Page 140 of The Endless Want

Her hair is pulled back, her sleeves rolled, her voice calm as stone. “It’s time, love,” she says. “Let’s get you ready.”

Time becomes something thick and slow after that. A fog of pain and pressure, of bodies moving around me, of hands supporting my back and voices coaxing me through each rolling wave of labor.

I grip the bed, the rails, my own legs—anything that anchors me to the room. At some point, I hear shouting outside the safehouse, Liam barking orders through comms, someone running, something falling. The world is chaos, but inside this room, there is only the rhythm of my breathing and the fierce, primal knowledge that my child is coming whether I’m ready or not.

When the door slams open the third time, I know it’s him.

Declan moves like he was dropped from a warzone directly into the room. He’s covered in blood—not his, the midwife assures me immediately—but the sight still punches fear into my chest. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, and one of his knuckles is split open, dried crimson caked along the ridge. His eyes, though, are clear and painfully focused. They land on me, and everything else in him loses urgency.

“Ailish,” he breathes, coming to my side so fast a lamp nearly tips over. He takes my hand, warm and shaking, and presses it to his mouth. “I’m here. I promise. I’m here.”

I don’t have the strength to tease him for dramatic entrances. I can only cling to him as another contraction tears through me, my whole body tightening around the pain. He holds my hand through it, shoulders tense, jaw locked like he’s trying to take some of the pain for himself.

Labor becomes a blur after that.

At some point, he cleans up after a scolding from the midwife so that he’s ready to help if needed. He’s quick about it.

Hours stretch and collapse in strange ways. Sometimes the room feels bright, crowded with voices and instructions. Sometimes the world narrows to the sound of my own heartbeat. I hear Declan counting with me, his forehead pressed to mine. I hear the midwife warning me to breathe slower. I hear my own voice cracking on a sob when the pressure becomes too much to bear.

And then, suddenly, everything shifts.

“Ailish,” the midwife says, her voice cutting through the haze. “It’s time to push. You’re almost there.”

Almost. Such a small, impossible word.

Declan tightens his hold on me, eyes wide with terror and awe. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re stronger than all of us put together. Come on, sweetheart. Breathe.”

I push.

The sound that leaves me is raw, scraped from somewhere deep in my soul. My vision blurs, my muscles shake, my lungs burn with the strain. I push again, and again, gripping Declan like he’s the last tether keeping me on this earth. He murmurs encouragements with every breath, his voice breaking, his hand steady, his body bent over mine like he’s shielding us both from the storm outside.

I push one final time, and the world cracks open.

A cry fills the room—a thin, fierce sound that slices through everything. My heart stops, then races so violently I sway forward. The midwife lifts him, tiny and wrinkled and perfect, and suddenly the air is trembling with emotion.

“It’s a boy,” she announces softly.

Declan crumbles.

He doesn’t fall or make a sound, but something inside him breaks open in a way I’ve never seen. He presses a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking once, and when the midwife places our son against my chest, he leans in with tears spilling freely down his cheeks.

The baby cries, rooting instinctively, his skin soft and warm against mine. I stroke his cheek with trembling fingers, overwhelmed by the reality of him—his dark hair, his tiny fists, the softness of his breath.

“He’s…” My voice cracks as I look up at Declan. “He’s got your eyes.”

Declan lets out a strangled laugh-sob, half collapsing onto the edge of the bed. His forehead finds my temple as one hand strokes the baby’s back, reverent and terrified. “Jesus, Ailish,” he whispers. “He’s beautiful. He’s… God, he’s ours.”

The midwife works around us, checking vitals, murmuring reassurance, but I barely register anything except the weight of my son and the man falling apart beside me.

“What do you want to name him?” I ask softly, because this moment belongs to him too.

Declan pulls back—just enough to look at the baby again. His jaw tightens, and there’s something ancient in the way he whispers, “Cian.”

The name settles over the room like a blessing.

“Cian?” I echo, tasting it.

He nods, brushing a thumb across our son’s cheek. “It means ancient. Enduring. Something that survives everything thrown at it.” His voice drops, rough and vulnerable. “Like him. Like you.”