The room already felt like a war zone.

Monitors beeping. Nurses moving with urgent precision. Controlled chaos.

Slade stood at her side, jaw tight, one hand locked around hers with deliberate steadiness.

He had faced artillery fire with less tension.

The first cry split the air.

Sharp. Alive.

His shoulders dropped half an inch.

One.

He could handle one.

He leaned down slightly, voice low and steady near her ear. “You did it.”

A nurse moved quickly past him.

Then another.

There was a shift in the room.

A different kind of urgency.

Slade noticed immediately.

His head lifted.

“What’s wrong.”

No panic.

Just assessment.

A glance between medical staff.

A quick explanation.

Additional heartbeat detected.

He blinked once.

“…Additional.”

Another contraction hit before the word fully settled.

He looked at her, then at the doctor, then back again.

“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, dangerously calm, “we are not finished.”

Someone confirmed.

His grip on her hand tightened—not crushing, just anchoring.

“Twins,” he repeated under his breath, like testing the weight of it.

He recalibrated instantly.

Two cribs.

Two car seats.

Two of everything.

He adjusted his stance closer to her.

“Alright,” he said firmly, brushing sweat from her temple. “We do it again.”

Another cry filled the room minutes later.

Second.

Smaller.

Just as alive.

Slade exhaled through his nose, tension finally cracking into something almost disbelieving.

He looked at the two tiny forms being cleaned and wrapped.

“…Two,” he muttered.

Then a faint, rare smirk touched his mouth.

“Good thing I don’t sleep much.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly to hers.

“You don’t get to scare me like that again,” he murmured quietly.

But his voice held something new.

Not fear.

Not irritation.

Something steadier.

Because one child was life-changing.

Two?

That was a mission.

And Slade had just been reassigned.