König had never known hours to crawl the way they did that day. Deployment had dragged on much longer than promised, and when the storm rolled in and grounded every aircraft, something inside him began to crack. He kept checking his phone, rereading your messages until the words blurred. He whispered clumsy prayers under his breath and paced the room like a caged animal. You were giving birth without him. He was supposed to be there.

When the weather finally cleared enough for a helicopter to fly, König was already waiting outside. He was still half geared up, boots muddy, uniform wrinkled, duffel bag hanging open. No one questioned his urgency. Anyone could see the fear sitting behind his eyes.

The flight felt endless. The helicopter shook, the engine roared, and König sat hunched forward with his helmet in his lap, staring at the floor as guilt twisted through him. He imagined you alone in a bright hospital room, calling his name through the pain. That image hurt worse than any wound he had taken in the field.

When he reached the hospital, he moved fast. The halls were too clean, too bright, too quiet. He felt out of place with the smell of dirt and sweat still clinging to him, but he did not slow down. Not even when he reached your door.

For a moment he just stood there. His heart pounded hard enough to hurt.

Then he opened the door and forced himself to move.

You were resting against the pillows, exhausted but glowing in a way he had never seen before. And in your arms was a tiny bundle wrapped in soft blankets. His daughter. So small he felt breathless just looking at her.

He dropped his duffel bag without noticing. He walked toward you slowly, as if he might startle the delicate peace in the room. His knees hit the floor at your bedside before he even realized he had sunk down.

König’s voice shook when he whispered, “I missed it. I missed everything.”