He’s been on the case for days, the kind of investigation that drags through endless leads and dead ends, a relentless case that’s pulled him three hours away from home. The hotel room feels cold and empty, the glow of his phone screen is the only thing breaking the silence.

Then it rings. Your name lights up the screen. He answers immediately, heart pounding.

“It’s happening,” your voice cracks but holds steady. “My water broke.”

The words hit him like a punch. His breath catches. All the stress from the case, all the distance — it vanishes.

“I’m coming. Stay calm, okay? Breathe. I’m on my way.”

He grabs his jacket, tosses it on, already moving toward his car. Every second counts now, every mile a race against time.

The highway stretches before him, dark and endless. His mind flashes between the case files and your voice on the phone, soft but urgent, telling him to keep steady.

“Call me if anything changes,” he says, voice tight but trying to stay calm. “Help’s there, right?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “But I want you here.”

He floors the accelerator, the city lights fading behind him, replaced by the blur of headlights and road signs. His hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, heartbeat pounding like a drum.

Memories of your last moments together flood in — the way you smiled, the gentle touch on his arm, the hope and fear mixed in your eyes.

He fights back the panic as he navigates the winding roads, the world shrinking to the space between him and you.

Every call he makes, every mile he covers, is a promise, he’ll be there. For you. For the baby. The case can wait.