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“He’ll be fine. Go do what you do best.”

Wes is still standing off to the side, silent, hands tucked in his pockets. Violet is awake now, fussing in Abby’s arms, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists.

“She’s teething,” Abby murmurs, bouncing her gently. “Third night in a row.”

“Want me to grab the cooling ring?” Beckett offers.

I watch them for a moment—this little scene of cozy chaos. The kind of love that doesn’t leave. The kind that stays through teething and night shifts and power outages.

And I realize, painfully, that I thought Wes and I would have this too.

He finally moves closer, just enough to be within earshot. “Quinn…”

I hold up a hand. “Don’t. Not tonight.”

He nods, but there’s something in his expression, regret maybe. Or just resignation.

Abby touches my arm again. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie.

Wes opens his mouth. Then closes it again. I see the words trying to form—the apology, the regret, maybe even something closer to hope—but they never come.

I meet his gaze for one long second. Then I break it.

“Don’t wait on me,” I say to no one in particular. “I’ve got everything I need.”

I don’t mean the hospital shift.

And I don’t look back.

Outside, the wind has picked up. I walk to my car without a jacket, letting the cold sting my skin. It reminds me I’m still here. Still standing.

Inside the car, I sit for a second, gripping the steering wheel like it can hold me steady. My phone buzzes again—another update from the hospital.

Work is calling. Life is calling. The kind of chaos I know how to handle.

But Wes? Wes is a storm I never learned to weather. And right now, I’m not sure I want to try.

Chapter four

Wes

I watch Quinn walk out the front door like she’s closing a chapter she already burned. No hesitation. No backward glance. Just the scrape of her shoes on the porch steps and the slam of her car door.

I move to the window. Her taillights glow red as she pulls out of the driveway and disappears down the road. And I stand there—useless—wondering how I ever thought leaving her behind the first time was some kind of mercy.

“She didn’t want a ride?” Beckett asks from the doorway, carrying Violet in the crook of one arm. The baby has settled, her tiny fingers curled around the collar of his hoodie.

I shake my head. “She was clear.”

Beckett makes a face. “Oof.”

“She barely looked at me.”

“She looked, man,” he says. “You just didn’t see it.”

Abby appears beside him, rubbing her eyes. “You boys need to stop pretending this is a game. She’s not going to wait around forever while you figure out your strategy.”