Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
EASTON
Eight Weeks Later
A lot has happened in the last couple of weeks, so much so, in fact, that it feels impossible to keep up.
It’s been eight weeks since I was released from jail.
Eight weeks since Quinn entered the world too soon, her tiny body swallowed by tubes and wires, machines breathing for her when she couldn’t.
Eight weeks since I thought I might lose not only my daughter but the woman I love in the same breath.
Eight weeks since I held Harley under the shower while she sobbed into my chest, her body trembling against mine like she might shatter if I let go.
In those eight weeks, I learned what it meant to be terrified of every waking moment, yet still move anyway. I learned that strength wasn’t about fists or anger or survival; it was about pushing forward when fear clawed at your throat. Because someone needed you.
Quinn needed me .
Harley needed me .
I find them in the nursery, like always.
The apartment is quiet except for the faint creak of the rocking chair and Quinn’s soft breaths against Harley’s chest. The lamp in the corner throws a golden glow across the room, turning Harley’s hair into something almost halo-like.
Six weeks ago, Harley couldn’t look at Quinn without crying.
She’d whispered that she wasn’t a mother, that she was broken, that Quinn deserved better.
But now? Now she sits steadily in the chair, humming some lullaby I don’t recognize, as her palm cups our daughter’s head with a confidence that wasn’t there before.
Her eyes are heavy, ringed with dark circles, as Quinn suckles softly.
The floorboards creak beneath my weight, and Quinn stirs, letting out a soft little whimper. Harley shifts instantly, adjusting her until she quiets again. The whole motion is instinctive, natural, and it damn near floors me.
I lean against the doorframe, just watching. Harley looks up, her two different colored eyes meet mine, brows drawing in confusion.
I step into the room and press a kiss to the top of Harley’s head, then brush a fingertip across Quinn’s tiny fist. She sighs, curling her fingers tight around mine.
“Get some rest,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I can get her to bed.”
Harley shakes her head, her eyes locked on Quinn’s tiny features. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”
“I know you do,” I say gently, crouching beside the chair so we’re eye to eye. “But we agreed to take turns. I’ve got the 3:00 a.m. shift, and you’ve got the six.”
Her lips curve into the faintest smile, though her eyes are glassy with fatigue. “You’re really keeping track?”
“Damn right I am.” I press a kiss to Quinn’s forehead, then to Harley’s temple. “You need sleep too, Little Bird. She needs both of us steady, not running on fumes.”
Harley sighs, her grip tightening around our daughter for a second before she finally nods. Carefully, she transfers Quinn into my arms. I feel the weight of her, light as a bundle of blankets, yet solid in ways that still stun me.
Harley brushes her hand over Quinn’s head one last time, her voice barely a whisper. “Goodnight, baby girl. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She pushes herself up, slow and stiff, wincing just a little as her body still reminds her that she isn’t fully healed. I watch her shuffle toward the bedroom, pride swelling in my chest even through the ache of exhaustion. She’s worn, scarred, but getting stronger every day.
I’m so grateful those baby blues didn’t turned into postpartum depression. The doctor warned me it could happen, and the thought alone scared me. But Harley pulled through, once she knew beyond doubt that our little girl was a fighter. That she would be ok.
Quinn stirs, tiny fists brushing against my chest, and I rock her gently. When I glance back, Harley’s standing in the doorway, watching us.
“You’re a good dad, Easton,” she whispers.
Before I can answer, she disappears into the bedroom, leaving me with our daughter and a heart so full I don’t know how it’s still beating.