The room was small, immaculate, and hushed in a way that felt almost unnatural—an island of sterile calm carved out of concrete, traffic noise, and the ceaseless heartbeat of the city beyond its walls. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Machines clicked and breathed in steady rhythms, indifferent witnesses to something sacred unfolding.
Ten hours.
Ten hours of labor.
Ten hours of Francesca fighting through pain with clenched teeth and steady resolve, her body pushing itself past limits no one else could feel. Jason had assured them again and again—heartbeat strong, positioning perfect. Just one stubborn little boy taking his time.
Stubborn already.
James Blackburn stood at Francesca's side, his broad frame filling the narrow space beside the bed. He had shed his jacket hours ago, sleeves of his black shirt pushed up his forearms, muscles corded tight beneath skin slick with nervous sweat. His body was built for violence and endurance—wide shoulders tapering sharply down to a hard V-shaped torso, abs tight as drawn wire beneath the thin fabric. A body honed by years of survival, restraint, and control.
And right now, it was useless.
His large hand wrapped tightly around Francesca's, thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles, grounding both of them. His jaw was locked, dark eyes fixed on her face like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
He had faced gunfire without flinching.
He had stared down men who ruled streets with fear and buried secrets with blood.
None of that compared to this.
Nothing had ever made his chest tighten like this.
Nothing had ever driven him to pray.
Francesca's breathing was controlled but strained, each inhale earned, each exhale a quiet act of defiance. Strength radiated from her even now—etched into the tension of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the fire still burning behind her eyes. Sweat darkened strands of hair that clung to her forehead, but she never once looked away from James.
Her fingers tightened around his, nails biting into skin when the next contraction hit.
"You okay?" he asked softly, voice low, careful—as if loud words might shatter her.
She let out a breath that trembled but didn't break. "I will be. Just—" Her eyes squeezed shut as pain crested. "Don't let go."
James leaned closer instantly, his forehead brushing hers, his free hand coming up to cradle her cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.
"Never," he said.
No bravado.
No promise for effect.
Just truth.
At the foot of the bed, Jason Newton moved with calm precision, scrubbing in, checking positioning, every motion deliberate and practiced. This wasn't a battlefield—but he treated it like one all the same. Life balanced on seconds here. Choices mattered. Control mattered.
"You're doing great, Francesca," Jason said steadily. "He's ready. Let's meet him."
Nicole Newton adjusted monitors beside him, checking vitals, her hands gentle despite the urgency. She met Francesca's eyes and smiled—not professionally, not clinically—but warmly, human to human.
"You're safe," Nicole said softly. "He's perfect."
James exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss into Francesca's damp hair. "You hear that?" he murmured. "You're incredible."
She gave a breathless laugh that turned into a cry as Jason guided her through the final push.
The sound that tore from Francesca's chest was raw and powerful—pain and strength braided together, echoing off the walls.
And then—
A sharp, furious cry split the air.
James froze.
Jason's expression softened as he lifted the tiny, squirming body with practiced care. "Strong lungs," he said quietly. "That's a very good sign."
James felt the breath leave him in a rush. His vision blurred. The room narrowed until there was only that sound—proof of life, proof of hope, proof that something pure had survived being born into their world.
Nicole wrapped the baby carefully and placed him gently on Francesca's chest.
Francesca broke instantly.
"Oh—oh my God," she whispered, laughter and tears tangling together as her trembling fingers brushed his cheek. "Hi. Hi, my baby."
James hovered for half a heartbeat—afraid to touch, afraid he might break something sacred.
Then his finger brushed the baby's tiny hand.
Those fingers curled around him—tight, stubborn, alive.
James sucked in a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"That's my boy," he murmured, voice cracking despite himself. "That's my son."
James stayed close, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering—unsure, reverent—until Francesca shifted slightly and made space for him. Jeremy stirred, a soft sound leaving him, brows knitting like the world had already offended him somehow.
James let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
"Jeremiah," he said softly, testing the name like it was something fragile. Something holy.
Francesca looked up at him, eyes tired but clear. "My grandfather," she murmured. "He was steady. Kind. Never raised his voice, but when he spoke—people listened. He protected what mattered without needing the world to know he was doing it."
James nodded slowly. That tracked. He could already see it—in the way their son clenched his fist, in the way he'd refused to arrive until he was good and ready.
"And Jayden?" James asked quietly.
Her thumb brushed Jeremy's cheek, impossibly gentle. "It means thankful. God has heard." She swallowed. "After everything we've survived... I needed that reminder."
James's throat tightened. He leaned in, pressing his forehead briefly to hers, their breaths mingling over their son.
"Jeremiah Jayden Blackburn," he repeated, lower now. Certain. "Strong name. Honest name."
Francesca smiled faintly. "Jeremy," she added softly. "For when he's little. For when he's ours before the world tries to make him something else."
James's hand finally came down, resting over Jeremy's back—broad palm shielding something impossibly small.
"He'll always be ours," he said. Not a hope. A statement.
Jeremy shifted, letting out a quiet, stubborn grunt, fist tightening like he agreed.
Hours passed in quiet, soft chaos—the gentle rhythm of new life filling the room. Francesca rested, leaning into James, Jeremy sleeping between them, warm and real and impossibly small.
James brushed a damp strand of hair from her face again, letting his fingers linger on her skin. "You okay?" he asked.
"I've never felt more alive," she whispered.
His thumb traced circles over her knuckles as their eyes locked. "He's ours. Every bit of him. Strong, stubborn... just like you."
Francesca laughed softly. "Ten hours of labor, and you're still trying to act like you did some of the work."
James leaned down, dominant and tender at once, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, soft kiss. Two years of marriage—battles, loyalty, shared quiet, and chaos—distilled into this one perfect moment. Francesca responded instinctively, pressing closer, letting herself feel every ounce of the man who had always been her anchor, her protector, her home.
When they pulled back, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, Francesca whispered, "I love you."
"I love you more than anything," James said, fingers entwining with hers over their son. "Every second. Every day."
Outside, the city waited.
The Authority waited.
Chaos waited.
Inside the room, time slowed. Power, love, and a quiet promise intertwined in the air, unspoken but absolute.
James Blackburn had survived the streets, survived war, survived betrayal.
But this—
This was different.
This was the beginning of everything worth fighting for.
And he would burn the world to keep Jeremy safe.