"Tell me again how I let you talk me into this," her voice is soft and joking from her position on the bathroom floor. She has a towel pressed against her brow as she splays out like a starfish.
I fight the urge to laugh because she's been battling a gnarly case of morning sickness that rivals that of her first trimester, and this seems to be the only position that helps.
"I brought you a pillow and crackers," she hums at this and holds out her hand for the crackers.
"Thank you, B," the bites she attempts are tiny, but they're a big achievement.
There's a quivery rawness in her voice that breaks my heart, but the gentle roundness of her bump makes me feel better about the fact that my wife— wow, my wife—hasn't been able to move from the bathroom today.
She groans as I lift her shoulders long enough to slip a pillow under her, but she doesn't last long before she's gasping for the trashcan, begging me to lift her up.
"I'm so sorry, baby," I choke up at the cries she manages around the heaves.
When her heaving stops and her breathing calms, she whispers for water.
She swishes the water in her mouth and spits it into the trashcan, wincing at the taste left in her mouth, "We're going to hold our baby soon, Britt."
Her sobs bring me out of our memory, and I take in the way our son's cries vibrate his tiny body to the same rhythm of Santana's.
It's when I smooth the furrow of her eyebrows and stroke back the damp hair stuck to her forehead, pressing my face into the side of hers, that she whispers, "You're a mama, Britt."
I can't help the involuntary laugh and nod that follows as I watch Clara place the clamp on his cord.
"Here you go, mama. Just like this," she must sense me hesitate as she braces my shaking hand.
"Olivia's going to measure and weigh him. Is it okay if I lift him from your chest?"
"Yes, but you go with him, Britt. Okay?" I place a hard kiss into her cheek as I nod and she lets him be lifted.
He whines and squirms against the stark white sheet he gets placed on, and I smile as his weight appears on the display.
"Seven pounds, eight ounces, baby," Santana smiles at this and I lose my breath at the sight.
When he's placed into my arms, a warmth I didn't know existed fills my chest and spreads through my being, "What about your name, huh? What do you think?"
He grunts in response and whimpers when he hears Santana's voice, "Malachi. He's our Malachi."
"Yeah? What do you think, Malachi?"
He's so warm and present in my arms that I can't help but to lay a gentle kiss onto his forehead before securing his tiny hat. Dark tufts stick out from the edges and I can't help but to think of Santana's hair right after a shower, so wild and full.
The little hairs framing her face have started to curl from the humidity of our shower. Her chest heaves and her thighs tremble, still, around my hips as I trail a series of firm kisses up her pulsing throat. It's not until she's guiding my lips to hers with a gentle hand against my chin that our arms are still extended and our fingers are still locked in a vice.
I can't help the urge to curl those little hairs around my fingers when I release her hand and she giggles, "what're you doing?"
"I love your hair like this."
"Like what?" She pecks my lips again before listening for my response.
"Beautiful."
"Britt?" Her voice brings me out of my thoughts and I realize I've been quiet in my admiration of our son.
"We're here, babe– "
Clara softly interrupts and waves me over, "I want you to try skin-to-skin to see if we can get Malachi to initiate nursing."
Santana starts to unbutton her gown as I sit on the edge of the bed, ready to tuck Malachi in. He fusses slightly as we turn him, but I have to remember to breathe when he settles against Santana's chest and she cradles his tiny head, taking in the way he smells and feels.
"Will he initiate on his own?"
"Skin-to-skin is believed to stimulate a baby's brain to move to mom's breast, but if he doesn't move on his own, we can help him," Santana eases a little bit and sighs when I brush some stubborn hair from her face.
"You're settled and ready to rest, so we're going to give you some time to yourselves, okay?"
My heart races a little bit at the thought of being alone, but when Santana places a kiss to the exposed skin of his forehead, I know there's nothing to be scared of.
"Do you want me to let everyone know?"
"Come here first, please," she's tired and her voice is a little hoarse, and she presses her forehead against mine as I climb in against her.
When Malachi snuffles against her and starts to cry, she reaches for her gown.
"Here, baby," I pull gently at the fabric enough to free her shoulder as she moves him into position. It takes a little teamwork, but there's a collective sigh of relief when his cries simmer and he finally latches.
"Alejandro."
I'm so mesmerized by Malachi and the sound's he's making that she startles me, "Hmm?"
"You love Alejandro, Britt. That's his middle name," she's sniffling a little, which makes me tear up.
"I do really love that name," we both choke up a little and laugh when Malachi doesn't seem to be phased by us.
"You want to go let them know?"
"Yeah," she hums as a kiss her forehead before getting up.
When I get to the waiting room, Rachel shoots up out of her chair. Quinn lays her book on the side table. My mom has her hands clasped against her mouth, and my dad's eyebrows are raised so high in expectancy that they may fall off his face. Abuela is hard to read and I can tell she's not sure how to proceed. Santana's parents round the corner as I approach, and her mom almost drops the coffee she's holding.
Mr. Lopez breaks the silence, "Well?"
"He's here," I take in their faces when I say 'he' and I can't help but to tear up because we have a son.