Meeting My Ex on the Delivery Table

The pain hit me like a freight train.

I doubled over in the parking lot of my dad's clinic, clutching my enormous belly as water gushed down my legs. This wasn't supposed to happen yet. Not for another two weeks. Not when I was finally starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, I had my life somewhat together.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God." The words came out in breathless gasps as another contraction ripped through me. My phone slipped from my shaking hands.

A woman rushed over, her scrubs telling me she was probably a nurse. "Honey, are you okay? Are you in labor?"

Labor. The word hit me like a slap. I wasn't ready. I had a hospital bag packed, sure, but I thought I had more time. Time to mentally prepare for becoming a mom at twenty-three. Time to figure out how to explain to everyone that I didn't even know who the father was.

Well, that was a lie. I knew exactly who the father was. I just couldn't tell anyone.

"I need to get to the hospital," I managed to say between pants. "Los Angeles General."

The ride in the ambulance was a blur of sirens and pain. The EMT kept asking me questions I could barely focus on. Name? Zephyra Ashborne. Age? Twenty-three. Due date? Still two weeks away, apparently my baby had other plans. Father? That's where I went silent.

How do you explain that the father is someone you haven't spoken to in ten months?

The hospital was controlled chaos. Nurses wheeled me through bright corridors while someone barked orders about getting me to the delivery room. Everything was happening so fast. This wasn't how I'd imagined it would go. In my head, I'd have time to call my parents, maybe even convince my sister to drive down from San Francisco.

Instead, I was alone, scared, and about to have a baby.

"Zeph, my name is Dr. Martinez and I'm going to take excellent care of you," a woman's voice said as they transferred me to the delivery bed. "We're going to need to do a C-section. The baby's in distress and we can't wait."

C-section. I'd studied this in nursing school, but being the patient was completely different. My heart hammered against my ribs as they prepped me, explaining procedures I was too panicked to really hear.

"We're bringing in Dr. Stormridge for the anesthesia," someone said. "He's one of our best."

Stormridge. That name. No, it couldn't be. There had to be dozens of doctors with that last name in Los Angeles. It didn't mean anything.

But when the anesthesiologist walked through those doors, my world tilted off its axis.

Rio.

Dr. Orion Stormridge stood there in surgical scrubs, his dark hair covered by a blue cap, those green eyes I'd tried so hard to forget now focused and professional. He was taller than I remembered, broader in the shoulders, and there was something different about the way he carried himself. More confident. Like he'd grown into himself in the ten months since I'd seen him.

Ten months since I'd run away from him.

He was looking down at his tablet, probably reviewing my chart, and hadn't seen my face yet. Maybe if I turned my head, closed my eyes, he wouldn't recognize me. Maybe I could get through this without him knowing.

But then he looked up.

Our eyes met across the operating room, and I watched as recognition dawned on his face. His step faltered for just a moment, his professional mask slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable underneath.

"Zeph?" The way he said my name, soft and uncertain, made my chest tight.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. This wasn't happening. Of all the hospitals in Los Angeles, of all the anesthesiologists they could have called, it had to be him.

"Do you two know each other?" Dr. Martinez asked, looking between us.

Rio recovered first. "We went to UCLA together," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Nursing and medical school."

That was the sanitized version. We'd done a lot more than just go to school together, but I wasn't about to correct him in front of a room full of medical professionals.

"Small world," Dr. Martinez said with a smile. "Well, Dr. Stormridge, this is an emergency C-section. Mom's at thirty-eight weeks."

Rio nodded, moving into position beside me. His hands were steady as he prepared the epidural, but I caught the way his jaw tightened when he had to touch my back. Professional. Clinical. But I could feel the tension radiating off him.

"You're going to feel a pinch," he said, his voice soft near my ear. The same voice that used to whisper my name in the dark. "Just try to stay still."

I bit my lip to keep from crying. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming rush of memories. Study sessions that turned into makeout sessions. Late nights talking about our dreams, our fears, our future. The way he'd held me after that graduation party, like I was something precious.

The way I'd destroyed it all the next morning.

"There," Rio said, stepping back. "You shouldn't feel anything from the chest down now."

The surgery began, and I tried to focus on Dr. Martinez's encouraging chatter instead of the man standing just a few feet away. But I could feel Rio's presence like a physical weight. Every time he adjusted something on his monitor, every time he checked my vitals, I was hyperaware of him.

This was my worst nightmare and my secret wish all rolled into one. For months, I'd wondered what I'd say if I ever saw him again. How I'd explain why I'd left.

I never imagined it would be like this.

"Almost there," Dr. Martinez said. "I can see the head."

My baby. I was about to meet my baby. The thought should have been overwhelming, should have pushed everything else out of my mind. But I couldn't stop stealing glances at Rio, couldn't stop noticing the way he watched the monitors with laser focus, the way his hands moved with practiced precision.

He'd become everything he'd dreamed of becoming. A doctor. Someone who saved lives. I'd always known he would.

"It's a boy!" Dr. Martinez announced, and suddenly there was crying. Not mine, though tears were streaming down my face. The baby's cries, strong and healthy and perfect.

They cleaned him quickly and placed him on my chest, this tiny, wrinkled, beautiful little person who was half of me and half of... I looked over at Rio, who had gone very still.

The baby opened his eyes, and my heart stopped.

Green eyes. Rio's eyes. There was no mistaking it, no way to pretend or hope that maybe the resemblance wasn't obvious.

Rio was staring at the baby with an expression I couldn't read. Shock, maybe. Recognition, definitely. He was a smart man. He could do the math.

"He's beautiful," one of the nurses said, and I managed to nod, unable to speak.