Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 118

Sophie’s POV

One week home from the hospital.

Seven days of staring at the same ceiling, counting the same cracks, willing my body to hold on just a little longer. I've memorized every shadow that crosses the walls, every pattern of light that shifts with the passing hours.

The room has become my entire world—four walls, a bed, and the constant rhythm of my own breathing.

I've followed every rule.

Complete bed rest—no stress, minimal movement. I leave this bed only to use the bathroom, and even then, Adrian hovers outside the door like I might collapse at any moment.

I eat what he brings me. I sleep when my body allows. I do everything the doctors demanded and pray it's enough.

Adrian works from home now. His laptop has taken up permanent residence on the desk in the corner, and I hear him on calls throughout the day—business matters he handles with clipped efficiency before returning to check on me.

Again. And again. And again.

"You don't have to hover," I told him yesterday.

"I'm not hovering, I'm being present."

"There's a difference?"

"Hovering implies anxiety. I'm perfectly calm."

He wasn't. Neither was I.

Bellamy is a permanent fixture outside my door. I hear him moving in the hallway, catch glimpses of him when Adrian opens the door.

We don't talk much anymore—not like we did during those long days of bed rest before the bleeding. Something shifted after the hospital, some unspoken boundary redrawn.

I try not to think about why.

Two more weeks until my due date. Just fourteen days. I can do this. I can hold on.

I fall asleep counting the hours. The first contraction hits at 3 AM.

I gasp awake, hand flying to my belly. The pain is sharp, sudden—a tightening that radiates from my back around to my front, squeezing like a vice. I lie frozen, breath held, waiting.

Please be false labor. Please be Braxton Hicks. Please be my body playing tricks.

The contraction eases. I exhale shakily, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe…

The second contraction comes eight minutes later—stronger, unmistakable.

"Adrian?.." My voice sounds foreign—high, tight with fear.

The word barely leaves my lips before he's through the door, sleep-rumpled and instantly alert. His eyes find mine in the darkness, and whatever he sees makes his face go pale.

"Contractions?"

"Eight minutes apart, maybe less." Another wave begins to build, and I grip the sheets. "Something's wrong. This is too fast."

"Okay. Okay, just breathe." He's already moving, grabbing his phone, pulling on the jeans he left draped over a chair. "We're going to the hospital. Everything's going to be fine."

"Adrian, it's too early."

"I know. I know." He takes my hand, squeezes hard. "We've got this."

Bellamy appears in the doorway, fully dressed—does he ever sleep?—his expression sharp and focused.

"Bag," Adrian barks without looking up. "Car. Now."

Bellamy disappears. I hear him moving through the apartment, efficient and purposeful, while Adrian helps me sit up. The motion triggers another contraction, and I cry out, gripping his arm.

"Breathe through it." His voice is steady, but I can feel him trembling. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it, you're doing great."

"It's too soon." The words come out broken, desperate. "The baby is not ready. I'm not ready."

"The baby is coming anyway." Adrian's hands cup my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "And we're going to be right there with her. Together. Okay?"

I nod. I don't have a choice.

The contractions keep coming during the drive to the hospital. Faster than they should—six minutes apart, then five, then four. I grip Adrian's hand in the backseat, trying to focus on breathing, on his voice counting through each wave, on anything except the terror clawing at my chest.

"You're doing amazing," he murmurs. "Almost there. Just hold on."

In the front seat, Bellamy drives like the laws have ceased to exist. Red lights mean nothing. Speed limits are suggestions. His hands are steady on the wheel, his jaw tight with concentration.

"Two minutes out," he calls back. "How far apart?"

"Four minutes." Adrian's voice is clipped. "Maybe less."

"Shit."

That single word, from a man who never shows fear, tells me everything I need to know about how serious this is.

The hospital swallows us the moment we arrive. Nurses move around me with practiced efficiency, asking questions I can barely answer through the haze of pain. Adrian stays at my side, his hand never leaving mine, his face a mask of controlled terror.

The baby's heartbeat fills the room—strong but rapid, faster than it should be. I focus on that sound, letting it anchor me, alive and fighting.

So am I.

A doctor appears—middle-aged, calm, with the kind of steady presence that suggests he's delivered hundreds of babies. He examines me with gentle efficiency, his expression revealing nothing.

But I've learned to read people. I see the concern beneath his professional mask. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way he glances at the monitor before looking back at me.

"How far along are you?"

"Thirty-four weeks." My voice comes out strangled. "I was on bed rest. I did everything right."

"Sometimes babies have their own timeline." He pulls off his gloves, meeting my eyes with uncomfortable directness. "You're fully dilated, Sophie. The baby is coming now."

"Now?" Adrian's voice cracks. "She's six weeks early. Can't you stop it?"

"I'm afraid not, the baby is already in position. Any attempt to delay at this point would put both at risk." The doctor's gaze shifts to me. "Your child has decided they’re ready. We need to be ready too."

Six weeks early—the words echo in my head, hollow and terrifying.

I think about everything I've read—the complications that can come with premature birth, the time in NICU, the developmental concerns. I think about the tiny lungs that might not be ready to breathe, the fragile body that might not be ready for the world.

"Is the baby…" I can't finish the question. "Will it—"

"Thirty-four weeks is early, but it's viable," the doctor says gently. "The heartbeat is strong. We have an excellent NICU team standing by. The best thing you can do right now is focus on delivering safely."

Another contraction rips through me, stronger than any before. I cry out, gripping Adrian's hand so hard I might break his fingers.

"Okay." The doctor nods to the nurses. "Let's get her to delivery. We're doing this now."

The room erupts into motion. Nurses adjusting monitors, calling orders, preparing equipment. Through it all, Adrian stays frozen at my side, his face ashen.

I look at him and he looks at me. Our terror mirrors back at us—two people who thought they had two more weeks to prepare, to plan, to become ready for the life they created.

Ready or not, the baby is coming now.