Updated Oct 23, 2025 • ~11 min read
LINA’S POV
Almost seven months pregnant, and I couldn’t remember what my feet looked like.
“They’re still there,” Seb assured me from where he was attempting to paint my toenails. “Swollen, but there.”
“This is humiliating.”
“This is marriage. For better or worse, including toe nail maintenance.” He finished the last nail—a slightly wobbly red. “There. Beautiful.”
“They look like a toddler painted them.”
“A very talented toddler.”
I was about to respond when pain shot through my abdomen. Sharp. Intense. Different from the Braxton Hicks contractions I’d been having.
“Ow,” I gasped.
Seb was on his feet immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” Another pain. Stronger. “Okay, that one hurt.”
“How much hurt? On a scale of one to we’re-going-to-the-hospital?”
“Maybe a six?” The pain eased. “It’s probably nothing. False labor. Dr. Coleman said it’s normal.”
“At seven months?”
“It happens. Let me just—” I tried to stand and felt wetness. Looked down. “Oh no.”
“What? Lina, what’s wrong?”
“I think my water just broke.”
We both stared at the puddle on the floor.
“But you’re only seven months,” Seb said, his voice tight with panic.
“I know.”
“The baby’s not due for two more months.”
“I KNOW.” Another contraction hit, and this time I couldn’t hide the pain.
Seb moved into action. “Okay. Okay, we’re going to the hospital. Right now. Where’s your hospital bag?”
“We haven’t packed it yet! We still have two months!”
“Right. Okay. New plan.” He grabbed his keys, his wallet, helped me to my feet. “We’re going now. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
SEB’S POV
I broke approximately fifteen traffic laws getting to the hospital.
Lina was breathing through contractions in the passenger seat, timing them on her phone. Five minutes apart. Four minutes. Three.
“This is too fast,” she panted. “It’s not supposed to happen this fast.”
“Just breathe. Focus on breathing.”
“I AM BREATHING.”
“Okay, breathe louder then.”
She would have killed me if she wasn’t in labor.
At the hospital, I half-carried her to the entrance. A nurse took one look at her and grabbed a wheelchair.
“How far apart are the contractions?” she asked.
“Three minutes,” Lina gasped.
“How far along are you?”
“Twenty-nine weeks.”
The nurse’s expression changed. “Get Dr. Coleman. Now. And prep the NICU.”
NICU. Neonatal intensive care unit.
My daughter was coming too early. Way too early.
LINA’S POV
Everything happened too fast.
They wheeled me to a delivery room. Nurses swarmed. Monitors were attached. Someone put an IV in my arm. Dr. Coleman appeared, looking serious.
“Lina, I need you to listen to me,” she said. “Your baby is coming. We’re going to try to slow the labor, give you steroids to help develop her lungs, but if she wants to come, we can’t stop her.”
“She’s too early,” I sobbed. “She’s not ready.”
“Twenty-nine weeks is early, but not as dangerous as it used to be. We have an excellent NICU team ready. Your baby girl is going to fight, and we’re going to help her.”
“What if she doesn’t make it?”
“Let’s focus on right now. One contraction at a time.”
Seb appeared at my side, scrubs hastily thrown on over his clothes. His hand found mine.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The next hours were a blur of pain and fear. They gave me medications to slow the contractions, but my body had other plans. The baby was coming whether we were ready or not.
“I can’t do this,” I said at some point, exhausted and terrified.
“You can,” Seb said firmly. “You’re the strongest person I know. And our daughter is just as strong. She’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s yours. And nothing that belongs to you gives up easily.”
Another contraction. Worse than before.
“I need to push,” I gasped.
Dr. Coleman checked. “You’re fully dilated. Okay Lina, when the next contraction comes, I need you to push.”
“It’s too soon. She’s too small.”
“She’s ready. Are you ready?”
No. I wasn’t ready. We’d barely finished the nursery. I hadn’t packed a hospital bag. We had two more months to prepare.
But ready or not, our daughter was coming.
So I pushed.
SEB’S POV
I’d never been so terrified in my life.
Watching Lina in pain, knowing our daughter was coming too early, feeling completely helpless to fix any of it.
“You’re doing amazing,” I told her, because it was true and because I needed to say something other than the screaming panic in my head.
“I hate you,” she gasped.
“I know.”
“This is all your fault.”
“Technically Jasper’s fault, but I’ll take the blame.”
She almost laughed, but it turned into a scream as another contraction hit.
“One more push,” Dr. Coleman said. “Come on Lina, one more.”
Lina bore down, squeezing my hand so hard I heard something crack. And then—
A cry. Tiny. Weak. But a cry.
“It’s a girl,” Dr. Coleman announced, like we didn’t already know. “Born at 10:47 PM.”
But she didn’t hand the baby to Lina. Instead, she passed her to the NICU team waiting nearby.
I caught a glimpse—tiny, red, impossibly small. Then they whisked her away.
“Where are they taking her?” Lina asked, trying to sit up.
“The NICU. She needs help breathing. It’s standard for premature babies.”
“I want to see her. I need to—”
“As soon as she’s stable, I promise.” Dr. Coleman’s voice was gentle. “Your daughter is in the best hands. Right now, we need to take care of you too.”
Lina collapsed back, tears streaming. “She didn’t cry long enough. Something’s wrong.”
“She cried. That’s good. That’s what we need.” I kissed her forehead. “She’s a fighter. Just like her mom.”
LINA’S POV
Two hours later, they finally let me see her.
She was in an incubator, tubes and wires attached to her tiny body. She weighed three pounds, four ounces. Smaller than a bag of flour.
“She’s beautiful,” Seb whispered.
She was. Despite the tubes, despite being so small, she was perfect. Tiny fingers. Impossibly small toes. Dark hair like Seb’s.
“Can I touch her?” I asked the NICU nurse.
“Through the ports, yes. Skin contact is important.”
I slipped my hand through the opening, touching her tiny hand. She wrapped her fingers around my pinkie, and I fell completely apart.
“Hi baby girl,” I sobbed. “I’m your mama. I’m so sorry you had to come early. But you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Seb’s hand touched her other hand through the opposite port.
“And I’m your dad,” he said, his voice thick. “We’re both here. We’re not going anywhere.”
The nurse smiled. “She needs a name for her chart.”
Seb and I looked at each other. We’d had lists of names, but nothing felt right. Until now.
“Celeste,” I said. “Her name is Celeste.”
“Celeste Santoro,” Seb agreed. “Heavenly. Because that’s what she is. Our little piece of heaven.”
SEB’S POV
The first night was the longest of my life.
Lina was in a recovery room, physically exhausted but refusing to sleep until she got updates on Celeste. I alternated between her room and the NICU, bringing her news every hour.
Celeste was breathing on her own with assistance. Her vitals were stable. She was tolerating feeding through a tube. Small victories that felt monumental.
At three AM, I found Lina crying in the dark.
“What if I did something wrong?” she whispered. “What if this is my fault?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“But what if it is? What if the stress from the custody case or the immigration investigation or—”
“Lina, stop.” I climbed into the hospital bed with her, careful of her IV. “Dr. Coleman said sometimes babies just come early. There’s no why. It just happens.”
“But she’s so small. And she has tubes and—” Her voice broke. “What if we lose her?”
“We’re not going to lose her.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can. Because she’s ours. And we don’t give up. Neither will she.”
She curled into me, and we lay there in the dark hospital room, holding each other while our daughter fought for her life one floor down.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“Me too.”
“What do we do?”
“We take it one day at a time. One hour at a time. We trust the doctors. We be there for Celeste. And we hold onto each other.”
“That’s your solution to everything. Hold onto each other.”
“It’s worked so far.”
LINA’S POV
Day three in the NICU, and I still couldn’t hold her.
“Soon,” the nurses promised. “When she’s a little stronger.”
But I could watch her. Touch her through the ports. Talk to her. Tell her about the nursery we’d made, about all the people waiting to meet her, about how loved she was.
Seb read to her. Medical journals at first—”She should know about my work”—until I made him read actual children’s books.
Isabella arrived on day four, taking one look at Celeste and bursting into tears.
“She’s so tiny,” she said. “So perfect.”
“She’s a fighter,” Seb said proudly.
“Of course she is. She’s a Santoro.” Isabella looked at me. “And a Moreno. Double the stubbornness.”
Jasper came on day five, bringing flowers for me and a small pink teddy bear.
“I know she can’t have it yet,” he said. “But when she’s bigger…”
“Thank you,” I said. “For coming.”
“She’s my daughter too. Even if…” He looked at Celeste through the glass. “Even if I’m not the dad who’s here every day. I still want to be part of this.”
“You are,” Seb said. “You’re her biological father. That matters.”
“So do you. Matter, I mean.” Jasper extended his hand. “Thank you. For being what she needs.”
Seb shook it. And just like that, something shifted. Not friendship yet. But peace. Understanding.
A beginning.
SEB’S POV
On day seven, they let Lina hold her.
“Skin to skin,” the nurse explained. “It’s called kangaroo care. Very beneficial for premature babies.”
They carefully lifted Celeste from the incubator, all her tubes and monitors still attached, and placed her on Lina’s bare chest.
Celeste fit in Lina’s hands. That’s how small she was.
But she settled immediately, her tiny body relaxing against her mother’s skin.
Lina cried. I cried. The nurse might have cried a little too.
“Hi baby,” Lina whispered. “Hi my sweet girl. Mama’s got you.”
Celeste made a tiny sound. Not quite a cry. More like a sigh.
“She knows your voice,” I said.
“She knows both our voices. We talked to her for months.”
I took pictures. So many pictures. Celeste on Lina’s chest. Both of them peaceful. My whole world in one frame.
“When can I hold her?” I asked.
“Next time. Dad’s turn next.”
That night, I called Declan.
“I’m an uncle?” he said. “Seb, why am I finding out a week late?”
“It’s been chaos. But yeah. Celeste. Three pounds, four ounces. Perfect.”
“Celeste Santoro. I like it.” A pause. “How are you doing?”
“Terrified. Exhausted. More in love than I thought possible.”
“That’s fatherhood for you. Welcome to the club.”
After we hung up, I went back to the NICU. Sat in the chair next to Celeste’s incubator, watching her tiny chest rise and fall.
“Hi Celeste,” I said quietly. “It’s Dad. Just checking in. You’re doing great. Getting stronger every day. Soon you’ll get to come home and see your nursery. It’s sage green. Your grandmother’s choice. You’ll love it.”
She didn’t respond. But her tiny hand twitched, like she heard me.
“I know I’m not your biological father,” I continued. “But I’m going to be here for everything. Every milestone. Every nightmare. Every triumph. You’re stuck with me, kid. For better or worse.”
A nurse walked by, smiling. “She likes your voice.”
“How can you tell?”
“Her heart rate stabilizes when you talk. See?” She pointed to the monitor. “Babies know their parents. Biology or not.”
Parents.
I was a parent.
The realization hit me all over again.
“Don’t worry, Celeste,” I whispered. “We’re going to figure this out. Your mom and me. Together.”
Like everything else.
Always together.
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