Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 115

Sophie’s POV

It happens without warning.

One moment I'm asleep, dreaming of something soft and formless. The next, I'm awake—jolted into consciousness by a sensation that takes my foggy brain several seconds to identify.

Wetness. Between my legs. Warm and spreading.

For one confused moment, I think my water broke early. The baby's coming, I think, heart racing. It's too soon, but maybe—

Then I turn on the lamp and see the blood.

Red. Bright red, soaking through my nightgown, staining the sheets beneath me, more than there should ever be. The scream that tears from my throat doesn't sound human.

"Adrian!"

He's through the door before I finish saying his name, sleep-rumpled and wild-eyed. His gaze finds the blood and his face goes white.

"Oh God. Oh God, Sophie—"

"Something's wrong." My voice comes out high, hysterical. "Adrian, something's wrong, the baby—"

Bellamy appears behind him, already fully dressed—does he ever sleep?—and takes in the scene with one sweep of his eyes. His expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts into immediate action.

"I'll get the car."

He's gone before Adrian can respond. Adrian crosses to me in two strides, his hands finding my face, my shoulders, my belly.

"Can you stand?"

"I don't… I don't know."

"I've got you." He scoops me up like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest, ignoring the blood that transfers to his shirt. "Just breathe, Sophie. Just keep breathing."

"The baby."

"Is going to be fine. You're both going to be fine."

He doesn't know that. Neither of us knows that. But I cling to the words anyway, because the alternative is too terrifying to consider.

The drive to the hospital is a blur of red lights and my own ragged breathing. Bellamy drives like the laws don't apply to him—and maybe they don't, maybe he's called in some favor or Adrian has connections or nothing matters except getting me there as fast as possible.

I clutch my belly with both hands, feeling our baby move against my palms, and beg silently.

‘Not yet. Please, not yet. I'll do anything, just let the baby be okay.’

The emergency room swallows me whole.

Hands everywhere—lifting me onto a gurney, strapping monitors to my stomach, inserting an IV I don't remember agreeing to. Voices overlap, medical jargon I can't parse, urgent tones that make my heart race faster.

Adrian's face hovers at the edge of my vision, pale as death, his hand gripping mine like a lifeline.

"Sir, you need to wait outside."

"I'm not leaving her."

"Hospital policy requires…"

"I said I'm not leaving." His voice drops to something dangerous, something that reminds me of the man he used to be. "Try to make me."

No one tries.

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes—time has lost all meaning in this sterile white room with its beeping machines and fluorescent lights. They run tests. Doctors consult in hushed voices just outside my door, and I strain to hear, desperate for information, terrified of what they might say.

The baby's heartbeat fills the room—steady, strong, the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. She's alive. She's still alive.

But the bleeding hasn't stopped.

"Sophie." Adrian's voice pulls me back from the edge of panic. "Stay with me. Look at me."

I focus on his face. On his eyes, storm-gray and terrified, refusing to look away from mine.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs. "You're so strong. Just hold on a little longer."

"I'm scared."

"I know." He presses his lips to my forehead. "I know. Me too."

The admission should frighten me more. Instead, it helps. Adrian Lewis, admitting fear. Being honest about his terror instead of hiding behind walls.

Maybe that's what love looks like. Not strength, but shared vulnerability.

Finally, after what feels like days, the doctor returns.

She's an older woman, silver-haired and calm, with the kind of steady presence that suggests she's delivered bad news before and knows how to do it gently. I brace myself for the worst.

"The baby is stable," she says, and the relief that floods through me is so intense I nearly pass out. "Her heartbeat is strong. No signs of distress."

"And Sophie?" Adrian's voice is rough.

"Also stable, though the bleeding gave us quite a scare."

The doctor settles into the chair beside my bed, her expression serious but not panicked.

"The cause appears to be placental stress. Your body is struggling with the demands of this pregnancy, Sophie. The previous incidents, the preterm contractions—they've taken a toll."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we need to be extremely careful going forward." She leans forward, making sure I'm meeting her eyes.

"Any exertion, any stress, any deviation from complete rest could trigger early labor. At this stage, that could mean serious complications for both you and the baby."

"I've been on bed rest."

"I know, and it's helped. But we need to be even more strict now." She glances at Adrian, then back to me. "Do you understand?"

I nod, tears sliding down my cheeks. "I understand."

"I mean it, Sophie. This isn't a suggestion. This is the difference between a healthy delivery and…" She stops, choosing her words carefully. "We want to avoid any alternative outcomes."

"She understands," Adrian says, his hand tightening on mine. "We both do. Whatever it takes."

The doctor nods, satisfied. "Good. I'll want to see you weekly for monitoring. Any bleeding, any cramping, any change at all—you come straight back here."

"We will," I whisper. "I'll do anything."

She pats my hand, a surprisingly gentle gesture, and leaves us alone.

The silence that follows feels fragile, breakable. Adrian stares at our joined hands, his jaw working, fighting some internal battle I can only guess at.

"Adrian…"

"I'm sorry." The words come out cracked. "For the stress I've caused, the secrets, the arguments. All of it." He presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm on my face. "If anything had happened to you—to our baby—because of me…"

"It didn't."

"But it could have. It still could."

"Then help me." I reach up, cupping his face in my palm. "Stay. Be present. That's all I need."

He doesn't answer. Just closes his eyes and breathes, his forehead still pressed to mine.

A shadow falls across the doorway. Bellamy stands at the threshold, his expression unreadable. Our eyes meet across the room—his dark and steady, mine exhausted and raw.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just nods once, a silent promise.

‘I'm here. You're not alone.’

Then he's gone, taking up position outside my door, guardian and witness to everything that's passed between us tonight.

I close my eyes, Adrian's hand still gripping mine, our daughter's heartbeat still filling the room.

We made it through this night.