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hermanito.
Ferran was driving like the baby was seconds from crowning, even though Pedri had reminded him twice, calmly, that wasn’t how this birth was going to go.
“You’re sure it’s not too early?” Ferran asked again, one hand on the wheel, the other twitching over the horn like he might need to part traffic like Moses.
Pedri inhaled slowly through his nose. “I am literally having contractions.”
“I know. I just meant like, we still have two weeks technically and maybe they’ll stop?”
“They won’t.”
“But what if-”
“Ferran.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Ferran made a distressed noise and turned the volume down on the radio, which had been playing at a whisper anyway.
They hit a red light. Pedri squeezed the side handle of the car door and tilted his head back. He looked oddly peaceful for someone whose entire lower abdomen was flexing like a live grenade.
Ferran stole a glance at him. “How are you so calm?”
“Because I’ve done this once,” Pedri muttered. “And because if I let myself get worked up, I’ll cry. And if I cry, you’ll cry. And if we’re both crying, I might strangle you with the car seat straps.”
“That’s fair,” Ferran whispered.
The maternity ward lights were too bright. Ferran parked directly in front of the emergency entrance even though it said not to, then sprinted around to open Pedri’s door like he was his chauffeur-slash-bodyguard.
Pedri stepped out slowly, arms wrapped under his bump, hoodie falling just past his thighs.
“You okay?” Ferran asked breathlessly.
“I’m contracting. I’m cranky. And I have heartburn,” Pedri said. “So, no.”
“Want a wheelchair?”
“No. I want you to walk next to me and look like less of a hostage negotiator.”
They shuffled toward the front desk together. The nurse looked up at them with the practiced calm of someone who’d seen it all before.
“Hi,” Ferran blurted. “My husband’s in labor. Second baby. Thirty-eight weeks. Surgical delivery only.”
The nurse blinked. “Right. Name?”
“Pedri González.”
Pedri raised one hand lazily. “That’s me.”
“And how long between contractions?”
“Like three minutes,” Ferran answered.
“Two and a half,” Pedri corrected. “I didn’t want to say anything in the car because you were already acting like it was the apocalypse.”
“It is the apocalypse,” Ferran hissed. “You’re going to get sliced open and we’re going to have another child.”
The nurse passed Pedri a wristband, smiling. “You guys done this before?”
Pedri sighed. “Yeah. We’ve got a daughter. She’s at home with her tío.”
The nurse handed over the clipboard. “Well, let’s go meet baby number two.”
Ferran was useless in the most heartfelt way. He fussed with the hospital bag until it looked like he was unpacking for a weekend away. He fluffed every pillow. He offered Pedri five different flavors of lip balm he had somehow brought along.
Pedri sat on the edge of the hospital bed, rubbing small circles into his own thighs.
“How are you feeling?” Ferran asked for the eighth time.
“Like there’s a bowling ball trying to escape from the wrong exit.”
Ferran winced. “Can I do anything?”
“You can stop pacing.”
“I’m not pacing.”
“You’ve walked the entire perimeter of this room six times.”
Ferran stopped in his tracks. “Sorry. Just… I want to help.”
Pedri leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. “You are. By not passing out like last time.”
“That was one time.”
“Exactly one time too many.”
The OB walked in a few minutes later, cheerful and direct.
“Everything is looking good,” she said, glancing at the monitor. “So we’re prepping you for a C-section within the hour.”
Pedri didn’t even flinch. “Okay.”
Ferran, however, looked like someone had just knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Wait. Already?”
“We’ve got an OR open. He’s full term. And contractions are consistent. It’s time.”
Ferran blinked hard. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”
Pedri reached for his hand without opening his eyes. “You’re fine.”
“You’re about to get cut open.”
“I knew I was getting cut open. You’re the one acting surprised.”
Ferran muttered something about heart failure and clutched Pedri’s fingers like a lifeline.
Thirty minutes later, Ferran was in scrubs, sitting next to Pedri’s head on a stool beside the bed. His knee was bouncing. His hands were clammy. He looked like he was about to walk into a Champions League final with zero warm-up.
The nurse beside him laughed softly. “You okay, Dad?”
“Define okay,” Ferran said.
“You’re about to meet your baby.”
That made him freeze.
His baby.
Again.
His heart cracked open just a little more.
Pedri was already numb from the chest down once again. He looked over when Ferran stepped in and gave him the smallest, exhausted smile.
“There you are.”
Ferran sat down beside him, squeezing his hand and brushing his thumb over his knuckles.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’ve got this.”
Pedri breathed slowly. “You cried the entire time last time.”
“I’m going to do better now.”
“Bet you five euros you don’t.”
Ferran laughed, eyes wet already.
“Deal.”
Pedri looked up at the ceiling and let out a breath. “Let’s meet this kid.”
Ferran leaned in, forehead touching his. “Let’s.”
The room was cold, sterile, humming with quiet efficiency. Pedri lay flat on the table, hands shaking just slightly as the anesthetic settled deep into his lower body. A thin curtain blocked his view of the surgery itself. Ferran stayed close, holding his hand tight and stroking his wrist like it might stop time.
“You’re okay,” Ferran kept whispering, more to himself than anyone else. “You’re okay, Pedri. We’re okay.”
Pedri didn’t speak. His face was pale, eyes fluttering, jaw clenched through the pressure that came with each movement on the other side of the curtain. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but he could feel everything. The pull, the shift, the deep ache in his core.
Ferran saw it on his face and leaned closer. “Almost there. She said it’s soon.”
Pedri nodded once, lips pressed into a tight line.
“Do you want me to talk about something random?”
“No.”
“Want me to shut up?”
Pedri laughed under his breath. “Kind of.”
The surgeon’s voice broke in then, calm and focused. “You’re going to feel a bit more pressure now. We’re just delivering.”
Ferran froze. His grip tightened. Pedri inhaled sharply.
A pause.
Then-
A sharp, high cry filled the room.
Ferran’s whole body jolted like someone had struck a bell inside his chest.
“That’s him,” the nurse said softly. “He’s out. He’s breathing.”
Pedri blinked fast, his lashes wet. “Is he okay?”
“He’s perfect,” the surgeon said.
Ferran stood before he even knew he was moving. A nurse guided him gently to the warming table where Mateo was already kicking, small and furious and impossibly loud.
Ferran stared, hand over his mouth.
Tiny.
Red-faced.
Dark hair already matted to his head.
The most beautiful boy he had ever seen.
“Oh my God,” Ferran whispered. “Hola. Hola, bebé.”
Mateo flailed one arm and then settled again under the nurse’s hands.
Ferran’s breath caught in his throat.
He’s here.
They wrapped him in a soft blanket with a little blue cap. A nurse brought him over, cradled gently in her arms.
“Dad?” she asked, smiling.
Ferran turned. “Yeah?”
“You want to hold your son?”
His legs almost gave out. He took Mateo like he was holding stardust.
The weight of him.
The reality of him.
Pedri looked over from the table, eyes wide. “Is he okay?”
“He’s perfect,” Ferran whispered.
He walked over, carefully, so Pedri could see. Mateo was blinking now, small mouth opening and closing, face scrunched but softening.
Pedri reached out a trembling hand. Ferran bent low so he could press his fingers to their baby’s cheek.
“Hi,” Pedri said, voice cracking. “Hi, Mateo.”
Ferran was crying again.
Like full-on tears on his cheeks, face flushed, chest tight with joy he couldn’t explain.
“You did it,” he said, breathless. “You brought him here.”
Pedri gave the smallest, proudest smile. “He looks like you.”
“He looks like an angry raisin.”
“Your angry raisin.”
They both laughed, even as Ferran’s tears fell onto Mateo’s blanket.
Later, in recovery, Pedri lay propped up in the hospital bed with Mateo sleeping on his chest. Ferran sat next to him, knees pulled up, eyes locked on the two of them like he never wanted to blink again.
The room was dim. Quiet. Safe.
“I can’t believe we did this again,” Pedri whispered.
“Me neither.”
“He’s so warm.”
“He’s so loud,” Ferran said with a tired grin. “I love him already.”
Pedri ran one hand gently down Mateo’s back. “You cried more than I did.”
“I cried for both of us.”
Pedri turned his head. “Where’s Alora?”
“With Fer. They’re coming later.”
“She’s going to love him.”
“She’s going to try and name him Sparkle Banana and we’re going to have to legally shut it down.”
Pedri laughed softly, careful not to move too much.
Ferran reached over and touched Mateo’s tiny fingers. “Do you think you’ll ever stop being amazing?”
“Not if I can help it.”
The door creaked open with a hesitant knock, followed by a gentle voice.
“She’s been asking every ten minutes,” Fer said as he stepped in, holding Alora’s backpack in one hand and her little wrist in the other. “And I do mean every ten.”
Alora slipped in like a little whirlwind, but as soon as she saw Pedri in the hospital bed, everything slowed down.
Her eyes got wide.
The room smelled like clean sheets and baby lotion. It was quiet except for the steady beeping of a monitor and Mateo’s soft breaths against Pedri’s chest.
Alora stood frozen in her bright pink socks, hands fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie.
Pedri lifted his head. “Hola, princesa.”
“Is he here?” she whispered.
Ferran was already moving. He bent down and scooped her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her curls as he carried her toward the bed.
“Come say hi,” he murmured. “Carefully.”
He helped her settle beside Pedri, cradled safely between pillows, legs sticking out stiffly like she was afraid to move the wrong way. Her eyes never left the bundle in Pedri’s arms.
Pedri adjusted Mateo just slightly and looked at her.
“Ready?”
She nodded, eyes serious.
Ferran leaned down and gently transferred Mateo into her arms, helping her find the right position, one small hand under his head, the other under his back.
“There,” Ferran said softly. “Just like that.”
Alora looked down.
Mateo was warm and sleepy, his tiny mouth moving in slow little twitches, lashes dark against his cheeks. He made a soft sigh and wriggled closer to her chest like he could sense something familiar.
Alora didn’t breathe for a second.
Pedri brushed his fingers through her hair. “You’re holding him, mi amor.”
“I am,” she whispered.
“He’s your baby brother.”
Alora blinked hard, her chin wobbling just a little. “He’s so small.”
“You were that small once,” Ferran said, crouched beside the bed. “You used to sleep right here on Papa’s chest, same as him.”
She looked at Mateo again.
“He doesn’t even know I’m his sister yet.”
“He will soon,” Pedri said, his voice quiet. “He’ll hear your voice every day.”
Alora shifted a little, lifting her head higher like she wanted to be extra strong for him.
“Hi, Mateo,” she said softly. “I’m Alora. And I’m going to help look after you. You don’t even have to worry.”
Ferran made a sound like he’d been punched in the chest.
Tío Fer, quietly leaning in the doorway with a coffee, blinked fast and looked away.
Pedri smiled, brushing his fingers over Alora’s knee. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“He’s soft,” she said.
“He likes you already,” Ferran added.
She sat perfectly still, staring down at Mateo with awe.
“I won’t drop him,” she promised.
“I know,” Pedri said, voice thick. “I trust you.”
There was a long, peaceful silence - the kind only a newborn could make feel holy. Alora kept her eyes on her brother like she couldn’t look away, her thumb brushing his blanket the same way Ferran always soothed her.
“Can I sit with him for a bit longer?” she asked finally.
Pedri nodded. “As long as you want.”
Alora leaned her cheek down until it rested lightly against Mateo’s cap.
“I love him,” she whispered.
Ferran had to turn around to pretend he was wiping his nose.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.