I moved toward him immediately. “Jackson? What’s—“
His fist connected with my cheek, solid and deliberate, staggering me back two full steps. The crack of impact echoed through the greenhouse. I raised a hand to my face, staring at him. I’d expected a lot of things from Jackson, but never this.
I hadn’t even processed the hit before he was already folding forward, both arms wrapped around his stomach. His face contorted in a way I’d seen only twice before—once when he’dbeen shot through the shoulder, and again when he’d tried to explain to his parents what he was to me.
“Jesus,” I said, reaching for him. “What the hell?”
He was cursing in English, then Spanish, his voice breaking with the effort. And then I heard it—water splashing onto the greenhouse floor, soaking through his joggers—and every thought in my head reorganized itself around a single, undeniable fact.
The baby was not due for another week.
“I’ve been timing them,” Jackson managed, still bent forward. “Started four hours ago. About twenty minutes apart.” His breath hitched. “Then—“
His knuckles whitened as another contraction hit.
My hand went to my earpiece before I’d consciously decided to move. I got my arm under Jackson’s shoulders and lifted, trying to find a balance between supporting him and giving him space. He was still swearing at me in Spanish, his voice rising with the pain.
“Red alert,” I said into the comm as I got my other arm under his knees. “Jackson’s in labor. Red alert.”
Sterling’s voice came back instantly. “Hospital logistics? Contraction timing?”
I looked down at Jackson, who had his teeth gritted against what must have been another wave. “I don’t know the timing,” I admitted. I barely got the question out before Jackson’s hand clamped down on mine with a force that made me genuinely uncertain whether my metacarpals were still intact.
“Less than two minutes apart,” I clicked back, keeping my voice level despite the vise grip around my hand. “He’s not going to make it to town.”
“Get him to Jasper’s infirmary,” Sterling said. “We’re activating.”
I was already moving, Jackson’s weight shifting in my arms as I made for the door. The greenhouse path that usually took thirty seconds to walk became a careful obstacle course—turn too fast and risk the greenhouse frame, too slow and we’d never make it through the door.
Jackson had his arms around my neck, his face pressed against my shoulder. “Put me down,” he said, the words coming out strangled. “I can walk.”
“Not a chance,” I told him, easing us through the doorway and onto the gravel drive. The cold morning air hit us both, Jackson still in the thin T-shirt he’d been sleeping in. “Jasper’s place is five minutes from here. We’re taking the truck.”
“We could walk,” Jackson said, then gasped as another contraction hit. His grip on my arm nearly cut off my circulation. “Fuck. Maybe not.”
I got him to the passenger side of the truck, which was where the careful part ended. I had to wait through the contraction before I could get the door open, Jackson’s knuckles white on the door frame, his breath going ragged and then controlled in turns.
He was working with his body the way a man does who has been through worse pain and knows the difference between fighting it and using it.
“Ready?” I asked when his breathing had settled.
He nodded, jaw still clenched.
I got him up into the passenger seat, the angle awkward with his size and the truck’s height. Jackson didn’t complain, which was probably the clearest sign of how far along things had progressed.
Jackson complained about everything. His absence of complaints was what had me climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the engine in a single motion.
“Buckle,” I said, already backing down the driveway. I heard the click, then Jackson’s hand found my thigh, gripping hard enough to leave bruises. I covered it with mine, waiting for his breathing to steady again before pulling out onto the gravel road that ran between our place and Jasper’s.
The five-minute walk down the road turned into a two-minute drive with the tires occasionally spinning on the gravel when I pushed too hard on the gas. Jackson sat beside me, one hand braced against the dashboard, the other on my leg, his breathing coming in the pattern that was becoming familiar—long and slow and deliberate, then breaking into something sharper, then back to control.
I kept one hand on the wheel and the other on his thigh, my fingers pressed to the inside of his wrist where I could feel his pulse. It was too fast, but steady. The truck bounced over the uneven surface of the road, and I watched Jackson’s face from the corner of my eye, looking for any sign things were getting worse.
Jasper was already on the porch when I pulled up to the house—he’d heard the comm—and had the front door open before I could get Jackson out of the truck.
The path from the driveway to the porch, normally a ten-second walk, suddenly seemed endless. I kept my arm locked around Jackson’s back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he fought to stay upright, the contraction building.
“Cruz,” he managed, his voice tight. “I can’t—“
