Chapter Text
The rain began sometime in the late afternoon, a gentle pattering against the tall window panes of the music room. By evening, it had grown impatient. It lashed against the glass in uneven bursts, wind howling outside and through the narrow streets.
London was in a mood.
Francesca had been at the piano when it started. She didn’t remember what she had been playing exactly. Something simple, repetitive. Her fingers moved without much thought behind them. That had become more common lately. Even the gigs she’d been taking at the lounge had begun to feel more like an obligation than a desire, her body heavy, mind elsewhere, tethered to the quiet, persistent awareness of the life growing inside her.
She pressed a chord a little too hard.
The sound rang out, sharp and wrong.
Francesca exhaled slowly, flexing her fingers, then rested both of her hands in her lap. The baby shifted, a low, uncomfortable roll in her abdomen. She adjusted on the bench, one hand moving instinctively to her stomach, palm spread as though she might calm it with pressure alone, as if that had ever tamed the wild child residing within her.
“All right, little one,” she murmured, voice soft in the empty room, drowned out by the sound of rain. “I hear you.”
Another movement. Stronger this time.
She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes, yes. Very demanding, aren’t you?”
The rain battered harder against the windows.
Francesca pushed herself carefully to her feet, the familiar strain in her lower back flaring as she stood. She had grown used to discomfort over the past months—the constant adjustments, aches—but something about this felt different. Sharper.
She took a step toward the door, stopping to wait for another strange sensation. Sure enough, a moment later, she felt it.
Not a kick this time.
A tightening.
Francesca’s breath hitched, her hand pressing more firmly against her stomach. She stood very still, as though movement might worsen it, might confirm something she couldn’t name yet.
It eased after a few moments, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.
“Too early,” she said quietly. “You’re early.”
Thirty-six weeks. Early. But not impossible. The thought made Francesca’s stomach twist more. Her composure slipped.
She turned quickly, moving out of the music room and into the hall, her steps uneven now, urgent. The house felt too large all at once, too empty. The quiet that she usually cherished now pressed in on her, sharp and unhelpful.
Her phone. Where had she…
The kitchen.
She found it on the counter, exactly where she’d left it, and grabbed it with hands that were only just beginning to tremble.
She pressed John’s contact. It rang twice.
“Fran?” His voice came quickly, warm, familiar, threaded with immediate concern. She hardly ever called him when he was working. “What’s wrong?”
“I think…” She stopped, breath catching as another contraction began, sharper than the last. She braced a hand against the counter, eyes squeezing shut. “I think something’s happening.”
There was a brief pause.
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes,”
“Is it contractions? Are they close together?”
“I don’t know,” she said, a little helplessly. “It’s—John, I think I’m going into labor. This feels different.”
Another pause followed. Shorter this time.
“Okay,” he said, steady now. “Okay, that’s all right. That’s all right. You’re going to call a cab, yes? Or I can…”
“No, no, I’ll take a cab. You’re at work.”
“I’m leaving,” he said immediately. “I’m leaving now. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“You don’t have to drive in this weather—”
“I’m coming,” he repeated, gentler now, but firm. “I’ll be there, Francesca. I promise.”
Her chest tightened.
“I know,” she said softly.
Another contraction coursed through her body. This one stronger than the last.
“I need to go,” she managed.
“Go,” he said. “Call me when you’re in the car.”
“I will.”
“And Fran?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
The words settled over her, familiar as breath.
“I love you too, John.”
She ended the call and stood there for a moment, the phone still clutched in her hand, her pulse thundering under her skin.
With a deep breath, she turned to the front door.
***
The cab ride was a blur of traffic lights and rain-slicked streets, the city distorted through droplet-covered glass. Francesca sat in the backseat, one hand gripping the door handle, the other pressed firmly against her stomach as the contractions came faster now, each one stealing a little more of her breath.
“You all right back there, love?” the driver asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” she said automatically, followed immediately by another contraction.
“No,” she corrected, voice softer. “Not really.”
“Hospital’s not far now,” he said. “Hang in there.”
She nodded, though he couldn’t see it, her focus narrowing inward. She had read about this, of course, and prepared for it. Classes, books, endless conversations.
None of it felt remotely relevant now.
She hadn’t even packed a hospital bag, for fuck’s sake.
They didn’t have a name picked out.
The nursery still needed to be painted.
Francesca wasn’t ready.
She fumbled for her phone again, calling John as promised. It rang a tad longer this time.
“Fran?”
“I’m in the cab,” she said quickly, breath uneven. “We’re almost there now.”
“Good,” he said. “Good. I’m just leaving the office. Traffic’s bad, but I’ll—”
“You don’t have to rush,” she said, interrupting him. “My water still hasn’t broken, so we have time. Just…drive carefully.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll be there before you know it.”
***
The hospital was too bright. Too white. Too fast.
Hands guiding her, voices swirling around her, questions she answered without really hearing. Her coat was taken. She had bracelets wrapped around her wrist by a nurse. The world became fragments.
A room. A bed. Monitors.
“Francesca? I’m going to need you to breathe with me here, all right? Look at me, darling.”
That voice stood out. It was new.
Francesca turned her head, vision blurred slightly from the pain, and saw her for the first time.
Michaela.
She didn’t know her name yet. Not then.
“I know it hurts,” she said, her voice low, grounding. “But you’re doing exactly what you’re meant to be doing.”
Francesca shook her head weakly, brows furrowed. “My husband—he’s—he’s on his way…”
“Good,” Michaela said. “Good. We’ll get you through this until he gets here, yes?”
Francesca nodded, clinging to that promise.
Time was a blur after that.
Minutes stretched before seeming to vanish entirely. Pain came in waves that built before crashing over her, causing her to cry out or wince, only for it to recede moments later just enough to let her gasp for breath before it began again.
She asked for John. More than once.
“He’ll be here soon,” someone at the end of the bed told her.
Soon.
Soon. Soon. Soon.
The word lost meaning as she repeated it in her head. And then the door opened, shaking Francesca out of her trance.
She turned her head instinctively, hope flaring sharp and immediate in her chest.
But it wasn’t John.
It was a doctor.
And something about the way he looked…
The room seemed to shift around Francesca, and she felt her pulse pick up. Was something wrong with the baby? With her?
Michaela’s hand found hers suddenly, firm and grounding.
“Francesca,” the doctor began, “Your husband…”
“No,” she said immediately, the word coming out before he could say anything else. “No, he’s—he’s on his way—”
“There’s been an accident.”
The world stopped, and Francesca was sure she would hear the sound of herself flatlining at any moment.
“He was very close,” the doctor continued, voice measured. “Less than ten minutes. But the conditions…”
“No,”
“They did everything they could, Francesca.”
“No,” she said again, louder this time, her hand tightening painfully around Michaela’s. “No, that’s not—he said—he said he was coming—he said—” she was sobbing now, choking over her own words as she tried to make sense of the situation.
“I’m so sorry.”
The words landed. Heavy and final.