surprised she can’t hear it. "Better?"

"No. Now you just look constipated."

A laugh escapes me despite everything. Leave it to Wren to crack jokes while literally being prepped for emergency surgery.

It’s been over thirty-six hours of labor with no progress, and now this.

A C-section we never planned for. But that's been our whole story, hasn't it? Nothing working out the way we thought.

"Hey." I lean closer to her face so she’s focused on me. It’s only that and her arms on this side of the blue surgical barrier they've put up across her chest. "You're doing amazing."

"I haven't done anything," she says, her eyes glassy with a combination of pain meds and unshed tears. "I couldn't even get this kid out the normal way."

"You grew him," I remind her. "For nine months. That's more than enough."

She closes her eyes briefly. "What if something's wrong? What if?—"

"Nothing's wrong." My voice comes out more confident than I feel. "Reed's the best. You're the strongest person I know. And our kid's stubborn as hell, just like his parents."

"Kasen," Reed calls from behind the barrier. He’s suddenly acting all professional despite the fact that in the last hour, he’s sent me twelve memes about dads passed out in weird places with "your future" captioned underneath.

"We're about to start. Remember to stay seated and keep your focus on Wren. "

"Got it." I take Wren's hand, carefully avoiding the IV line. She squeezes back so hard I feel the bones in my fingers grind together, but I don't flinch. This is the least I can do when she's lying there, about to be cut open and scared out of her mind.

"You're going to feel some pressure," Reed warns Wren. "But no pain. If you feel anything sharp, tell me right away."

Wren nods, her face pale. Then her eyes go wide. "Holy shit, he wasn’t lying. That's intense."

"Good. That's normal." Reed's voice is calm and steady. "Just keep breathing. It’ll be over in a minute."

I watch Wren's face, cataloging every twitch of her expression, trying to gauge her pain level. She's always been terrible at admitting when something hurts. She prides herself on being the toughest person in the room. But right now, she’s pale and sweaty and she looks scared. It’s killing me that I can't fix this for her.

"Talk to me," she says suddenly. "Distract me."

"About what?"

"Anything. Tell me about... tell me about the first beer you ever brewed."

I latch onto the topic and just start talking. "It was garbage. Absolute swill. I made it in my dorm room before I dropped out. Used a plastic bucket I bought at Home Depot and bread yeast because I didn't know any better."

A small smile ghosts across her lips. "You didn't."

"I did. And I made my roommates drink it. They were too nice to tell me it tasted like liquid compost."

"How did you—" She gasps, her back arching slightly against the restraints.

"Wren?"

"I'm okay." She takes a shaky breath. "Just weird pressure. Keep going."

"How did I figure it out?" I continue, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles.

"My sister. Clover took one sip, spat it halfway across the room, and told me if I ever gave her anything that disgusting again, she'd tell everyone about the time I got drunk and tried to serenade my high school crush with a Backstreet Boys song. "

That gets me a real laugh. "Tell me you have a video of that."

"It’s out there somewhere. I was sixteen and thought 'I Want It That Way' would win her over."

"Did it work?"

"Not even a little. She recorded it on her phone and showed it to all her friends."

Wren's smile widens, but then her face changes, her eyes going wide. "What's happening? I feel... tugging?"

"Almost there," Reed calls, his voice tight.

Then a pause. The longest pause of my life.

I’m holding my breath and I think Wren is, too.

And then there’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

A cry.

It’s high-pitched, indignant, and strong.

"He's here," Reed announces. "Summit William James, born at three forty-two p.m."

The world stops. Just... stops.

Over the barrier, Reed holds up a squirming, bloody, perfect little human. My son.

"Holy shit," I breathe.

"Is he okay?" Wren demands, her voice cracking. "Why isn't he crying more?"

As if on cue, Summit lets out a wail that could wake the dead.

"Happy now?" Reed laughs, passing our son to a waiting nurse. "He's perfect. All fingers and toes accounted for."

I can't take my eyes off him as they clean him up, wrap him in a blanket, and place a tiny hat on his head. My brain can't process that this is real. That he's real.

"Kasen." Wren tugs on my hand. "Is he really okay?"

"He's beautiful," I tell her, my voice rough with an emotion I can't even name. "Perfect. Pink and pissed off and... ours."

The nurse brings him over, settling him gently on Wren's chest in the small space above the surgical barrier. She immediately brings her free hand up to touch his cheek, her fingers trembling.

"Hi," she whispers. "Hi, Summit. I'm your mom."

The way she looks at him—like he's the answer to a question she didn't know she was asking—breaks something open inside of me. I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers, my hand covering her much smaller one on our son's back.

"Thank you," I murmur against her temple.

She looks up at me, eyes shining. "For what?"

"For him. For Vegas. For everything."

"Don't make me cry while I'm being stitched back together," she warns, but a tear slips down her cheek anyway.

I laugh, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then lean down to do the same to Summit's head. He smells like nothing I've ever encountered before—new and clean and somehow right.

"Alright, Dad," a nurse says, appearing at my elbow. "We need to take him for a few minutes while we finish up with Mom. Why don't you come with us?"

The thought of leaving Wren's side makes my stomach clench. "I should stay?—"

"Go," Wren urges. "Stay with him. I'm fine. Just... don't let him out of your sight."

I nod, pressing one more kiss to her lips. "I'll guard him with my life."

"I know you will." Her smile is tired but real. "That's one of many reasons why I love you."

Following the nurse feels like an out-of-body experience.

Summit has been transferred to a small bassinet, and I hover as they weigh him, measure him, and wrap him in a fresh blanket.

I can't stop staring at his face—the tiny nose, the bow-shaped mouth that's all Wren's, the shock of dark hair peeking out from under his hat.

"Would you like to hold him?" the nurse asks. "While we finish up with your wife?"

Wife. The word still gives me a kick every time I hear it.

"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough. "Yes."

She shows me how to support his head, how to cradle him against my chest. I’ve done all this with Noble, but in this moment, I forget everything I’ve ever learned and I’m grateful for the reminder.

And then suddenly I'm holding my son, this tiny human who didn't exist an hour ago and now is the center of my universe.

"Hi, Summit," I whisper, afraid to speak too loudly. "I'm your dad."

He blinks up at me, his eyes unfocused and dark but seeming to search my face. His hand escapes the blanket, tiny fingers flexing, and I offer him my finger. He grips it with surprising strength.

Like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this new world.

Something fractures and rebuilds inside my chest, like a dam breaking and then reforming stronger than before. I would die for this kid. Kill for him. Anything to keep him safe.

Is this how my dad felt, holding me for the first time? If so, how the hell did he ever walk away?

"Kase?" Reed's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Wren's all stitched up. We're taking her to recovery. You and Summit can come with me to meet her there."

I follow him down the hallway, holding Summit against my body. I’m careful, but I know I won’t drop him.

“This whole dad thing looks good on you,” Reed says.

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugs. “Not surprised. But better you than me.”

Wren's already in the recovery room when we get there, looking exhausted but alert. Her face lights up when she sees us.

"There’re my boys," she says, making grabby hands toward Summit. She hasn’t really gotten to hold him yet.

I pass him over, then perch on the edge of the bed. She looks down at our son with a mix of wonder and fierce protectiveness that mirrors everything churning inside me.

"So," she says without looking up. "That didn't exactly follow the birth plan, huh?"

"When has anything with us gone according to plan?"

She laughs softly. "Good point." She traces a finger down Summit's cheek. "But I think we do our best work off-script anyway."

I lean down, pressing my lips to her temple. "Damn right we do."

"If one more person tries to touch him without washing their hands first, I'm going to lose my shit," I mutter, hovering near the door like some kind of deranged bouncer as our living room fills with people.

Three days after Summit's birth, and we're finally home. Wren's still moving carefully, her incision healing but painful as hell. She keeps saying she's fine, but I catch every wince when she bends or laughs. Not that it slows her down.