Page 27 of Wraith’s Promise

Quinn's door is at the end of the hall. I can see light underneath it, which means she's still awake. Good. That makes this slightly less insane.

I'm halfway there when I hear it, a sound so quiet I almost miss it, so unexpected it stops me in my tracks.

Crying.

Not loud, not hysterical, but definitely crying. The kind of quiet, broken crying someone does when they're trying very hard not to be heard, when they're hurting and don't want anyone to know.

My hand is raised to knock before I consciously decide to do it, some instinct overriding the part of my brain that says maybe she wants privacy, maybe this is none of my business.

But it is my business. She's in my house, under my protection. Not just employed by me but part of my family now whether she planned for that or not.

I knock softly. "Quinn? Can I come in?"

Immediate silence. Then rustling sounds, like she's moving quickly, probably trying to compose herself. "Um. Just a second."

I wait, giving her time, but I'm not leaving. Not now.

The door opens after about thirty seconds. Quinn stands in the doorway wearing the same sweatpants and t-shirt from earlier, her hair loose from the braids now and falling around her shoulders, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She's trying to look normal, composed, like I didn't just hear her crying.

"Hey," she says, and her voice is almost steady. "What's up?"

"I heard you crying."

"I wasn't—" She stops, seeing my expression. "Okay. Maybe a little. It's nothing, really. Just a long day catching up with me."

"Can I come in?" I ask again, gentler this time.

She hesitates for just a second, then steps back, opening the door wider. "Sure."

I enter her room: the guest room that I prepared for her but which already feels like hers, already has small touches of her personality scattered around. Her floral bag is on the dresser. A framed photo of her and Ranger, both of them younger and in uniform. A pair of yellow socks with bees on them draped over the back of the chair.

Quinn sits on the edge of the bed, and I take the chair, giving her space, letting her control the distance between us.

"You don't have to tell me," I say. "But if you want to talk about what's wrong, I'm here."

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing something, deciding how much truth to hand me. "It might make you see me differently."

"It won't."

"You don't know that."

"Quinn." I lean forward, elbows on my knees, meeting her eyes directly. "Nothing you tell me right now is going to change what I see when I look at you. Nothing."

Her eyes fill with tears again, and she blinks rapidly, trying to keep them from falling. "You say that now."

"I mean it."

She takes a shaky breath, wraps her arms around herself like she's trying to hold something together that wants to break apart. "I can't have children, Dean. Medically, permanently, nothing to be done about it. I found out four years ago and it broke something in me I'm still trying to fix."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm so sorry, Quinn."

"It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. Just medical reality." She laughs, but it's bitter, broken. "I spent months after the diagnosis being angry, you know? At my body, at the universe, at every woman I saw with a baby who didn't seem to appreciate what they had. Then I was just... sad. For a long time. Still am, sometimes."

"Is that why you were crying? Tonight?"

She nods, fresh tears spilling over despite her obvious effort to hold them back. "Today in the kitchen with you and Mariah, making cookies and playing games and just being a family, it broke something in me and healed something at the same time. Broke me because I'll never have this for real, never have my own child to bake with, never be someone's mother the way I always thought I would be."

"Quinn—"