Slade had faced assassins, metahumans, and enough near-death experiences to last several lifetimes.

None of them had prepared him for the delivery room.

The contractions had started hours ago.

Then came more hours.

And then even more.

At some point, time had stopped meaning anything.

The nurses moved around calmly.

The doctors seemed unconcerned.

His wife, however, looked ready to declare war on the entire world.

Slade remained beside the bed the entire time.

Water.

Ice chips.

Extra pillows.

Whatever she needed, he was already reaching for it.

Then another contraction hit.

Without warning, her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his shirt—

and then his throat.

The room went completely silent.

One nurse looked alarmed.

Another looked like she was trying not to laugh.

Slade didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

Because honestly?

This seemed fair.

Her grip tightened.

The mercenary looked down at her hand around his neck.

Then back at her.

Very calmly, he said, “That’s a good grip.”

The nearest nurse choked on a laugh.

Another contraction passed.

Her hand remained exactly where it was.

Slade sighed.

Then carefully adjusted his stance so she could keep holding onto him more comfortably.

Because apparently this was his role now.

Human support beam.

The next contraction arrived.

The grip tightened again.

One of the doctors glanced over.

“Mr. Wilson, are you alright?”

Slade looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

The doctor looked pointedly at the hand still around his throat.

“…Right.”

Several minutes later, her grip finally loosened.

Small red marks had already formed on his neck.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Or care.

Instead, he reached up and gently covered her hand with his own.

Because after everything they’d been through together—

a bruised throat seemed like a very small price to pay.

And if she needed something to hold onto while bringing their child into the world?

Then he would stay right there.

For as long as it took.