Chapter 64 – “A Glimpse of Tomorrow”

The knock on the door came just after noon.

Will opened it to find Ava standing on the porch, sunglasses perched on her head, one hand balancing a sleek box wrapped in silver paper.

"Don't get excited," she said dryly. "It's not scotch or caviar. It's better."

Will arched a brow. "You brought gifts?"

"I brought insurance," she said, stepping inside. "Because I remember how Eliza gets when she's nesting. This," she handed him the box, "might prevent bloodshed."

Eliza appeared in the hallway, her eyes lighting up when she saw her. "Ava!"

The two women hugged—careful of Eliza's belly—before Ava gestured to the box. "It's for the nursery. Something I wish I'd had before I became a godmother."

Will blinked. "Wait, did you just—"

"Don't make a big deal out of it," she warned. "I figured you'd ask eventually. Consider this my way of saying yes in advance."

Eliza looked stunned. "You'd really do that?"

"Someone's got to teach her sarcasm."

Will coughed into his fist. "That's my job."

Ava shrugged. "Then I guess we'll co-parent the wit."

They laughed, and Eliza opened the box. Inside was a handmade memory journal—soft linen cover, blank pages bordered in delicate sketches of animals and constellations.

"Eliza," she whispered, "it's beautiful."

"I figured you'd want to write her a different story than the one you came from," Ava said. "Something that's yours. Just yours."

Eliza's throat tightened. She set the journal down gently, like it was something sacred.

"Thank you."

—

Later that evening, the house quiet again, Will sat on the nursery floor beside her.

The new glider chair had arrived that morning, and he'd finally assembled it with far fewer curses than usual. Eliza was testing it out now, legs curled beneath her, one hand absently stroking her belly.

He looked around at the room, now nearly complete. Soft curtains. Painted walls in gentle sage. The crib. The changing table. The lamp shaped like a little moon.

They had built something.

They had become something.

She caught him staring and smiled. "What?"

"I keep thinking," he said, "about what we'll tell her when she asks how we knew we were ready."

Eliza considered. "What would you say?"

He leaned forward, rested his chin on her knee. "That we weren't. Not really. But we were willing. And we were together."

She nodded. "And that's enough."

They sat like that for a while, the soft hum of the evening settling around them, until Will murmured, "I want to show her everything."

"Like what?"

"The places we've loved. The mistakes we've made. The way your hand feels in mine when you're scared and still choosing to stay."

Her eyes glistened. "She's going to be so loved, Will."

"I know. Because she's half you."

Eliza leaned down and kissed him, slow and certain. A promise, not just to him, but to the life they were building—one piece at a time.

A glimpse of tomorrow.

And it looked like forever.