It's not forgiveness, but it's something. A détente for Santiago's sake.
That night, Lena can't get comfortable. She tries the bed, the chair, standing, walking—nothing helps.
"Like trying to sleep with a bowling ball on your bladder," she mutters, shuffling to the bathroom for the tenth time.
I make her tea—some herbal shit Izzy swears by—and we sit together in the quiet.
"Scared?" she asks.
"Terrified."
"Good. Means you give a shit."
"I give all the shits. Every possible shit."
She laughs, then gasps, her hand going to her belly. "Oh."
"What?"
"I think... my water just broke."
I stare at the puddle forming at her feet, my brain short-circuiting. "Now? Like right now?"
"No, next Tuesday. Yes, now!" But she's smiling, calm in a way that terrifies me more than panic would.
"Hospital. We need—"
"Contractions first. We time them, wait until they're regular and close together." She's already grabbing towels, so fucking calm while I'm having an out-of-body experience. "Could be hours still."
"Hours?"
"Or minutes. Santiago's been unpredictable from conception."
The first real contraction hits twenty minutes later. She breathes through it like she's done this before, like her body knows what to do even if her mind is racing.
"Five minutes," she says after the third one. "We should go."
I've driven dangerous routes my whole life—running from cops, racing rivals, chasing death like it owed me money. But nothing compares to driving Lena to the hospital while she's in labor. Every bump feels like assault, every red light like a personal insult from the universe.
"Call Izzy," she manages between contractions.
"Already did. She's meeting us there."
"And Dr. Morrison—"
"On her way."
"The bag—"
"In the back."
She looks at me, something soft in her eyes despite the pain. "You've been ready."
"For weeks. Made lists, packed backup bags, mapped multiple routes to the hospital."
"You made lists?"
"Don't tell the club. I have a reputation."
