The house was still again.
The kind of stillness that only came after good company had gone — the plates rinsed, glasses set aside, laughter still gently clinging to the air like the last note of a favorite song.
Eliza leaned against the kitchen counter, barefoot, wearing one of Will's old shirts and leggings. Her hair was falling out of its clip, but she didn't fix it. Across the room, Will was dimming the lights, moving with the kind of practiced softness that only came from weeks of baby training.
"She's down?" Eliza asked softly.
He nodded. "Didn't even stir."
She smiled. "Show-off."
Will grinned, then crossed the space to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "You did good today. With everything. With everyone."
"You made muffins for an army," she murmured, resting her hands over his. "I think you're the real MVP."
He kissed her shoulder, slow and deliberate. "You're the reason they came. The reason they stayed. You are the heart of this house, Eliza."
She turned in his arms at that, studying his face. The faint crease between his brows — softer now. His eyes still ringed with exhaustion, but warmer. Less haunted by the early, sleep-deprived nights.
"I don't know who I am right now," she confessed suddenly. "I mean… I know I'm her mother. And I love her. God, I love her so much it terrifies me. But I still feel like… like I'm floating somewhere between who I was and who I'm supposed to be."
Will didn't rush to answer. He simply took her hand and guided her toward the couch.
They sat in silence for a while — his arm over her shoulders, her cheek against his chest. The quiet wasn't empty. It was shared.
"I think," Will said finally, "you're not supposed to become anyone else. You're just… expanding. Stretching into new parts of yourself. That doesn't mean you've lost anything. It just means there's more of you now."
Eliza let the words settle into her chest, heavier than she expected. They didn't fix everything. But they made the ache a little less sharp.
"I was scared I'd disappear in this," she whispered.
"You won't," he said. "I won't let you."
She looked up at him — and the certainty in his voice caught her breath. Not because it was dramatic or grand. But because it was simple. Steady. True.
He kissed her then — the kind of kiss that didn't try to pull passion from exhaustion but found love in the quiet instead. The kind that said we're still us.
They didn't speak much more after that. She curled into him and he pulled a blanket over them. Somewhere in the nursery, the white noise machine hummed.
And in the hush of their home, Will and Eliza stayed there — two people who had grown softer, stronger, and more deeply intertwined than they ever expected.
Not just parents.
Not just partners.
But people who had chosen this love again and again — even in the quiet after everyone.