Safe With You

Ready Or Not (Part 2)

~ Alyssa ~

Two weeks.

That’s how long we were supposed to have.

Two weeks until Markus induced me.

Two weeks until everything changed — neatly, predictably, under control.

But life, apparently, has other plans.

Right now, my water’s on the kitchen floor.

The pasta’s burned, the girls are running in circles, and Greyson’s trying to decide whether to laugh, panic, or call an exorcist.

“Alright,” he says, his voice calm but eyes wide. “Everyone breathe. We’re fine.”

“Are we?” I manage between contractions.

He nods once. “Totally. Completely fine.”

Then, under his breath: “This is happening too fast.”

Greyson crouches to their level, hands gentle on their shoulders. “Okay, you two. We need to make a quick stop before the hospital, alright?”

Their little brows furrow in confusion.

“You’re going to have a sleepover,” I say through a wince, managing a smile. “At Uncle Winston and Auntie Elle’s house. Just for tonight.”

Poppy’s mouth drops open. “But what about you?”

I reach for them, both girls pressing close, their tiny hands resting on my stomach.

“Hey,” I whisper softly. “You’re going to help Daddy take care of me by being big girls tonight. And tomorrow—” I pause as another contraction builds, breathing through it, “—tomorrow, you’ll meet your baby brother or sister.”

Their eyes go wide.

Quinn gasps. “Really?”

“Really,” I say, laughing weakly.

The Drop-Off

The car ride feels like something out of a fever dream — contractions, soft music, and Greyson muttering gentle encouragements while trying not to break every speed limit known to man.

By the time we pull up outside Winston and Elle’s, both of them are already waiting at the door, clearly warned by Greyson’s frantic text.

Elle’s in a hoodie, hair messy from what was probably a peaceful evening until we arrived. Winston’s got a mug of coffee and an expression halfway between amusement and panic.

“She’s early,” Greyson blurts, helping me out of the car.

Elle takes one look at me and immediately kicks into best-friend mode. “Alright, let’s get the girls settled. You two need to go.”

“Sworn secrecy,” Winston adds, pointing at the girls. “We don’t say anything until Mummy and Daddy call, got it?”

The girls nod solemnly — though Poppy can barely stop bouncing.

Greyson crouches to hug them both, whispering something that makes Quinn giggle.

When he stands, I kneel down (or more accurately, waddle down) and pull them close, breathing in their shampoo and warmth.

They each press a tiny hand to my bump.

“Hi baby,” Poppy whispers. “We can’t wait to meet you.”

Quinn leans in, resting her cheek against my stomach. “Be good for Mummy, okay?”

Tears sting my eyes — stupid pregnancy hormones — and I kiss both their foreheads.

“I love you, my girls.”

Greyson takes my hand as we head back toward the car. Elle squeezes my arm, whispering, “You’ve got this. I’ll keep them safe.”

“Thank you,” I manage.

And then we’re off again — leaving the girls waving from the porch, Winston and Elle standing guard behind them.

The Hospital

By the time we reach the hospital, my contractions are five minutes apart.

Markus is already waiting outside, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, his face the perfect blend of doctor and protective big brother.

“Of course you couldn’t wait,” he mutters as we pull up, though there’s affection behind his exasperation.

Greyson helps me out of the car, muttering, “She wanted to make an entrance.”

Markus smirks. “She always does.”

Then, to me: “Alright, Miss Fashion Icon, let’s get you settled before you deliver this baby in the parking lot.”

Inside, the midwives are ready, calm and kind, guiding me into the birthing suite as Markus rattles off medical jargon that Greyson pretends to understand.

Between contractions, I catch Greyson’s hand, holding it tight.

“Hey,” I whisper. “We’re really doing this.”

He smiles, soft and sure. “Yeah, we are.”

Hours Later

The world narrows to rhythm — breath, voice, heartbeat.

Greyson’s beside me through it all, whispering encouragement, his hand never leaving mine.

Markus stays professional but calm, the kind of calm that keeps me grounded when everything else is spinning.

It’s fast, intense, but smooth — the way Markus promised it would be if the baby decided to come early.

The moment I hear that first sharp cry, everything stops.

Greyson’s laugh breaks first — half-sob, half-laughter — and then I’m crying too, the kind of tears that taste like relief and love all at once.

Markus cuts the cord, hands Greyson the scissors, and then the midwife is placing a tiny, warm, perfect bundle on my chest.

“She’s beautiful,” Greyson breathes, voice cracking.

I look down and meet her eyes — bright and wide and curious — and suddenly the world makes sense again.

“She?” I whisper.

“She,” Markus confirms, smiling as he jots down the time. “Born at 9:42 p.m., perfectly healthy. Congratulations, you two.”

Greyson kisses my forehead, brushing tears from my cheeks.

“She’s got your nose,” he says softly.

I laugh, voice trembling. “Poor thing.”

He grins, leaning down to kiss our daughter’s head.

“No,” he says quietly. “She’s perfect.”

Hours later, when the chaos fades and the hospital room goes quiet, I lie there with our baby asleep on my chest, Greyson beside me, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her tiny back.

For once, there’s no fear. No pain. No lingering ghosts of the past.

Just peace — the kind that only comes after surviving everything that tried to break you.

And as I watch our daughter sleep, I know one thing for certain:

She arrived exactly when she was supposed to