Slade never wanted kids.

He’d had them before by blood, by name and it ended in silence, scars, or worse. So when she told him she was pregnant, he didn’t say anything at first. Not no. Not yes. Just stared at the sonogram photo like it was a map to a battlefield he couldn’t read.

But now?

Now he was here—gloved hands gentle against her back as she leaned over the toilet, breathless from morning sickness. He didn’t flinch when she threw up. Didn’t move when she swore. Just held her hair and rubbed small circles into her spine, quiet and steady.

He just wanted her.

And if this was the cost of keeping her safe, he’d pay it gladly. Again and again.