The contractions hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs as you gripped the dashboard. The city lights blurred past in streaks of neon, the rumble of the Skyline’s engine vibrating through your body. You barely registered the speedometer climbing—Brian was pushing it, threading through traffic with the precision of a man who knew how to outrun anything. But this wasn’t a race. This was a countdown.

“Bri—” Another contraction cut you off, your fingers digging into the seat.

“Almost there, baby,” Brian said, his voice tight but steady. One hand on the wheel, the other reaching for yours, squeezing reassurance into your trembling fingers. He didn’t let go, even as he drifted through a turn, the tires screeching. “Just breathe for me.”

You tried. God, you tried. But the pain was relentless, and the hospital still felt miles away.

Brian’s jaw was clenched, knuckles white against the wheel. He’d faced high-speed chases, shootouts, near-death crashes—but this? This had him rattled. Not that he’d admit it. He was keeping his cool, for you.

Another contraction ripped through you, and a panicked gasp left your lips. Brian’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Just hold on a little longer,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. His heart was hammering, breath unsteady, but he pushed the car harder. There was no NOS, no shortcuts—just him, you, and the road ahead. And nothing in the world was going to stop him from getting you there in time.