"Good girl," the nurse murmured, smiling.
The anaesthetist—the same calm, kind-eyed woman from earlier—approached with the smallest cannula they had, already primed while distracting Coral with wild tales of a warrior princess.
"Okay, sweetheart," she said gently, "we're going to do a tiny straw in your arm. You'll feel a little push, then nothing at all."
Fern held her breath as she watched. With a deft hand and a smooth slide, the cannula slid in on the first try.
Coral only flinched, a brief crease between her brows. As with most things, she didn't cry.
Fern kissed her forehead. "So brave, my darling," she whispered. "So brave. You are like a little Mulan."
Moments later, the anaesthetic started to flow. Coral blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering like tired butterfly wings. Her good hand twitched once, reaching blindly for Fern's.
Fern took it, squeezed, held on until her little fingers loosened.
Coral drifted off.
"Time to go, Mum," the nurse said softly, ushering her toward the door.
Fern didn't want to move, but Coral's breathing had settled into the even rhythm of sleep, her body finally relaxing.
The nurse kept talking, gently guiding Fern down the corridor, filling the air with soft chatter about the procedure, the recovery, and the tea she'd bring.
It must have taken half an hour, maybe less, but everything felt stretched and warped. Fern's head floated, all fuzzy and light, as if she'd left part of herself behind in that theatre room.
Back in the children's ward in their cubicle, she blinked at the sight waiting for her.
Harlan had pulled a chair to the window, his huge frame almost winning the battle against its spindly legs. He looked pale, almost grey under the lights, with deep shadows bruising the skin beneath his piercing blue eyes. It had been a long, exhausting drive from Manchester.
Across the room, Connor sat far from him near the bed, shoulders hunched, elbows on knees, head bowed. There were no visible bruises—whatever damage Harlan had done was hidden under Connor's clothes—but dark circles framed his eyes, telling the story of a sleepless night and regrets.
Both men looked wrecked in entirely different ways.
Fern wiped her face, and straightened her posture. "Papa," she said softly, "you need to go home and get some rest."
Harlan blinked up at her. "I'll get a hotel room."
"No." Fern shook her head. "There's your favourite lasagne in the freezer. Go home, eat, and sleep. Otherwise, your stomach will feel like a vortex all night."
He huffed a weary half-laugh. "Bossy little madam. Walk me out?"
Fern hesitated, briefly glancing at Connor before nodding.
She stepped out with her father, closing the door quietly behind her. Neither spoke at first as they walked down the corridor. It was only at the exit near the double doors leading to the parking lot that Harlan stopped.
He shifted on his feet, rubbing a hand over his bald head, looking uncomfortable. The lines on his face seemed sharper under the fluorescent lights. "Sunshine," he said quietly, "talk to him."
Fern opened her mouth to protest, but Harlan lifted a hand. "I'm not telling you to forgive him; I'm just telling you to hear him out properly before you end the whole damn thing. Even the worst villain deserves his day in court. You don’t want me whispering ‘I told you so’ in your ear for the rest of your life"
Fern swallowed hard.
"We're not ruled by anger," he said gently. "Not in the long run, anyway." He paused, then flashed a faint smirk, "Well... most of the time. Definitely not after the first few punches land."
A small, reluctant laugh escaped Fern.
Harlan cupped both her cheeks with rough, warm hands, forcing her to face him. He rubbed a callused thumb against her smooth cheek. "You're stronger than this moment. Don't let fear make your choices for you, little gremlin.” He said making her smile at the nickname. “Don't let it turn you into a victim and make you live with regrets."
He kissed her forehead and walked toward the exit.
