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Goldie sucks in a breath, tucks her chin to her chest, and bears down. Her face scrunches up and her body trembles.

"Ten seconds," Sarah counts off calmly.

Goldie lets out the breath in a loud, forceful rush, falling back against my arm.

"Damn, okay," Dr. Evans says, leaning forward. "We’re moving. Give me more just like that and the little one will be out before you know it."

Goldie pants, catching her breath. "Told you."

I kiss her sweaty temple, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It’s hard to even comprehend the reality of what’s happening right now. To take it all in. It’s easier to focus on the little things—every contraction, deep breath, and push—instead of what those are all working toward. "You're doing incredible."

The next contraction hits fast. She bears down again, taking the brunt of the physical labor while the epidural blocks the pain. The sheer power radiating off her is staggering. I've flown a ninety-thousand-pound aircraft through a fuck ton of hurricanes, but watching the woman I love literally push life out of her body is the most intense, awe-inspiring thing I've ever witnessed.

"Okay, head's out," Dr. Evans says, her voice picking up speed. "Give me one more, Goldie. Just a small one for the shoulders."

Goldie groans, curling forward and bearing down one last time.

The rigid tension in her body suddenly vanishes. She goes completely slack, collapsing back against my arm, her chest heaving as she gasps for air.

Then, a sharp, pissed-off wail cuts through the steady beeping of the monitors.

A harsh, shaky exhale punches out of me. We did it.

Holy fuck, we did it.

"It's a girl," Dr. Evans announces, quickly wiping down the squirming, screaming mess of limbs with a towel.

She lifts the baby—our daughter—and lays her directly onto Goldie’s chest.

A hot tear slips down my face, tracking through my stubble, and I don’t even try to wipe it away. There’s an overwhelming love filling every cell of my body, and the warmth of it is indescribable. I lean over them, my hand trembling for a split second before I gently rest my palm against the baby’s warm, sticky back.

Goldie is laughing and crying at the same time, her hands shaking as she pulls the tiny, squirming body closer to her skin. "Oh my god. Hi. Hi, baby."

I press my face against the top of Goldie's head. “Look at her.”

"I'm looking," Goldie whispers, completely mesmerized by the tiny, red-faced human currently screaming her head off.

She lets her head loll toward me. Her dark hair is plastered to her forehead, her skin is flushed and damp, but her eyes are shining with that fierce, cocky spark I love so fucking much.

"Well," she breathes out, giving me a smug, exhausted little smirk. "I always told you these birthing hips weren't just for show."

A wet laugh tears out of my throat. I kiss her mouth, then her cheek, and then her forehead, tasting sweat and salt, before looking back down at the dark-haired, beautiful little girl wailing on her chest.

I cover Goldie's hand with mine where she’s cradling our daughter, my thumb gently brushing against a tiny, clenched fist.

"Welcome to the world, Frankie Jo Wells."

CHAPTER 43

SUMNER

After Goldie gets some time with her, the nurses take Frankie over to the warmer to weigh her, clean her up, and wrap her in one of those standard-issue, scratchy hospital blankets with the faded blue and pink stripes.

It takes them maybe ten minutes, but it feels like an hour. My feet are glued to the linoleum right next to the scale, watching every single thing they do to her. I don’t get in their way, but I make damn sure I don’t blink, either.

I don’t want to miss a single thing.

When the nurse finally turns around and places the tiny, burrito-wrapped bundle into my arms, I forget how to breathe for a second.