Chapter 63 – “All the Ways We’re Learning”

Will had never burned eggs in his life. Until now.

The smoke alarm screeched overhead, Eliza's laughter echoing off the kitchen walls as he scrambled to wave a dish towel under the sensor and curse under his breath.

"Don't you dare say a word," he growled, glaring over his shoulder at her smug expression.

"I wasn't going to," she said innocently from the stool by the kitchen island, one hand resting idly on her belly, the other cradling a glass of orange juice. "I was just wondering if you were trying to smoke the baby out."

He shot her a look, tossed the towel aside, and retrieved the now-charcoal omelet from the pan.

"Lesson learned," he muttered. "No multitasking while talking to tiny feet."

Eliza smiled, eyes soft. "She likes your voice. I think that's what got her excited."

He sat beside her, setting down a plate with a hastily salvaged croissant and a smear of raspberry jam. "She already likes you better."

"Well, she's living rent-free inside me. That earns me points."

They ate in companionable silence, elbows brushing, the morning sun drenching their kitchen in a lazy gold. The new house still had that scent of paint and polished wood, but their life—slowly—was beginning to settle in the cracks.

Pictures had gone up. The nursery was half-finished, the names list still taped to the fridge with post-it notes scribbled in handwriting that didn't match. The couch had more blankets than pillows now, and Will's coffee mugs kept showing up in the strangest places.

This wasn't perfection. It was learning.

Learning how to walk around each other at 3 a.m. when the baby wouldn't stop kicking.

Learning that Eliza had bizarre cravings for grilled cheese dipped in hot sauce.

Learning that Will had downloaded every baby sleep playlist on Spotify "just in case" and tested each one like a researcher.

It was discovering new corners of each other—how she got quiet when overwhelmed, how he cleaned when anxious.

How they fought. How they apologized.

How they kept choosing each other, over and over.

—

That afternoon, she caught him in the nursery, alone, running his hand along the edge of the crib he'd assembled two days ago. The mobile hung above it, slowly spinning: moons, stars, clouds stitched in soft felt.

He didn't hear her come in.

"You okay?" she asked gently.

Will turned, a little sheepish. "I was just... thinking. About what it means. To be someone's father."

She moved closer, slipped her hand into his.

"I think it means showing up. Even when you're scared."

He nodded. "I just... I want to get it right. For you. For her."

Eliza stepped into his arms and kissed the center of his chest. "You already are."

—

That night, they curled into each other in bed, her head resting where his heart beat steady and calm.

"I read somewhere," she murmured, "that babies hear everything in the last trimester. Our voices. Our moods."

"Think she can feel us right now?"

She took his hand, placed it over her belly.

"She doesn't have to feel us. She knows us."

Will's throat bobbed.

They lay there in silence, no need to fill it. No need to rush.

Just learning.

Together.