Page 54 of Glass Wings

Kennedy watches me for a long moment before whispering, “She’s really bad, isn’t she?”

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

Her eyes burn, but she nods. “Then we’ll keep showing up until she’s not.”

Kennedy warms up soup that my mom dropped off earlier and puts some show on that the two of them like to watch in an attempt to keep Harley’s mind occupied … but her gaze is unfocused, and she barely touches her food.

“Have you heard from the hospital?” Harley asks once Kennedy disappears into the kitchen, clattering dishes loud enough to give us a sliver of privacy.

“One of the nurses called,” I say. “Said Quinn’s doing really well.”

Harley nods slowly, like she’s afraid to let hope settle in too deep. Her eyelids droop, heavy with exhaustion. “Can you take me to bed?”

I slip an arm around her waist and help her up, feeling every tremor in her body as we shuffle down the hall. Each step is careful, her weight pressing into me easily. I hate how fragile she feels.

In the bedroom, she whispers something about needing the shower, and I hesitate before nodding. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

“I need you,” she whispers, her voice fragile yet steady enough to undo me. She reaches for my hand and tugs me with what little strength she has left into the bathroom.

The steam rises fast, fogging the mirror and curling around us like a shroud. She clutches the edge of the counter, breathing shallow, like every movement is excruciating. Pain drags across her face, and I want nothing more than to scoop her up and take it all from her.

“Easy,” I murmur, slipping an arm around her as she steps out of her clothes. Her incision is an angry line across skin I’ve always worshiped, and seeing it makes my chest burn.

When the water hits her shoulders, her body sags. She presses her forehead into my chest.

“It hurts,” she whispers, the words wavering.

“I know, baby,” I say, tightening my hold. “Lean on me. I wish I could take it away.”

She lets herself go slack against me, tears mingling with the water running down her cheeks. I brace us both against the tile, holding her upright and kissing the top of her wet hair while she sobs.

“You don’t have to be strong for me,” I whisper. “Not now. Not ever. Just let me carry you.”

She clutches me with trembling hands, and I stay rooted, letting the water wash over both of us until her sobs soften into small, broken breaths.

When she finally nods that she’s ready, I help her out, drying her gently, careful not to pull at the bandage. She shivers when the cool air hits, so I wrap her in a towel.

“Almost done. Let’s get you clean and warm,” I murmur.

I redress her wound the way the nurse showed me, hands steadier this time, although my heart twists at every flinch. When it’s finished, I help her into a loose shirt and guide her into bed, tucking the blanket snug around her.

Her eyes are heavy, but she reaches for my hand. “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” I promise, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before settling in beside her.

And for the first time since Quinn was born, Harley sleeps without crying.

The next morning comes too fast. Harley stirs when I help her out of bed, wincing when she straightens. She’s quiet as I ease her into some clothes and button her coat, her silence heavy with everything she refuses to say out loud.

We don’t talk much on the drive to the hospital. Harley stares out the window, eyes fixed somewhere far away, while I grip the wheel and try to keep my mind from spinning. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional sharp breath she takes when a bump in the road jars her incision.

When we walk into the NICU, the familiar beeping and soft shuffling of nurses wrap around us. Harley’s fingers tighten around mine as we approach Quinn’s isolette.

She’s still so damn small, but when I look at the monitors, I notice the numbers are steadier than yesterday. Her tiny chest rises and falls, fragile but strong, and something in me cracks wide open.

“Morning, baby girl,” I whisper, crouching down so my face is level with the glass. My hand presses against it, as if I can reach through and touch her. Beside me, Harley’s tears spill silently down her cheeks. She leans forward and presses her forehead to the glass.

“She looks stronger,” she says, her voice trembling with what I can only guess is hope and fear tangled together.