Page 51 of Glass Wings

I nod once. “Fine. I’ll … try.”

Easton stands immediately, relief flooding his face as he steps into the hall. When he comes back with the nurse, she gives me the same practiced, patient smile as before.

“We’ll go slow,” she promises, pulling a chair closer to the bed. She sets the kit down, the little syringes gleaming too bright in the sterile light of the hospital room. “Just a few drops at first. That’s all we need.”

I swallow hard, feeling heat climb my cheeks. The nurse guides my hands, explaining each step in detail, but my body feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else. It takes forever—fumbling, stopping, starting—but then, finally, the smallest golden bead appears.

“There,” the nurse whispers, triumph in her voice as she draws it into the syringe. “See? That’s perfect.”

Easton’s hand squeezes mine, his eyes shining with pride. “Told you. You’re stronger than you think.”

But instead of pride, all I feel is shame. One drop. One drop when my baby needs oceans.

I turn my face away, tears slipping hot and silent down my cheeks.

“We need to name her,” I whisper after the nurse leaves, my voice barely stronger than the hum of the machines.

“We never got to talk about it.” Easton drags a hand through his hair, the yawn he tries to hide tugging at my heart. He didn’t even get twenty-four hours of freedom before being swept straight into chaos. If anyone deserves to rest, it’s him, and yet here he is, still and steady, trying to hold both me and our world together.

“You mentioned Quinn a lot,” I say softly, watching the way his tired eyes lift toward me. “I kinda love it.”

Something in his expression shifts, the exhaustion cracking just enough to let light through. “Quinn,” he whispers, like he’s testing it. Letting it settle in the room. “Quinn Faith Diggs?”

I freeze. The words hang between us. His eyes search mine.

“Why Faith?” I ask gently.

He drags a hand over his face before leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Because that’s what got me through all of this. Faith in you. Faith that you’d still be here when I got out. Faith that we’d survive the trial, the lies, the waiting. And when she was born too early, when I thought I might lose both of you in one night … I just kept repeating to myself to have faith that everything would be okay.

His voice cracks, but he pushes through it, reaching for my hand. “I want her to carry that with her. Not just as a word, but as a reminder that she came from two people who refused to give up on each other. On her. On ourselves.”

Tears spill hot down my cheeks. For the first time since waking, the emptiness in my chest eases just a little. “Quinn Faith Diggs,” I whisper, letting the name settle in my mouth, in my bones. “Our little girl.”

Easton keeps wheeling me to the NICU, thinking that if I see Quinn over and over, if I watch the rise and fall of her tiny chest and how the monitors flash steady numbers, it will put my mind at ease. That it will make me forgive myself.

It doesn’t.

Every time I see her, all I can think is—too small, too soon, too fragile. All because of me.

Easton kept Kennedy and our families away the first day, guarding me like a wall against the outside world. But on day two, there’s no stopping Kennedy.

She storms through the hospital corridor like she owns the place, her blonde hair swinging and heels clicking way too loud for a maternity ward. The nurse at the desk tries to shush her, but Kennedy just smiles sweetly, waving them off like rules don’t apply to her.

“There she is!” she half-shouts when she spots me slouching in a wheelchair. “My best girl, my warrior mama!”

I groan, covering my face with both hands. “Kennedy …”

But she’s already at my side, throwing her arms around me in a careful hug that somehow still manages to rattle my sore ribs. When she pulls back, her eyes are glassy. “Let me see my niece. Now.”

Easton pinches the bridge of his nose but doesn’t argue. There’s no winning against Kennedy. He wheels me down the hall, Kennedy bouncing alongside us, chattering nervously about how she stopped at a baby boutique on the way over and bought half the store.

When we reach Quinn’s isolette, Kennedy freezes. Her hands fly to her mouth, and for the first time all morning, she goes silent. She leans in close, her breath fogging the glass.

“She’s so tiny,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Oh my God, Harls. She’s beautiful.”

Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them.

Kennedy taps lightly on the glass, ignoring the nurse’s warning glare. “Hi, Quinn. I’m your Aunt Kennedy, and I promise you, the second they let me, I’m going to spoil you rotten. Glitter, bows, sequins, all the things your mom hates. Just wait.”