The tires of the beat up truck screeched against the asphalt as Frankie took the turn into the hospital parking lot way too fast. His hands were shaking so violently against the steering wheel that he could barely shift into park. He had been miles out, trapped behind a multi car pileup on the highway, watching the minutes tick by on the dashboard clock like a countdown to his own failure. Every second spent idling in gridlock felt like a physical blow to his chest. He didn't even bother locking the door. He just ran.

"Sir! You can't park there-" a security guard shouted, but Frankie didn't hear him.

The world was a blur of sterile white walls and the frantic thumping of his own heart. He was still in his work clothes, smelling of grease and stale coffee, his breathing ragged as he sprinted toward the maternity ward. His mind was a storm of "what ifs." What if there were complications? What if you were scared? What if I missed it?

He hit the double doors of the delivery wing with his shoulder, stumbling into the hall. A nurse tried to intercept him, reaching for his arm, but Frankie dodged her with the practiced agility of a man who had spent his life dodging much deadlier things.

"Room 402! I'm the husband! Let me through!" he choked out, his voice cracking.

He didn't knock. He burst through the door, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and wild. He stopped dead. The room was quiet. The chaos he had imagined, the shouting, the monitors, the crisis, was gone. Instead, there was just the soft glow of a bedside lamp and the rhythmic hum of a quiet ward.

And there you were.

You were propped up against the pillows, looking exhausted, hair damp with sweat, but you were holding a small, swaddled bundle against your chest. Frankie’s legs suddenly felt like lead. His heart felt like it stopped entirely. The guilt of being late hit him like a freight train, but it was quickly swallowed by a wave of raw, unfiltered terror and relief.

He didn't go for the baby first. To the surprise of the nurse standing by the window, Frankie stumbled straight to your side. He dropped to his knees by the bed, his large, calloused hands trembling as he reached out to cup your face. He ignored the tiny person in your arms for a split second, his eyes searching yours with desperate intensity, checking for pain, for lingering fear, for any sign that you weren't okay.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice thick and broken. "I’m so sorry, baby. I tried. I tried so hard to get here. Are you okay? Tell me you're okay."

Only when you gave him a tired, tearful nod did he finally let his gaze drift downward. His breath hitched. There she was. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a tuft of dark hair that matched his own. The Catfish who had flown missions through hell and back was suddenly undone by six pounds of life.

He reached out a finger, touching the infant’s velvet soft cheek with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the divine. A sob he’d been holding back since the highway finally broke free. He leaned forward, burying his face in the space between your neck and the baby’s head, wrapping his massive arms around both of you. He held on as if the world outside that room didn't exist, his tears soaking into your gown as he anchored himself to the two most important people in his universe. He was a wreck, he was late, and he was terrified, but he was home.