“Hang on, honey, we’re almost there.” Megan’s breathing is heavy and labored as Trainer drives us to the hospital. Dodge is in the passenger seat talking to Dr. Stewart at my wife’s urgent request.

“Jordan,” she calls sweetly.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Shut the hell up.” Her growl is heard throughout the car, and the doctor’s laughter can be distinguished through the line she’s on.

“Right.” What the hell else am I supposed to say? She’s had me wrapped around her finger from the first word to pass her lips, and no matter what, I’ll do as she asks. Even when she’s been in labor for ten hours and the doctor tells us not to come in until the contractions are five minutes apart.

Seeing my wife in pain, a pain that I can’t fix isn’t something any man likes to experience. But she’s been a fucking warrior. Until we moved her.

I’ve never heard Megan curse the way she did as Dodge and I helped her down the stairs while Trainer brought the car around.

“Your parents are meeting us there still?” She wheezes.

“Yes.” I check my phone for an update from my mom. “They’re in the waiting room with Dr. Stewart.” After realizing how excited Megan and I were after hearing the baby’s heartbeat, my parents really stepped up their game. They went into full-on grandparent mode and asked a thousand questions, including permission to meet the doctor that was bringing their grandchild into the world.

Megan insisted it was fine. Said the reassurance was something we could give them. Mom showed up for every appointment after that. The small examination room was always crowded unless a vaginal exam was required. I put my foot down in those instances.

“Oh God!” Megan’s scream rips through the interior of the car as another contraction hits her. I watch her stomach ripple with the effects of her pain.

“Two minutes now, Dodge,” I tell my friend, knowing Dr. Stewart is listening to everything. “Breathe, baby, I’m right here.” I massage her distended belly the way the Lamaze instructor taught us, hoping to give her some relief until the wave passes.

“You fucking breathe,” she hisses. “Next time, it’s your turn, Jordan Maxwell.”

“Not genetically possible, Mag-pie.” I have to stifle my laughter.

“Don’t you dare Mag-pie me, or those forceps will be going where the sun don’t shine.” Her threat shuts my laughter down. “Don’t think I won’t do it to you two, too,” she snaps at the men in the front.

“Yes, ma’am,” they say simultaneously.

The remainder of the ride is quiet aside from Megan’s screams with each contraction. When we arrive at the hospital, my parents and Dr. Stewart, along with Mallory—who still can’t walk in the room with me without blushing—is standing there waiting with a gurney to carry my wife away to a maternity room.

“Still two minutes apart, Jordan?” Mallory asks as she brings the stretcher to the car door I’m helping Megan out of.

“Yes.”

“Ohhhh, it really hurts. Drugs! You said I could have drugs!” Megan points to Dr. Stewart like she struck gold.

“Let’s see how dilated you are before we talk about that.”

“You rat bastard!” Her pointed finger swings around to Trainer. “You took too long. You said you had the route mapped out. You said not to worry. If I don’t get drugs, your ass is grass, buster.” He pales at her threat. Dodge, Dad, and I all burst into laughter.

“Megan, sweetheart, let’s not stress too much.” Mom for the rescue.

Dr. Stewart, Mom, and Mallory usher Megan up the ramp and into the hospital while we men just stand there and continue to laugh.

“You better get going, son, that birth isn’t something you want to miss.” Dad chastises me, and he’s right. I won’t miss the birth of my child for anything in the world.

* * *

Jesus Christ! Why does no one warn a person labor is so damn painful? Not in any of the Lamaze classes, at the doctors, nothing. No one said a damn word.

“Where’s Jordan?” I panic when I don’t see him as we enter the elevator.

“Oh baby, you put Trainer in his place and scared the crap out of him. Those boys are down there laughing at him.” I love my mother-in-law, I swear I do, but that doesn’t help.

“I need him.” The tears streaming down my face are thick and hot.

The women with me share a look of concern just as Jordan comes darting down the hall. “Wait up!”

“Where were you?” I cry. “You promised.” Old insecurities of being left behind rise to the surface.

“Never going nowhere, baby.” His easy smile and the love in his eyes ease my anxiety. “We’re gonna have this baby, and he’ll be perfect, just like his mama.”

“He?” We never were able to find out the sex. The baby was a hider when it came to the ultrasound wand.

“Just high hopes, love.” The teasing twinkle in his melting gaze makes me laugh lightly just as the doors in the elevator open, and I’m whisked away to a birthing room.

After being examined and finding out I’m already nine centimeters dilated and its nearly time to push, panic sets in again. Jordan is always there with an encouraging smile and positive words. He soothes me in ways I never imagined.

“I love you, Mrs. Maxwell. So fucking much.” God, I never tire of hearing him say those words.

“I love you too, Mr. Maxwell, now please make them give me drugs,” I scream as another contraction hits me in waves of pressure and pain nearly unimaginable.

“Sorry, Meg, it’s time to push now.” Dr. Stewart’s happy retort makes me wish I could kick her.

Jordan crawls in behind me and braces his legs around my hips. Holding my hands in his, he kisses me below the ear and whispers, “Push, baby.”

And I do.

For what feels like forever, I push.

When we finally hear a tiny cry, I feel wetness on my shoulder and turn my head to see my amazing husband with a tear leaking from his eye.

Lord, this man couldn’t be more perfect.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” Dr. Stewart grins hugely up at us, “it’s a boy.”

Taking our son into my arms, Jordan wraps his own around us, holding on dearly. Loving us with everything he is. “He’s perfect, Jordan.”

“Just like his momma,” he murmurs into my ear, and I feel the smile on his lips.

* * *