“Eggs.” It was the only answer I gave poor Mitch as I climbed out of bed at three am and wandered out of the room. I wanted eggs. No, I needed eggs. Lots of eggs scrambled in an entire stick of butter. Okay, maybe not that much, but a lot of buttery goodness for sure.

I clicked the bedroom door closed behind me, and waddled my fat self to the kitchen. Mitch swore up and down I wasn’t fat, and that it was all baby, but since my stupid belly got into a room long before I did, I had come to the conclusion Mitch was either lying in the hopes of preventing me from crying, an activity I had taken up at the drop of a hat over the past couple of weeks, or he was completely blinded by his love for our growing child.

At thirty-nine weeks pregnant, I was so ready to be done with growing the baby and ready to be at the snuggling and feeding and reading books to them stages that sounded like so much fun.

To my horror, I discovered we were out of eggs. “How is this possible? I bought two dozen last time I was at the store.” I almost bought three. I was officially pissed off at Kaden from last week. Tomorrow, I planned to go to the warehouse store so I could buy the restaurant-sized cartons. It was absolutely unacceptable to be eggless.

And that was when the tears started again. Darn hormones.

The clinking of keys startled me out of my pity party for one—or was it two with the sweet baby boy kicking me from the inside.

“Where are you going?” I didn’t even look behind me, instead staring at the empty fridge and just willing it to be one of those from the scifi movies where things replenished themselves when empty. “Something happen at the bar?”

Mitch had been beyond overprotective of the bar...and me...since the incident with my drink getting spiked with drugs. The incident I was partially responsible for. Every omega knows to watch their drink. It’s Dating 101. It sucked and shouldn’t be so, yet that was how life was, and I knew better. I’d been so busy focusing on my alpha’s firm ass to protect both my baby and myself.

So, yeah, it was safe to say we were both still feeling guilt on that one, even though everything turned out to be completely fine. That was the only reason I let Mitch leave in the middle of the night to check on the bar at closing. No, not let him. I wasn’t the boss of anyone. We were equals in all ways. But it for sure was the reason I never considered asking him not to. He didn’t need to be torn between what he felt he needed to do for the safety of others and what I wanted him to do because I was a clingy and very pregnant omega.

Mitch’s arms wrapped around me, his lips falling to the side of my neck. “Eggs. I’m getting you eggs.”

I rotated in his arms, standing up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You are the sweetest alpha on the planet.” I praised. “But there’s no need to go buy eggs. I’ll figure something else out.”

That was when junior ninja baby decided to express his opinion in the form of many kicks and possibly a few punches.

“Baby seems to say otherwise,” Mitch teased with a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

“I have a better idea—Joan’s?”

“You want to go to the diner...now?” He raised an eyebrow, reminding me of the late hour.

“Best idea ever.” I chortled as I broke from his arms and raced to get my shoes.

Best idea turned out to be very much so but for all the wrong reasons. Halfway to the car, my water broke, contrary to anything I’d read in my What to Expect paternity book. I thought I’d at least have some contractions beforehand. I was so very wrong.

“So, umm, change of plans...” I looked up at Mitch whose mouth was agape. “Maybe we could get eggs at the hospital.” That snapped him from his shock, and he had us pulling up to the emergency room way faster than was legally possible.

I waddled in, beyond uncomfortable, entering through the ER doors. We were immediately escorted to triage where the whirlwind began. Paperwork, a bazillion questions, and more monitors connected to me that a Vegas surveillance room before I finally made it into the room where my boy would be born.

Labor lasted through the morning. My first painful contractions didn’t hit until lunch time. Not that it was really lunch time for me since the nurses decided I shouldn’t eat in case I needed a C-section. Of course, that had my blood pressure soaring and they immediately had to tell me how beyond unlikely that would be and not to worry.

Except that kernel of worry grew and grew just as quickly as the pain did. Mitch was there for every breath, every scream, and every moment of panic along the way. I could imagine no alpha more caring and present during what turned out to be my thirty-two hours of labor. He was perfect—or perfect for me anyway.

“I don’t think I can do this!” I screamed out in pain as the doctor came in and sat on a rolly-chair, looking totally comfortable. I hated him.

“Look at you all ready to push.” The doctor made it sound like sunshine and roses. It so very much was not.

“I can’t do this.” My words came out as a cross between a sob and wail.

“You’ve got this, love. You’re so strong and so brave.” Mitch kept saying affirmations as the doctor told me to push and the pain turned into a burning.

From there, it all went so fast while at the same time feeling like time stood still, and when the cry of our son, Calvin Michael Bracken, filled my ears, every second of pain became forgotten and more love than I even imagined possible flooded my heart.

I was a dad.

Mitch and I were fathers.

There was nothing better than that.