The call comes while he’s at work.

Joel barely hears Sarah’s voice over the pounding in his chest, but the only words he needs to catch are hospital and baby’s coming.

Everything else blurs.

His hands shake as he fumbles for his keys, damn near dropping them. Tommy’s already on his feet, wide-eyed, asking what’s wrong, but Joel doesn’t answer—just shoves past him, running out the door.

The truck roars to life, tires screeching against the gravel as he peels out of the lot. His pulse hammers in his throat, in his wrists, in the tight grip he’s got on the wheel.

You’re at the hospital. He should’ve been there.

You were home with Sarah. She must’ve called someone—Jesus, who? A neighbor? Someone had to have helped you get there. But Sarah—she must’ve been scared, calling him like that. His little girl, trying to hold it together while he wasn’t there.

His stomach twists.

Traffic is a damn nightmare, but Joel doesn’t care. He weaves through cars, barely breathing, running lights, gripping the wheel so hard his fingers cramp.

He should say something to you. Call. Text. Let you know he’s coming.

But he can’t.

His hands are too tight, his chest too tight, his head too damn full of get to her, get to her now.

The hospital lot is a blur. He barely throws the truck into park before he’s out, running through the doors. His boots pound against the floor, his breath ragged as he reaches the desk.

“My wife,” he rasps. “She’s—she’s here, she’s havin’ the baby—”

The nurse nods, already moving, already leading him down the hall. He follows, each step heavier than the last, his heart in his throat.

And then—

Then he sees you.

In the hospital bed, flushed, hair damp, eyes glassy but locked right on him. And God, you look so damn tired, but you still—you still smile when you see him.

And just like that, the tightness in his chest breaks.

He exhales something shaky, rubs a rough hand down his face, then moves to you, grasping your hand, pressing his forehead to yours, whispering,

“I’m here, baby. I got you.”