bonus chapter(3/4)
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The first leaves had begun to fall.
Not in great rustling heaps yet, but in quiet, golden flutters—scattered like secrets across their driveway and along the edge of the front porch. Eliza noticed it as she stepped outside with her coffee that morning, Lyra snug in her wrap, already dozing against her chest. The air held that crisp edge now, the kind that lingered on your skin long after the sun came up.
She inhaled deeply, letting it fill her lungs. September. Already.
Behind her, the house was still sleepy. Will had taken the early morning bottle shift, and after coaxing Lyra back into a brief nap, Eliza had offered to carry her for a while so he could rest. But the truth was—she liked these quiet pockets of time. The world slowed down. Her thoughts were her own again.
And fall had always felt like a beginning, not an end.
By midday, the three of them were curled up on the living room floor. Lyra was on her belly, determinedly reaching for her wooden ring toy, squealing with concentration. Will lay beside her, chin in hand, narrating her every move like a sports announcer.
"Eliza, I swear—this kid has the drive of a CEO. We should be terrified."
"She is the daughter of two CEOs," Eliza quipped from the couch, her lips tugging into a smile.
Will looked up at her with that boyish expression she still wasn't immune to. "You're the real one. I'm just the lucky husband who gets to raise her with you."
She rolled her eyes, but it was all affection. "You're the one who built the nursery without instructions."
"And you're the one who built an empire from a folded note and a second-hand briefcase," he replied, his voice softer now.
The room stilled for a moment.
Eliza stood and crossed to him, kneeling beside their daughter. Lyra gurgled happily as her fingers finally closed around her toy. But Eliza's gaze was on Will.
"Do you ever just look at her and think… we almost didn't get this?" she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "All the time."
The words weren't heavy with regret, only reverence.
Later that evening, after Lyra had gone down for the night and the stars hung low and sharp over their backyard, Will lit a fire in the hearth. It was one of those indulgent things—something they never had time for when life was spinning. But tonight, the house felt like it wanted to breathe. And so did they.
They sat together on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, sipping cider and listening to nothing but the crackle of wood and the occasional sigh of the wind outside.
"You okay?" Will asked after a while, brushing his thumb along the inside of her wrist.
Eliza leaned into him. "Yeah. I think I'm learning how to be."
"To be what?"
"To be soft," she said. "To be still."
Will pressed a kiss to her temple. "You've always been both. You just never gave yourself permission."
She didn't answer for a moment.
And then, with a small smile, she reached for his hand and interlaced their fingers.
"I do now."
The fire burned lower. Outside, the trees rustled like they were whispering lullabies. Inside, in the stillness that came from peace rather than exhaustion, Eliza and Will sat shoulder to shoulder—two people who had fought to keep their hearts open, and were finally, finally starting to see what it looked like to live wide and unafraid.