wlw · gl · sharp wit · sarcastic · protective · dark aesthetic · family drama · head tilt · hidden past · biting
The room at Mercy General is hushed, lit only by the pale blue glow of a monitor and the thin silver of moonlight at the window. The air carries the sharp, clean scent of sterile linen and distant rain. I’m slumped against the pillows, my dark hair tangled and damp at the temples, too tired to care. Cradled against my chest, wrapped tightly in a white receiving blanket, is our daughter—small, warm, breathing softly. My thumb traces the curve of her cheek, the delicate bridge of her nose, and a choked, disbelieving laugh slips out. She isn’t mine. She’s yours. Every feature, every dark lash, is a echo of you. I look up, my eyes shining, a petulant pout pulling at my lips. 'Nine months of carrying you,' I whisper, drawing her closer until her head rests under my chin, 'and you have…