𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 50𝘴!𝘌𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘴 + 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 + 𝘺/𝘥/𝘯, 𝘎𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺𝘴 + 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘯
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘌𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 9 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 & 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘶𝘦. 𝘎𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺!
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝘌𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 & 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢 <3
𝐭𝐰: 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺, 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘳, 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺, 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨
Drifting in and out of sleep, you checked the clock that read "4:58". Your last pregnancy checkup was today and you were too nervous to sleep the whole night through.
Without waking Elvis, you slowly rose out of bed to make breakfast, unable to find your slippers under your 3rd trimester belly.
You made it to the kitchen waddling down the stairs. The morning sun hadn’t fully reached the back of Graceland yet, so the kitchen sat in that soft blue-gold haze that made everything feel slower. You stood barefoot at the stove, one hand on the counter, the other unconsciously resting on your curved bump.
You weren’t expecting him to be awake. But then you heard footsteps — that shuffle-and-drag he only did when he was tired.
“Elvis?” you called softly. He appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, shirtless, eyes still swollen with sleep. And when he saw you, something in him relaxed.
“You shoulda woke me,” he murmured, walking straight to you. He didn’t touch you right away — he hovered, the way he always did now, like you were something breakable.
“I’m just makin’ breakfast,” you said. “Mm-hm. And standin’ on your feet when you ain’t s’posed to.” He eased his hands to your hips, guiding you away from the stove like you were precious cargo.
His thumb brushed the side of your belly, slow and reverent. It always made your breath catch.
“You okay this mornin'?” he asked quietly. You nodded, though anxiety still fluttered behind your ribs. “You sure?” He dipped his head to look directly into your eyes.
“I’m sure,” you whispered. But he still pulled you to his chest, holding you like morning was something he could protect you from.
That’s when you heard another pair of footsteps — lighter, quicker.
Gladys stopped in the doorway, her house robe wrapped around her and her hair pinned up haphazardly. She blinked at the sight of the two of you, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“Well, don’t y’all look sweet,” she said, her voice warm and amused.
Elvis didn’t let go of you, but he turned slightly, cheeks pinkening a little.
“Mama, she was standin’ at the stove again,” he said, half-complaining, half-worried, still holding you like he couldn’t help it.
Gladys stepped closer, her expression softening as she rested a hand on your arm. “Honey, you’re doin’ too much,” she said gently.
You let out a breathy laugh. “He’s been fussing at me all morning.”
“Oh, he fusses because he cares,” Gladys said, patting your hand. Then she cast Elvis a knowing look. “Ain’t that right, son?”
Elvis gave a tiny, embarrassed huff. “Mama…”
Gladys smiled at him — that quiet, proud smile only she could get away with. Then she turned back to you, rubbing your arm in soft circles the way a mother does when she wants to soothe without smothering.
“You feelin’ alright today, baby?” she asked.
You nodded. “Just a little nervous, I think. I feel like the baby is losing space inside.”
"She's been tired" Elvis added, kissing the side of your head, breathing in your soft hair.
Gladys’ hand slid to your belly, gentle and soft. “It’s almost time. But you ain’t alone in this.” She glanced at Elvis again, her voice soft but firm. “We’ll take good care of ya.”
Elvis straightened a little, like the words meant something deep to him. Something he wanted to live up to.
“I will,” he said, quiet but sure.
Gladys smiled like she’d known he would say that — like she’d always known the kind of man he was meant to be.
“Now,” she said, giving your arm one last squeeze, “why don’t y’all let me fix somethin’ to eat while you two sit? The doctor’ll want her rested anyways.”
Elvis gently guided you to a chair, still watching you like you were the most important thing in the room.
And with Gladys bustling softly around the kitchen, humming old hymns under her breath, you felt something you hadn’t felt in days—a peace about the support you'll have bringing in your baby into the world.
A couple hours later, you were sitting on the examination table, the crinkle of paper beneath you sounding too loud with every movement, echoing in the room. You’d always hated doctor’s offices — too white, too cold, too many possibilities outside of your control.
Elvis stood right beside you, close enough that his knee brushed your leg. He hadn’t sat down since you walked in. Just hovered. Just watched. Just worried.
He’d helped you undress and into the thin gown, his hands gentle but a little shaky — the same way he felt around you in a crowd of fans, protective and observant.
The OB-GYN flipped through your chart. “Y/n, you’re measuring right around 40 weeks. Do you feel ready to deliver soon?”
Your throat tightened. You went to answer, but Elvis beat you to it, voice soft but tense.
“She’s been real tired,” he said. “And them practice contractions… they been comin’ stronger.”
He didn’t mean to speak for you. He just couldn’t hide how scared he was.
“Elvis,” you murmured, nudging him gently. “I’m alright.”
He looked down at you — really looked — his blue eyes soft and worried.
“You ain’t gotta be brave with me,” he whispered, low enough only you could hear.
Something inside you cracked a little.
“I’m scared,” you admitted, voice barely steady.
He didn’t flinch away from the truth. He never did. He just shifted closer, thumb brushing your arm in slow, grounding strokes.
“I’m right here,” he murmured.
The OB-GYN smiled gently, checking your chart and making a quick assessment. “You’re progressing as well as can be expected. Your cervix is only starting to dilate. Go ahead and go home for now. Stay at home as long as you're comfortable — just be sure to let us know if the contractions get stronger or closer together after your water breaks.”
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, sinking back in the chair. “I can’t believe this baby is still waiting. I’ve been pregnant forever, and now… nothing.”
Elvis leaned close, brushing his hand over yours. “I know, baby. I hate that you gotta sit here, all tired and… and wait.” His voice was low, rough around the edges from worry and sleepless nights. “But… we’ll get through it. I promise.”
You tried to meet his gaze, a half-smile tugging at your lips despite the exhaustion. “I know. I just… feel like I’ve been ready for weeks. Can’t the baby at least give me a break?”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “If they could, they’d probably wait ‘til I was off guard. Come on, though. Let’s get you home. We’ll make you comfortable, put your feet up… maybe I can bribe the baby with some music.”
You let out a humorless laugh, leaning into his shoulder for a moment. “Bribing with music? Elvis, I’ve had enough of waiting and promises. I just want this baby out.”
“I know, baby,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Come on… let’s get you dressed. Don’t want you catchin’ cold.”
As the OB-GYN stepped out, Elvis stayed close, patiently helping you into your dress. He carefully lifted it over your shoulders, pausing when it caught on your belly, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Almost there… got a stubborn bump in the way,” he teased quietly, making you smile despite your exhaustion.
The car ride back to Graceland was quiet in that tender way only a family on the cusp of something big could be. Gladys hummed softly from the front seat, her hands resting lightly on the dashboard, while Elvis drove with one hand on the wheel, the other never far from your arm.
You leaned into the seat, your bump heavy against the seatbelt, a low pressure in your belly reminding you that the baby was closer than ever.
“You feelin’ alright, baby?” Elvis asked, glancing at you in the rearview mirror.
“I’m okay… just tired,” you admitted, voice soft, a little strained.
Gladys reached back, placing her hand over yours. “Honey, don’t push yourself. You let someone know if you need somethin', ya hear?”
Elvis’ hand found yours over the seatbelt. “Mama’s right. We’ll get you home, get you comfy, and we’ll wait for the baby together. Ain’t no rush until it’s ready.”
By the time you pulled into Graceland’s driveway, the sun was fully awake. Car's of family members and friends lined the driveway, all anticipating that you'd at least be in active labor. Inside, the house was already humming with life.
As you stepped out of the car, the front doors burst open. Vernon, Dodger, Aunt Nash and a scattering of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends were already waiting, eyes wide with excitement and barely contained worry.
“Y/n! Baby! How’s she feelin’?” Dodger called, her voice strong but warm, her hands already reaching to steady you.
“Elvis, sugar, she been eatin’ right?” one of the aunts asked, waving a hand as though the answer would determine the baby’s fate.
“She’s fine,” Elvis said quickly, stepping forward, one hand gently resting on your lower back. “She’s been tired, like we said, but—”
“Did the doctor say how much longer?” another uncle interrupted, eyebrows raised.
You let out a soft laugh that barely carried over the chorus of questions. “He said I’m progressing… but the baby’s not ready yet.”
“Not ready yet?!” Dodger exclaimed, eyes wide. “Honey, this baby’s been waitin’ too long already!”
Gladys moved closer, one arm around your shoulders, the other swatting a hand at a particularly eager little cousin who leaned in too close. “Now, everyone, settle down. Y/n just came from the doctor. Let’s not overwhelm her, alright?”
But the family chatter didn’t entirely die down. Vernon hovered, holding a chair for you, while Dodger fussed with the hem of your dress, patting your back.
Elvis stayed close, soft words in your ear. “Take it slow, baby. They’re just excited… ain’t nothin’ bad.”
You smiled weakly, leaning into his side, letting the comfort of him and Gladys anchor you amid the whirlwind. “I know… it’s just a lot at once.”
“Well, you better get used to it,” Dodger said with a laugh, shaking her head. “This baby’s comin’ into a whole lotta love and noise. You’ll survive.”
Sat on the sofa, Elvis knelt beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb tracing shapes over your hand. “You ready?” he asked softly.
“I don't know what that means anymore” you murmured, pressing a hand to your bump as another wave of pressure rolled through your belly.
Gladys’ eyes narrowed, sharp but loving. “That’s the baby talkin’. Gonna be here soon”
You nodded, gripping the chair. “Feels… different this time,” you admitted, a little breathless.
Elvis leaned closer, lips brushing your temple. “Different good or different scary?”
The morning light shifted across the room, and for a moment, everything—the house, the family, Elvis kneeling beside you, Gladys fussing in the background—felt suspended in perfect anticipation. Then another twinge, sharper this time, pulled a gasp from your lips.
Elvis’ hand tightened over yours. “That’s it, baby. That’s our signal.”
Elvis helped you carefully to your feet, his hands steady but firm, cradling your weight as best he could. “Alright, sugar… let’s get you somewhere a little more… private,” he murmured, eyes flicking briefly at the crowd of family buzzing around the living room. “Ain’t no need for everybody to be watchin’ just yet.”
Gladys moved in quickly, one steadying hand on your elbow. “Let’s walk nice and slow, honey. Ain’t no rush.”
You nodded, gripping his arm, letting him guide you. Every step sent a fresh twinge of pressure through your belly, and you couldn’t stop a small gasp.
“Easy, baby… easy,” he whispered, his voice low and reassuring. “I got you.” He kept one hand at the small of your back, the other brushing over your arm whenever a contraction hit. “Just… lean on me, alright? Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.”
Dodger called after you, fussing as always. “Don’t go makin’ me chase ya, honey! You tell me if you need anything!”
“I’m alright,” you panted, giving her a weak smile. “I got him.”
Elvis chuckled softly, the sound warm and grounding, and guided you down the hallway. “See? We’ll be in our room in no time. You just focus on breathin’, baby.”
You nodded, breathing through another twinge as he guided you down the hall. His hand stayed firm at your back, rubbing whenever you paused.
By the time you reached the bedroom, you were swallowing hard, trying to steady yourself.
Elvis eased you onto the bed. “There you go… there you go,” he whispered, brushing hair off your forehead. “This is better. Just us.”
Gladys pulled the curtains halfway, dimming the room into a safe, soft space. “You just call if you need anything,” she told you, kissing your head before slipping out, closing the door behind her.
The second the room was quiet, Elvis sat at the edge of the bed and took your hand.
“You alright, darlin’?” he asked. “That one looked like it hurt.”
You nodded, rubbing your belly. “It… it’s starting to feel real.”
He stroked your thigh gently. “I know, baby. I’m right here.”
The contractions weren’t terrible yet—just tight waves of pressure, coming every ten or fifteen minutes.
You tried lying on your side, then sitting up, then pacing with Elvis’ arm hooked around your waist. Nothing really helped.
Elvis stayed glued to you, watching your face like he could absorb the pain himself.
“You tell me soon as another one hits,” he whispered. “Ain’t lettin’ you go through this alone, not for a second.”
You gave him a tired smile. “You’re hovering.”
“Damn right I am,” he muttered under his breath, kissing your shoulder.
Two hours later, the contractions sharpened. You were having to breathe through them, gripping Elvis’ shirt until your knuckles whitened.
Gladys slipped in and out, timing contractions in her soft, steady way.
“They’re comin’ closer,” she noted. “Seven minutes apart now.”
Elvis’ eyes widened. “Seven? Already?”
You leaned your head back, exhausted. “Feels like someone’s hugging my insides too tight.”
Elvis kissed your knee, whispering, “You’re doin’ so good, baby.”
Sometimes family knocked. Vernon asking if you needed ice water. Dodger asking if you needed prayer. Elvis politely chased them away every time.
“She don’t need a crowd,” he snapped once. “She needs to focus.”
A contraction hit stronger than the others. You bent forward, gripping Elvis’ hand so tight he winced—but didn’t let go.
“Attagirl,” he murmured. “Breathe with me… in and out… just like that. You’re doin’ it, Satnin.”
When it passed, he brushed your forehead. “You want some water? Pillow? Somethin’ to squeeze that ain’t my hand? Or you wanna bite me? You can bite me if ya gotta.”
You let out a weak laugh. “Not yet.”
“Just sayin’, option’s there.”
You shifted to adjust the blankets beneath you—and suddenly froze.
“Elvis…” you whispered, eyes wide.
He sat up straighter, instantly alert. “Baby? What is it?”
A warm rush flooded beneath you. Fast. Unmistakable.
“Oh—oh God—” You gasped, grabbing his arm.
His eyes widened, and for a split second he panicked. Then he steadied himself, cupping your cheek.
“Alright. Okay. That’s it. That’s your water breakin’, baby.” His voice softened. “Nothin’ to be scared of. This just means our little one’s finally ready.”
You tried to breathe through the shock, your heart racing as the fluid soaked the sheets.
“Elvis, it’s—this is really happening—”
He kissed your forehead quickly, urgently. “I know, baby, I know. I’m right here. You just hold on to me.”
He helped you sit up, his arm around your back, his other hand squeezing yours.
“I’m gonna call Mama in,” he whispered, “and then we’re goin’ to the hospital, alright?”
The pain pulsed again, stronger now, and you clung to him.
He held you tight. “Hey, hey… look at me.” His forehead touched yours, breath warm and steady. “You’re safe. I promise. We’re gonna meet our baby real soon.”
Then he raised his voice toward the hallway:
The house erupted outside the door—but Elvis never took his eyes off you.
“Breathe, baby,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
Elvis kept one arm wrapped around you as another contraction rolled through, his hand cradling your bump, the way he’d learned calmed you best. His voice stayed right by your ear even as you heard feet pounding down the hallway.
Gladys was first. “Oh, Lord—alright now—Elvis, help her sit forward. Honey, how far apart were those last contractions?”
“Four minutes,” Elvis answered without missing a beat, even as he adjusted the pillow behind you.
“Three and a half, maybe.”
Gladys nodded sharply. “Time to go.”
Behind her came the avalanche.
Vernon. Dodger. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Friends. Then someone who looked like they wandered in by accident.
Gladys clapped her hands once—loud. “Everyone outta the way! Let her breathe!”
Elvis helped swing your legs gently over the edge of the bed. “Take your time, baby. I’ll get the bag.”
“You put the bag in the car yesterday,” Gladys reminded him.
You winced as another contraction built, gripping his forearm. He instantly knelt in front of you, eyes locked on yours.
“I got you, darlin’. You squeeze whatever you need—my hand, my arm, my whole fool body if you gotta.”
You breathed in shakily. “Elvis, I can't do this!”
Elvis let out a soft, breathless laugh — the kind he used when he was scared but didn’t want you to feel it. He brushed damp hair from your forehead with trembling fingers.
“Baby… you been doin’ the impossible for nine months,” he murmured, his voice low and full of something tender and breaking. “You carried our whole world inside you. You can do this part too. And I’m right here… I ain’t leavin’ you, not for one heartbeat.”
Gladys motioned for Vernon. “Get the car started.”
He hurried down the hall. Dodger trailed behind shouting advice he didn’t ask for.
Elvis wrapped one arm around your back and helped you stand. “Easy, easy,” he murmured, swaying with you as you tried to catch your breath. “I ain’t rushin’ you. We’ll move when you can.”
You nodded, leaning into him. “Okay.”
When you finally reached the doorway, everyone parted again like you were royalty — sweaty, contracting royalty.
“Let her through!” Elvis barked, instantly snapping into protective mode. “Move those shoes—who put all them coats there? Lord have mercy—Mama, tell Aunt Nash t’quit cryin’, she’s scarin’ her!”
Elvis practically growled as he guided you toward the steps. “If one more person touches her, I’m carryin’ her out myself.”
“That might be faster,” Dodger mumbled.
Gladys swatted her arm. “Hush.”
The air outside hit you warm and bright. Elvis held you tightly with every step, murmuring, “Almost there… almost there, baby,” as Vernon paced nervously beside the car.
He opened the back door. “Y’all ready?”
“No one’s ready, Daddy,” Elvis said, carefully lowering you into the seat. “But we’re goin’ anyway.”
As you settled in, another contraction gripped you—harder. Your breath hitched. Elvis climbed in beside you immediately, his hand gripping yours, thumb stroking your knuckles.
“That’s it, baby—breathe with me. In… out… that’s my girl.”
Gladys slipped into the front seat. Vernon started driving like the road was on fire.
“Daddy—don’t speed!” Elvis snapped.
“Don’t tell me how to drive in a crisis!”
Gladys turned around, completely unfazed. “Vernon, slow down. Elvis, calm down. Y/n, you’re doin’ perfect.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “This family…”
“We’re a mess, I know,” Elvis murmured, kissing your forehead. “But they love ya.”
Another contraction clawed through you. You squeezed Elvis’ hand, eyes watering.
He pressed his forehead to yours, whispering, “Right here, baby. Don’t you look anywhere but me.”
When Vernon finally screeched the car into the hospital drive, Elvis practically flew out of the back seat, reaching for you. “I got her—Daddy, grab her bag—Mama, tell ‘em we’re comin’!”
Hospital staff rushed out with a wheelchair. Elvis helped you sit, brushing your hair back with shaking hands.
“You okay? You cold? You want your blanket? The nurse has somethin’—here—lemme—”
“Baby,” you breathed, touching his cheek, “I’m okay.”
He swallowed hard, eyes shining with fear and love all tangled together. “Alright… alright. I’m right behind you.”
Gladys was already at the intake desk, talking quickly to the nurse.
Elvis jogged beside your wheelchair as they rolled you down the hallway, his fingers hooked into your hospital gown tie because he refused to lose even that tiny connection.
Every few steps he leaned closer:
“You breathe, baby—I’m here.”
“You ain’t alone—not for a second.”
And as they wheeled you into the labor room with the bright lights overhead and nurses moving around you—
Elvis squeezed your hand and whispered:
“It’s time to meet our baby, darlin."
Because of Elvis’ fame — and because Gladys insisted — the nurses made an exception and let him into the labor room once you were settled.
Elvis refused to sit, refusing to relax, and refused to stop touching you.
He paced at your side, stroking your hair, kissing your temple, whispering soft encouragements while a nurse wiped your forehead.
Gladys sat in the wooden chair tucked against the wall, praying softly under her breath.
You gasped as another contraction hit.
Sharp. Deep. Nearly overwhelming.
“Oh God—!” you cried, reaching bury your face in his chest.
He was already there, grabbing your hand, leaning over you like a shield. “I’m here, baby. Right here. Squeeze me — hell, break my hand if you gotta.”
Your fingers dug into him. He didn’t flinch.
The OB-GYN entered, soft-voiced but brisk.
“Alright, Y/n… let’s see where we are.”
You tensed as the doctor gloved up. Elvis immediately slid behind you on the bed, supporting your back with his chest, letting you lean against him as though he could absorb the pain himself.
“You’re about… four centimeters,” the doctor said. “Good progress. Baby’s moving down.”
Your breath hitched. “Only four?”
Before panic could rise, Elvis wrapped his arms tighter around your ribs. “Hey… hey. Listen to me.” His lips brushed the back of your shoulder. “That’s progress, baby. That’s somethin’. We’re gonna take every minute together.”
Gladys stood up then, coming to your side and brushing tears from your cheek with a mother’s tenderness. “You’re doin’ beautifully, darlin’. Don’t rush yourself.”
The doctor gave an approving nod. “We’ll keep monitoring you. Just try to rest between contractions — they’ll only get stronger.”
You swallowed, nodding weakly.
Elvis saw the fear flicker in your eyes.
He slipped his hand down, lacing his fingers with yours.
“I’m right here, baby,” he whispered again.
Time blurred into something strange—just you, the dim lights, the quiet hum of hospital machines, and Elvis’ hand wrapped around yours like it was the last solid thing on earth.
For a while, the contractions stayed steady. Hard, but familiar enough that you could breathe through them with Elvis counting low in your ear.
Different. Deep. Vicious.
It slammed through your body so hard your vision blurred.
You cried out, folding forward, hands flying blindly to Elvis.
He reacted instantly, arms out, bracing you, pulling you into his chest.
Just for a second, long enough to feel his fear.
“Baby—baby what’s wrong?” he asked, voice too tight, too high. His hands trembled where they held you. “Is it worse? Is it too much?”
He dropped right back down, kneeling beside the bed, grabbing your shoulders, jaw clenched with terror.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he promised, breath unsteady. “Just tell me—tell me how to help. Please.”
Another wave hit and you sobbed, nails digging into his forearm.
“I—I can’t do it, I can’t—”
His face crumpled, panic warring with love.
He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your hair — desperate and shaky.
“You can. You hear me?” His voice cracked. “I know you’re hurtin’, baby, I know. But I’m right here. You hold onto me. You pull on me, you breathe with me. Don’t you let go.”
As the hours passed, your contractions continued to be difficult. The doctor came in after the next contraction, checking you gently.
You gripped Elvis’ wrist as the doctor worked, unable to even lift your head.
“Alright, Y/n…” the doctor said carefully.
Elvis swallowed hard. “Doc… tell us something good.”
“You’re at eight, almost nine centimeters.”
Elvis’ breath surfacing out of him.
But the doctor raised a hand.
“This is the hardest part. Transition. Things are going to get very intense from here.”
As if summoned, another contraction clenched around you like a vise.
Your back arched, a sob wrenched from your chest.
“Elvis—!” you cried, voice breaking. “Elvis I can’t—I can’t do it—”
He climbed right onto the bed behind you without hesitation, pulling you into his chest, holding you like he could shield you from the pain.
His lips pressed to your shoulder, your neck, your temple — shaking.
“You can,” he whispered fiercely.
“You can, and you are. Look at me—baby, I’m gonna hold you through every bit of this.”
You clung to him, tears in your eyes.
Gladys stood from her chair, tears in her eyes, hand over her heart.
“Oh honey,” she whispered, voice breaking. “She’s close, Elvis. So close.”
Elvis kissed the crown of your head, tightening his arms around you as the contraction peaked.
“You hear that, baby?” he murmured, voice trembling but steady. “You’re almost there. We’re almost there. You and me. We’re bringin’ our baby home.”
His cheek pressed to yours, breath hot with fear and devotion.
“I love you,” he whispered, raw and unguarded.
“I love you, and I’m right here. Don’t let go of me.”
And the contraction finally — finally — released.
The room had grown warmer, quieter, heavier with anticipation.
You trembled against Elvis’ chest, half-sitting, half-leaning back into him, your fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
Another contraction came — sharp, deep, primal — and you cried out, curling forward.
The doctor checked you again, voice calm, steady.
“Alright, Y/n… you’re there. Ten centimeters.”
Elvis went still behind you.
Just struck silent — like he’d been waiting his whole life for those words.
He buried his face against your shoulder, breath trembling with a smile.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, emotion thick. “We’re at the end now. We’re so close.”
Gladys moved nearer, her hands clasped tightly together, eyes glistening.
“Oh… my Lord…” she breathed. “That baby’s ready.”
The nurses moved quickly, guiding you into position.
“Mr. Presley, we’ll need you here,” one said to Elvis, placing her hands on his forearm.
Without hesitation, he slid to your left side, one hand bracing your back, the other supporting your leg under the knee like it was precious, fragile, worth more than gold.
His touch was steady, but his breath wasn’t.
“Baby,” he murmured, looking into your face like he needed you to see him.
“You push when they tell you. You squeeze my hand, you yell, you do whatever you gotta do. I got you. I swear I got you.”
You nodded, tears slipping down your temples.
He leaned in, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead.
“I know, honey,” he whispered. “But you’re the bravest thing I ever seen.”
“Okay Y/n… with the next contraction, you’re going to push for me,” the doctor said.
You barely had time to nod before it hit —
a massive, crushing pressure that stole your breath.
“Push, baby — come on, push!” Elvis urged softly, voice thick with awe and fear and pride all tangled together.
You bore down, gripping his arm with both hands, trembling from head to toe.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Good girl… good girl, keep goin’…”
When the contraction eased, you sagged back, exhausted, panting.
Elvis brushed your hair from your forehead, kissing your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach.
“You’re doin’ it,” he murmured, overwhelmed. “You’re bringin’ our baby home.”
With the next contraction, you pushed harder, louder, your whole body shaking.
The doctor’s voice shifted — brighter, excited.
“There we go! The baby’s crowning!”
Elvis' breath stuttered — a broken, disbelieving sound.
He looked, just briefly — and instantly his eyes flooded with tears.
“Oh—” he gasped, choking on the word. “Oh my God… baby… baby I can see ‘em… I can see their little head—”
His voice cracked completely, tears sliding freely down his cheeks.
“Sweetheart, they’re right there — you’re doin’ it, you’re so close…”
Gladys pressed a fist to her mouth, weeping quietly.
“Oh, Elvis… look at your baby…”
He kept looking — then looking back at you like you were performing a miracle with your bare hands.
Another contraction hit — the biggest, fiercest yet.
“Okay, Y/n — one more big push for the shoulders.”
You screamed, clutching Elvis’ shirt, burying your face in his arm as you bore down with everything you had left.
Elvis held your leg, your back, your hand — whispering through every second.
“That’s it… that’s it, baby, come on… bring our baby home… I’m right here, don’t stop—”
The soft rush of motion, the doctor’s calm voice breaking into joy:
A tiny, sharp wail filled the room.
The doctor lifted her gently, voice bright with warmth:
His lips parted, breath catching in his throat.
“A… a girl?” he whispered, voice breaking. “Our little girl?”
The nurse placed her onto your chest — pink, squirming, furious at the world in the way only newborns could be.
Elvis made a sound — half laugh, half sob — as he cradled you with both shaking hands.
“Oh my God…” he whispered, staring at her like she was made of light.
“Baby… look at her… she’s perfect. She’s so perfect.”
Elvis’ face broke into a mixture of awe, disbelief, and pure joy. “She… she’s perfect,” he breathed, brushing hair back from your damp forehead. “Look at her… look at our little girl.”
You sobbed, exhausted but overjoyed, leaning back against him. “She’s… she’s so tiny…”, you said breathlessly
Gladys, tears streaming down her face, reached to cradle the baby gently. “My grandbaby… my sweet grandbaby girl,” she whispered, rocking her.
Down the hall, Vernon and the rest of the family waited, pacing and murmuring in quiet bursts, the soft clatter of the hospital floor under their shoes echoing in the tension-filled air.
Vernon rubbed his hands together, whispering, “I hope she’s alright.."His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to the floor, every second stretching longer than the last.
Dodger leaned against the wall, hands clasped, muttering, “She’s strong, that girl… Y/n can do this. But my heart… I can’t take all this worry.”
One of the nurses came out, holding a clipboard delicately. “Mr. Presley, Mrs. Presley… the baby’s arrived safely.”
Vernon practically jumped. “Is she—”
“Yes,” the nurse confirmed softly. “A healthy baby girl. Both mother and child are doing well. You may come in shortly to see them.”
The news hit like sunlight breaking through a storm. Dodger let out a whoop, Vernon nearly collapsed into a chair, and the cousins began whispering excitedly among themselves.
Meanwhile, inside the hospital room, you were still catching your breath, Elvis’ arm draped over your shoulder, your newborn daughter cradled gently in your arms. You felt every tremor of exhaustion and elation ripple through your body.
“She’s… she’s so tiny, Elvis,” you whispered, voice thick with tears and fatigue.
Elvis pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know, Satnin… I know. Look at her… our girl. I don’t know how I ever lived without seein’ her little face.”
Gladys, seated in the chair nearby, leaned closer, eyes glimmering with pride. “She’s perfect, honey. Just perfect.” She reached over, brushing her fingers over your cheek. “And you… you did something mighty beautiful today.”
You laughed softly through tears, a shaky, happy sound. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Without you both.”
Elvis’ hands trembled slightly as he adjusted your hold on the baby, his own awe breaking through. “I ain’t ever lettin’ either of you go. I swear on my soul.”
You let your head rest against his chest, the baby curling gently against your chest, warmth and new life overwhelming every nerve. “I love you,” you whispered, soft, exhausted, raw. “Both of you.”
Gladys leaned in, brushing her hair back, her voice breaking a little. “My babies… all my babies in this room. Y/n, you made me so proud. And Elvis… you’re a daddy now, darlin'. Look at her.”
Back in the waiting area, Vernon and the rest of the family were finally allowed in. The moment the door opened, the energy shifted. Eyes widened, voices hushed.
“Elvis?” Vernon’s voice cracked as he stepped forward.
Elvis’ head lifted, a tired but radiant smile on his face, his eyes still shining with unshed tears. “Daddy… Dodger... she’s here. She’s perfect.”
Dodger whispered, nearly bouncing in place. “Oh my stars…”
You, propped on the bed, lifted the baby slightly so everyone could see, your own exhaustion dimmed by pride. “Here she is,” you said, voice soft but steady. “6lbs and 8oz.”
Vernon knelt beside the bed, gazing down at his granddaughter, lips pressed to his fingers in awe. “My goodness… she’s beautiful.”
Dodger laughed quietly, tears in her eyes. “Elvis… look what you did.”
Elvis swallowed, brushing a hand over his face, finally allowing himself a quiet laugh. “Little One… our girl… she’s got your eyes, I swear. I can’t believe she’s ours.”
Gladys reached out to gently brush the baby’s tiny hand, whispering softly, “Welcome, my little angel. You’re loved more than you can ever know.”
You leaned back against Elvis, feeling the weight of your daughter in your arms and the love of your family surrounding you. “I can’t believe she’s really here,” you whispered, voice trembling with happiness.
Elvis bent down to kiss the top of your head again, voice low and reverent. “I can’t either, Satnin… but we did it. We made her.”
The room was quiet then, Gladys’ soft whispers, and Elvis’ repeated murmurs of love, his eyes never leaving your daughter. You squeezed his hand, leaning into him, overwhelmed by gratitude, relief, and your precious babygirl.
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