The clinical knowledge landed somewhere beneath my ribs. There was a gap between knowing what two-minute intervals meant and being the one standing in the kitchen with your hands shaking and a contraction fading from your abdomen.
Decker was already watching me, his eyes doing the scan I recognized from security briefings and tactical discussions. But something else was happening in his face—a crack in the surface I’d never seen before, something close to panic moving behind it.
His hand came up to my shoulder, then dropped back to his side without making contact, like he couldn’t decide if touching me would make things better or worse.
“Jesus,” he said, voice carrying the panic of a man trying to hide how far outside his framework he’d gone. “That’s the third one in six minutes.”
I pulled myself back the way I used to pull myself back on the NICU floor at three in the morning when the monitors alarmed and the resident was nowhere to be found: inventory what is functional, give clear instructions, move.
“We can’t make it to the hospital,” I said, each word precise despite the breath still catching in my throat. “Take me to the infirmary. Now.”
Decker moved without discussion—one arm under my knees, one at my back, lifting me with the knowledge of a man who knew exactly how much strength to use and no more.
I didn’t have time to protest or feel awkward about it; another contraction was already building at the base of my spine, radiating outward with enough force that I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from making noise.
I focused on breathing through it—in through the nose, out through the mouth, the steady rhythm I’d coached laboring mothers through—rather than on the fact that my own hands wouldn’t stop shaking against Decker’s chest.
The infirmary was twenty feet down the hall—the room Decker had built into this house specifically for me, with its exam table and supply cabinets and deep double sink. It was the closest thing to a hospital we had, which meant it was either sufficient or it wasn’t, and we were about to find out which.
Decker set me on the edge of the exam table with careful movements, one hand still braced against my back. His face had the expression of a man who’d walked through firefights and ambushes and had no framework for this kind of emergency.
“What comes next?” he asked, voice carrying that careful neutrality I recognized from tactical briefings.
I almost laughed—a sound that landed somewhere between nerves and genuine amusement. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said, already reaching for the phone in my pocket. “First, send the alert to everyone on the ranch. Then get me sterile gloves from the second cabinet on the left, the supply tray from the shelf above the sink, and the folded sheet on the lower rack.”
Decker nodded once and reached for my phone with his free hand. His other arm remained braced against my back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“Group text,” I said, voice dropping into the flat, efficient register I used to use on nervous residents. “Just ‘Baby coming. New house. Infirmary. Now.’”
Decker’s thumbs moved across the screen with quick, precise movements, then the phone was back in my pocket and he was already moving toward the cabinets, his body angled to keep me in his peripheral vision.
He retrieved the items with the efficiency of someone following direct orders—gloves still in their packaging, the metal supply tray clattering slightly as he pulled it down, the sheet unfolding with a snap of fabric.
I watched him work and felt gratitude land somewhere beneath my ribs—not the dramatic revelation of fiction or the flush of validation, but something quieter and more certain: the simple fact of a man who knew exactly how to move in a crisis and was doing it without being told twice.
Because under the clinical focus, under the calculation of what we had and what we needed, the fear was getting louder. Not fear of the birth itself—I’d watched enough deliveries to have a reasonable sense of what was coming—but fear of something going wrong out here with no backup beyond what we’d stocked this room with and whatever help was on its way.
Another contraction hit, stronger than the last, and I braced against the exam table with both hands, breath coming in short, controlled inhales that I couldn’t quite keep from hitching at the peak.
Decker was beside me in an instant, one hand finding the small of my back, the other coming to rest on my shoulder. “Breathe,” he said. “Just like that. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I followed his instructions—not because he’d given them, but because they matched what I knew to do—and felt the contraction gradually ease, the tension in my abdomen giving way to something that was merely uncomfortable rather than actively painful.
“We need to get me undressed,” I said when I could speak again.
Decker nodded once and reached for the hem of my t-shirt. “Arms up,” he said, keeping it simple.
I complied without discussion, lifting my arms so he could pull the fabric over my head. The coolness of the infirmary air against my skin registered somewhere beneath the calculation of what came next.
Decker was careful with the sweatpants—sliding them down my legs with the attention of someone who knew exactly how much strength to use and no more, then helping me position myself on the exam table with one hand braced against my back.
He draped the sheet over my lower half with a single, smooth motion, then reached for the supply tray and set it on the shelf beside the table. “Now what?” he asked, voice carrying that careful neutrality I recognized from tactical discussions.
I reached for his hand without deciding to do it—quick and certain, palm warm against his knuckles. “Now we wait,” I said. “And hope help arrives before things get complicated.”
Decker’s fingers closed around mine—brief, firm, the silent communication of men who didn’t need to perform confidence for each other’s benefit—and then the door opened behind him.
Sterling walked in with the stealthy quietness I recognized from my own time in the hospital. He was dressed in jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, his face set in lines I couldn’t read, but recognized anyway.
