"Calm down, sweet girl.” His lips hover over mine. “Your water broke. The babies are fine." "What?" "You're in labour, little deer." He strokes my cheeks with his thumbs, gazing into my eyes dotingly. "Your water broke, Fawn. You’re fine.” "They’re,"—I clutch at our unborn children, covered in my skin and heavy against my uterus—"They’re okay?"
