The highway blurred past in streaks of white and red.

Slade checked the rearview mirror for the third time in ten seconds—not for tails, not for threats.

For her.

Another contraction hit and she grabbed the back of his seat hard enough to creak the leather.

“We’re not making it,” he said, already calculating distance to the nearest hospital. Too far. Traffic boxed in. No clear shoulder wide enough.

He swore once under his breath, then took the next exit without hesitation.

Five minutes later, the truck was angled off a dirt service road, engine still running.

Slade was out and at her door before the next breath.

“Okay,” he said, voice steady in a way that had commanded soldiers through firefights. “We’re doing this here.”

He stripped off his tactical gloves with his teeth, tossing them aside. Jacket under her head. Emergency kit from the backseat—because of course he had one. Slade planned for contingencies.

Just not usually this one.

“Look at me,” he instructed, bracing her shoulders. “You’ve handled worse.”

His hands were firm but careful, movements controlled despite the adrenaline hammering in his chest. He talked her through it like it was a mission—timing, breathing, focus.

The night air filled with the raw, powerful sound of new life minutes later.

Slade went still for half a second, staring down at the tiny, furious bundle in his hands.

Then he exhaled.

“You did it,” he said, something softer breaking through his usual edge.

He wrapped the baby securely, checking both of them with practiced thoroughness before finally allowing himself to lean back against the truck.

No hospital lights. No sterile room.

Just the hum of the engine, the quiet dark, and the realization that even a man like Slade—

Could adapt when it mattered most.