Three weeks felt like three months.
Maybe three years.
Time inside a hospital was strange like that — always bright, always humming, always tasting faintly of metal and disinfectant.
But the day we were finally discharged?
It felt like sunlight after a storm that should've drowned us.
I stood by the window of our hospital room, holding my daughter against my chest, breathing in her scent. Soft, sweet, milky. Like powdered heaven. She made these tiny noises—half sigh, half squeak—and every sound melted me a little more.
She was stronger now.
No more tubes.
No more constant alarms.
Just her tiny fingers curled over my shirt like she never wanted to let go.
"Ready?" Jace asked quietly from behind me.
I didn't turn around immediately. I was staring out at the parking lot, watching our security team check and re-check everything for the tenth time. I'd never seen grown men so stressed in broad daylight.
"I've been ready since the second they removed her final monitor," I said.
