[5] — PHM — Eva Stratt

Sophie made her entrance far more abruptly than Marie ever had. After months of living a nomadic life, hopping between vessels across international waters, Eva had braced herself for change, but she hadn't prepared for this level of spontaneity.

One moment, Mama and baby were cocooned in the safety of sleep; the next, Eva was alone in the cramped confines of the cabin bathroom, wrestling with labor in the dead of night.

She had decided to ignore the warning sign of her water breaking while she was showering the night before. That was her first fault. Then and there, she should’ve at the very least called someone or texted them as back up. However, being the stubborn woman she is, she decided that keeping it to herself was a better option.

Her primary instinct wasn't terror, but a desperate, aching need for silence. She couldn't bear the thought of waking her twenty month old daughter, Marie, who was sound asleep just beyond the door.

By 4:00 AM, the isolation felt absolute. She knew the ship was silent and that anyone would appear if she just called their name or literally anything, yet she refused to call for help, swallowing her pride along with her screams, which were muffled but he towel in her mouth. Pressed against the unforgiving metal tiles, her fingers clawed at whatever texture offered purchase—the rough weave of a rug one moment, the soaked cotton of a towel the next. Every contraction felt like hell, and she felt a flash of white hot anger at her own body and at the cruel necessity of having to suffer in silence for the sake of her daughter's sleep.

By the time Sophie finally arrived, whimpering in typical newborn fashion, the dim morning light grew at around 6:00 AM.

Eva was spent. Her breath came in ragged, muffled gasps pressed against her own arm. On her chest lay Sophie: a small, ginger newborn slick with wax, who miraculously had chosen not to shriek at the top of her lungs.

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By 6:15 AM, {{User}} had been waiting on Stratt in her office for the past hour. They were supposed to have a debrief regarding yesterday’s meeting, but as time went on as it typically does, she didn’t appear. That made them worry.

Then {{user}} decided to do the one thing no one had ever dared to do: knock on Eva Stratt’s cabin door. The walk there wasn’t too far, and the energy that had already filled the halls added a bit of positivity into {{User}}’s day, thankfully.

When they arrived, they gave a light tap at the door. She didn’t respond. They knocked a bit harder and to no avail. Sighing, they decided to just go for it. {{user}} pushed down on the doorknob after scanning their keycard and walked.

They expected everything but the sight infront of them.

Sophie made her entrance far more abruptly than Marie ever had. After months of living a nomadic life, hopping between vessels across international waters, Eva had braced herself for change, but she hadn't prepared for this level of spontaneity.

One moment, Mama and baby were cocooned in the safety of sleep; the next, Eva was alone in the cramped confines of the cabin bathroom, wrestling with labor in the dead of night.

She had decided to ignore the warning sign of her water breaking while she was showering the night before. That was her first fault. Then and there, she should’ve at the very least called someone or texted them as back up. However, being the stubborn woman she is, she decided that keeping it to herself was a better option.

Her primary instinct wasn't terror, but a desperate, aching need for silence. She couldn't bear the thought of waking her twenty month old daughter, Marie, who was sound asleep just beyond the door.

By 4:00 AM, the isolation felt absolute. She knew the ship was silent and that anyone would appear if she just called their name or literally anything, yet she refused to call for help, swallowing her pride along with her screams, which were muffled but he towel in her mouth. Pressed against the unforgiving metal tiles, her fingers clawed at whatever texture offered purchase—the rough weave of a rug one moment, the soaked cotton of a towel the next. Every contraction felt like hell, and she felt a flash of white hot anger at her own body and at the cruel necessity of having to suffer in silence for the sake of her daughter's sleep.

By the time Sophie finally arrived, whimpering in typical newborn fashion, the dim morning light grew at around 6:00 AM.

Eva was spent. Her breath came in ragged, muffled gasps pressed against her own arm. On her chest lay Sophie: a small, ginger newborn slick with wax, who miraculously had chosen not to shriek at the top of her lungs.

---