Page 47 of Glass Wings

She clings to me, whispering I love you like a prayer, and I swear I feel whole for the first time since the cuffs closed around my wrists.

Then, after, she curls into my side, her head on my chest as my hand spreads wide over the curve of her stomach. The baby kicks beneath my palm, a strong reminder of what waits for us in only a few weeks.

“I thought I’d lost this,” I whisper into her hair. “Lost us.”

She takes my hand and presses it more firmly against her stomach. “We’re right here. All three of us. And we’re not going anywhere.”

The first thing I notice when I wake isn’t the light, or the silence, or even the sheets I spent months dreaming about. It’s Harley.

She’s curled against me, her face soft in sleep. Her lips part just enough that every little breath warms my chest. My hand found her belly sometime in the night, and I leave it there now, spread wide over the curve of her, like my body already knows its place. The baby shifts under my palm, a small push, and my throat tightens. I missed so much … but I’m here now. I’m home.

I lean down and kiss her hair, careful not to wake her. For once, there is no clanging, no voices, no schedule that belongs to anyone but us. Just Harley, me, and the little life inside of her.

She stirs after a while, blinking up at me. A sleepy smile tugs at her lips. “You’re staring.”

“Damn right I am,” I murmur, brushing her hair back from her face. “Couldn’t stop if I tried.”

She laughs softly, but it catches in her throat. Her hand presses to her belly, fingers flexing. A faint crease forms between her brows.

“You, okay?” I ask, sitting up straighter.

“Mm.” She nods, but the sound isn’t convincing. “Just a little crampy. Probably nothing. Happens sometimes this far along.”

Still, my gut tightens. I want to believe her, but after everything that’s happened in my life, my instincts don’t let anything slide.

“Nothing?” I press, watching the way her face shifts when the feeling lingers longer than it probably should.

She blows out a breath, leaning back into the pillows. “It’s probably just from yesterday, from all the emotions … and from you.” Her cheeks flush, and she tries to laugh it off, but another wave of discomfort flickers across her face.

I catch her hand and lace my fingers through hers, kissing her knuckles. “Let’s just keep an eye on it, yeah? No brushing it off.”

Her eyes soften, but the crease between her brows doesn’t disappear. She nods, and I keep my hand on her belly, as if sheer willpower alone can keep our baby exactly where they belong for just a little longer.

So we stay like this for a while, tangled in the sheets, sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin, golden lines. I want to memorize her all over again, every detail. It’s been too long since I’ve woken up in a real bed beside her. The weight of her against me, the warmth of her skin, even the way her hair kept tickling my jaw. It’s all the same, yet strikingly new.

Eventually, Harley stretches, a small wince slipping out. She gives me a sheepish smile. “I think your kid is already taking up all the room in here. My ribs are officially out of space.”

I grin and rub my palm gently over her side. “Our kid. And hey, you’ve still got a few weeks left. They’re probably just practicing their soccer skills.”

Her laugh fills the room, soft and shaky. I missed that sound.

We move slow that morning. I insist on making breakfast, even though she tries to shuffle me out of the kitchen three times. I barely remember how to use half the appliances, months of cold trays and lukewarm coffee will do that to a man, but eventually I manage to make scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice. Nothing fancy, but with the way she watches me from the counter stool—chin propped in her hand and eyes shining—you’d think I was cooking a five-star meal.

“You’re staring again,” I tease, sliding the plate in front of her.

She smirks. “You’re just … here. Making me food. You don’t know how good that feels.”

I sit across from her and reach across the counter to lace our fingers together again. “Trust me, I do.”

She picks at her eggs and eats some toast, but I notice how often her hand drifts back to her belly. Not in the absent way she usually does. This is more deliberate, like she’s tracking something.

“You sure you’re, okay?” I ask again, voice low.

She gives me that look, part stubborn, part trying to convince herself, too. “I’m fine. Just a little sore. Probably from all the stress.”

I nod, but inside, I still don’t believe it.

I keep watching her, the way her hand is circling her belly and how her smile tightens at the edges even when she tries to keep it soft. She takes another sip of orange juice, sets the glass down, and then freezes.