The hallway to the NICU was quiet in a way that felt sacred, as if sound itself softened out of respect for the tiny lives behind the glass doors. Willow's transport chair moved slowly, guided by two nurses who kept their hands steady on the rails. Zane walked beside her right shoulder, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the way he kept glancing down to make sure she wasn't fading. Victor stayed on her left, posture straight, expression composed — but his fingers trembled once against his thigh before he curled them into a fist.
Willow tried to breathe normally, but her breaths kept stumbling. Every jolt, every shift of the chair tugged at her incision. Pain bloomed low in her abdomen, sharp at first, then settling into a dull, dragging ache. She closed her eyes briefly, fighting the wave of dizziness threatening to pull her under.
"Slow breaths," one nurse murmured. "We're almost there."
