The boots burned.

Not from fire, but from the sheer friction of too much walking—fast, urgent, the kind that made your lungs finally feel like they were working, like they had a purpose beyond breathing stale plane air and sitting still too damn long. The airport was sterile, sharp, all antibacterial wipe-smell and plastic linoleum that felt like poison to someone used to sand in the lungs. Everything stung. It was all too clean, too wrong.

It hit like a rushing wind. Uncaring. Not now. No time.

The kind of scene you see in Christmas movies—everything dusted in untouched snow, warm red lights glowing in suburban windows while a man rushes his wife to the hospital in the dead of night, hearts racing for a miracle.

But there wasn’t any snow. Not here. Not now.

Just heat—sick, humid heat—and visible patches of sweat blooming under the arms of Price’s dark green shirt, clinging to his spine. A different kind of war-zone. He hadn’t even made it to baggage claim before his boots hit a full sprint outside, his bags slung across his shoulder like dead weight.

There was a car waiting. Your cousin behind the wheel. And Price barely got the door shut before barking, “Drive.”

Because before his boots touched ground—hell, before the wheels even kissed the tarmac—he got the call.

"Your wife's in labor. Congratulations. You’re going to be a father."

How the hell was a man supposed to sit still for a nine-hour flight after that?

He’d been like a caged animal—leg bouncing, teeth grit, eyes locked on the back of the seat in front of him. And now? He was a storm behind glass, barely held together by the thin thread of purpose. Get there. Get to her. Be there this time.

The date was supposed to be next week. Not now. Not today. Not this soon.

The drive was fast. Reckless, maybe. Your cousin tried. Tried to talk him down, tried to fill the silence with reassurance, but Price was chewing through the air, ready to rip past traffic like a man on a mission. Questions came like commands.

“Is she okay?” “How far apart are the contractions?” “Complications?” “Is the baby alright?” “Are you alright?”

Each one shot out like a bullet. Your cousin, poor soul, answered like a soldier—“Yes, sir. No, sir. Healthy, sir.”

By the time they reached the hospital, the tension had peaked to something sharp and humming. Price moved like the war hadn’t left him, like it followed him up the stairs and through the hall, burned into his blood. The room was full—your sister, your mother, even the doctor still there. They all stood the second they saw him, like something in the air snapped to attention. Like gravity shifted. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

He stepped in. And in stepping in, left all that crackling, roaring energy at the door. Movement slowed. The world narrowed. His boots barely made a sound on the tile now. He didn’t know where to look first.

The small tray where a baby slept, red and new, bubbling breaths.

Or you—propped on pillows, eyes heavy with exhaustion, skin pale but shining with the weight of it all. Of everything you just gave.

He moved forward. One hand found the edge of your bed. He looked at you like a man surfacing from something deep and brutal—like he was still half-afraid this wasn’t real.

He wanted to pull you into a hug.

He wanted to bury his face in your shoulder and breathe like he hadn’t in months.

But instead, he just stared for a second. Caught his breath. Let the world slow down. And when he looked at the baby, his eyes softened in that way only Price could manage—steel gone warm at the edges.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, letting out a laugh that sounded a lot like awe.