Page 60 of Glass Wings

“Harley … you’re not ready.”

Her expression cracks instantly, like glass splintering. “Not ready?” she whispers, voice sharp with hurt. “I’ve been waiting, Easton. The doctor said it was okay, she said it would be good for us. And now you don’t want me? Is it because I haven’t lost all the weight?”

The words are soft and broken as they fall from her lips, like each one hurts to say out loud.

“That’s not it,” I say quickly, my chest tight. “I want you, more than anything. But I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to feel like I only see your body, not after everything you’ve been through.”

Tears well in her eyes. “So, you don’t love my body anymore.”

Her words cut deeper than any sentence a judge could hand down.

I reach for her, desperate, but she steps back, arms crossed tight over herself like she needs to disappear. Her shoulders curl inward, her chin drops like she’s trying to fold in on herself.

“Harley …” My voice cracks as I say her name. I hate how small she looks, hated that somehow my love hasn’t been enough to shield her from this.

“You used to look at me like you couldn’t breathe without me,” she says, voice trembling. “Now you look at me like I’m fragile glass. Like I’ll break if you touch me. Maybe I already have.”

My throat burns. “You’re not broken, Little Bird. You’re the strongest person I know. You gave me a daughter. You survived what should’ve crushed you.”

“But you don’t want me.” The way she whispers it is worse than if she had screamed.

I close the distance slowly, terrified she’d bolt if I move too quickly, and cup her face in my hands. Her tears smear against my thumbs, her eyes shining and wounded. “I do want you. I love your body. I love you. Every mark, every scar, every part of you. But this isn’t about me. This is about making sure you feel loved, not used. I need you to trust that when we get there again, it’ll be right. Not rushed. Not just because a doctor signed off on it.”

Her chest hitches, and for a moment, she just stares at me, her bottom lip trembling. Then she breaks, collapsing against me and sobbing into my shirt.

I hold her as tightly as I dare, whispering into her hair, “I love you. Always. Even when you don’t love yourself.”

But deep down, I wonder if I just made things worse.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Thirty

EASTON

Quinn is six months old already.

She isn’t fragile anymore. She’s sturdy in my arms, her head steady, and her laugh bubbling out whenever I make a fool of myself with ridiculous faces. She kicks hard enough to bruise if I’m not careful, grabs fistfuls of my hair, and tries to gum anything that gets too close to her mouth.

Harley is different, too. The shadows under her eyes haven’t vanished, but there is a light in them now. She’s bonded with Quinn in a way that used to feel impossible in those early NICU days. Sometimes I’ll walk into the nursery and just stop because the sight of Harley holding our daughter, completely at peace, is enough to undo me.

She quit her job at the paper a month ago. I know how much she hated giving up a piece of herself like that, but therapy has helped her see it wasn’t failure. Just a new chapter. I stepped in as the sole provider, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a burden. My parents even adjusted my work hours with half days, so I can be at home more. For a man who spent years completely certain no one would lift a finger for him, their support still knocks me sideways.

Kennedy is still living with us, and for all her chaos, I have to admit she’s become part of the rhythm of our days. She never comes home empty-handed, always lugging in bags of baby clothes Quinn will outgrow in a month or toys she doesn’t need but loves anyway. She calls herself “Auntie Ken” and can get Quinn belly-laughing with her ridiculous voices faster than anyone else.

Sometimes she drives me nuts, cluttering the counters with half-drunk iced coffees and leaving her TikTok ring light in the living room. But truth is, she carved a place in our little family … and I can’t imagine giving her up.

And me? I made a promise months ago to never let Harley doubt she was enough for me, for anyone, ever again.

And I’ve kept it.

I walk into the apartment with a bandage still fresh over my shoulder. Harley is bouncing Quinn on her hip, humming softly. When she looks up, her brows furrow.

“What happened?”

I grin, pulling the sleeve of my shirt up just enough to reveal the ink. It stretches over my shoulder and down onto my bicep, the lines clean and sharp, but soft where they need to be. At the very top, just over the curve of my shoulder, a hummingbird hovers, wings outstretched like it’s been caught mid-flight, and angled downward as if watching over what lies beneath. A bouquet. It flows down my upper arm, just one stem, tall and proud. A marigold, Quinn’s birth flower. Its petals fan open delicately, carved in fine black and grey detail, strong yet fragile all at once. Just like my little girl.

I left space around it, empty stems waiting to be filled. Room for more blooms if life gives us more children. A family that will grow down my arm, one flower at a time, each one tied together by the same roots.