The first time she felt it, she nearly dropped the laundry basket.
A faint flutter—like a brush of wings just beneath her skin. Eliza froze mid-step, standing between the hallway and the nursery, holding a half-folded onesie in one hand and a pair of Will's socks in the other.
It wasn't gas. It wasn't indigestion. It wasn't imagination.
It was them.
The baby moved again, just the smallest ripple across her belly, as if confirming her realization.
She blinked once, slowly. Then set the basket down on the hallway floor and pressed both hands over her bump, barely daring to breathe.
In the quiet, it felt like the house had paused with her.
Will was upstairs, shower running, humming some half-forgotten song as steam drifted beneath the closed door. She should have called for him. But she didn't. Not yet.
This moment—this first—felt selfishly, wonderfully hers.
Just her, and the child she hadn't met yet. Not really. Not in the way that counted.
She sat down on the edge of the nursery rug, barefoot, the smell of lavender and fresh cotton in the air, and smiled at absolutely nothing.
"Hi," she whispered. "I felt you."
A second kick answered, not hard but deliberate.
"Oh," she laughed, breath catching. "So it's going to be like that, is it?"
—
By the time Will came down the stairs, toweling his hair and muttering something about the water pressure, he found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
"You okay?" he asked, instantly alert.
"I think..." she glanced up at him, her voice warm and reverent. "I just met our kid."
He froze, still clutching the towel, a drop of water sliding from his temple.
"She kicked?"
"She moved," Eliza said, and then nodded. "Then kicked. Then rolled. I think she's practicing yoga."
Will stared at her like she'd hung the stars. Then he dropped the towel, crossed the room in three strides, and knelt beside her. His hands hovered over her belly like he wasn't sure what was allowed.
"She stopped for now," Eliza said, gently taking his hands and guiding them to rest against her.
They waited.
Seconds passed.
Then—another flutter, softer than before but still real.
Will inhaled sharply. "That was... that was real."
She nodded. "They're here. Still inside me. But already... here."
—
That night, they stayed up late folding baby clothes on the bed, stacking little socks and hats like they were made of gold.
Will insisted on alphabetizing the books on the nursery shelf. Eliza vetoed that decision with a throw pillow to the face.
Later, they curled up on the couch, her head on his chest, both of them watching the rise and fall of her stomach beneath the worn cotton of her sleep shirt.
"She's already got opinions," Eliza murmured.
"She?"
Eliza blinked. "You really think it's not a girl?"
"I think she's going to have my eyebrows and your attitude," Will said. "God help us."
They both laughed.
And in the hush that followed, with the rain falling again outside and the smell of new furniture mingling with home-cooked pasta, Eliza realized something:
They were already parents.
Not because they had it all figured out. Not because they had a crib or diapers or a name.
But because they chose to love this child—even before the world gave her to them.