It started with a quiet wince. Eleanor had been folding tiny clothes into the hospital bag that afternoon, muttering about how she should have prepared it sooner, when the first sharp pang hit her lower abdomen. She brushed it off, stubborn as always, telling herself it was just the usual Braxton Hicks contractions.
But within twenty minutes, the pain escalated—sharp, quick, too frequent.
Rickard found her curled slightly over the kitchen counter, gripping the edge with a pale face.
“El?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice laced with worry.
She shook her head. “I think... I think it’s time.”
The rush to the hospital was a blur—flashing lights, tense breathing, and the low hum of monitors. Rickard held her hand tightly the entire time, not letting go even when nurses swarmed in and d
