Night in the maternity recovery wing was a strange thing.
It was not truly quiet. Machines hummed steadily, monitors beeped in soft rhythms, and nurses spoke in hushed voices as they moved through the hallway. Yet another kind of quiet settled over the floor, an emotional stillness that wrapped the space around Willow's bed like a dim cocoon.
The hours blurred together until time itself seemed to lose its edges. Night did not move forward so much as fold inward, pressing down on the room until everything felt slowed and intimate. Even the air felt heavier, thick with antiseptic, breath, and the quiet anticipation that lived in hospital corridors after midnight.
Zane stayed exactly where Willow had asked him to be.
He was not in the chair and he was not across the room.
He stood beside her bed with his forearms resting on the rail, his body angled toward hers as if his presence alone could shield her from every unseen threat.
