TMD; The Mighty Ducks; Preferences and Imagines

𝔸 𝕓𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕠𝕣𝕟; 𝕃𝕦𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕠𝕫𝕒

You're 38 weeks pregnant and completely over it. Your back hurts, your feet are swollen, and the only clothes that feel remotely comfortable are Luis's oversized t-shirts. Still, he makes sure you feel like a queen every single day. Tonight is no different.

He's in the kitchen, humming something soft as he stands at the stove. The smell of roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes fills the air. You're curled up on the couch with your feet propped up on a pillow, hands resting on your round belly. Every few minutes, your little boy kicks like he's auditioning for a soccer team. You smile to yourself, hand rubbing your belly in slow circles.

"I made your favorite," Luis says, walking into the living room with a warm plate balanced on one hand and a glass of water in the other. "And yes, I made sure there's extra gravy."

You take the plate from him carefully, feeling another flicker of guilt that he's done everything these last few weeks. Cooked, cleaned, even picked up your weird pregnancy craving snacks from that tiny store across town without complaint. You don't deserve him, but God, you're glad he's yours.

"Thank you, baby," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he settles beside you. He doesn't sit though—not for long. He's adjusting your pillow, fluffing another one behind your back, checking if the blanket is covering your legs.

"You good? Comfortable?" he asks for the third time in ten minutes.

"I'm fine," you laugh. "Sit down and eat with me."

Luis finally takes his plate and sinks into the couch beside you. The two of you eat in silence for a few minutes, the kind that only happens between people who don't need to fill the air to feel close.

Then it hits.

A sudden, sharp pain low in your abdomen. It's enough to make you pause mid-bite. Your breath catches, and you press your hand to your belly.

Luis notices right away. "Hey. You okay?"

You nod slowly. "Yeah, I think so. Just another Braxton Hicks, I think. It's nothing."

But then—you feel it.

A warm, wet sensation between your legs. It happens so fast, you freeze. Your heart leaps into your throat.

"Luis," you say, voice suddenly quiet and unsure. "I think my water just broke."

He sets his plate down so fast it clatters. "Wait—what? Are you sure?"

You look down at the growing wet spot on the couch cushion and then back up at him with wide eyes.

"Yep. Pretty sure."

Luis stares at you for a split second, and then he's in motion—grabbing your hospital bag from the front hall, slipping on his shoes, tossing the plates into the sink like they're nothing. His voice is rushed but steady.

"Okay, okay, we got this. Let me help you up."

You try to stand but the pressure in your pelvis makes it difficult. Luis is at your side immediately, arms under your shoulders, guiding you gently as you push yourself upright. Another wave of pain rolls through your body and you grip his forearm hard.

He winces but doesn't say a word, just rubs your back and kisses your temple.

"Almost there, babe. Deep breaths."

You make it to the truck—Luis opens the door, helps you inside, fastens your seatbelt for you like you're fragile porcelain. And maybe you are right now.

He jogs around the front of the truck and slides into the driver's seat, glancing over at you, trying to hide the panic behind a calm smile. But you see it in his eyes.