These two chapters are a bonus to celebrate the new collection received , and I will stand by my word and release two extra chapters for each new collection received 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳
Bonus Chapter(1/2)
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Spring arrived slowly in the city, but in their home, it had already taken root.
It showed in the way Eliza stood at the edge of the nursery doorway, barefoot, a cup of lukewarm tea in her hand, watching Will hum off-key while changing Lyra's diaper one-handed. The baby giggled—giggled—as if he were telling the greatest joke in the world.
"You were supposed to be crying," Eliza murmured under her breath, a teasing pout forming on her lips.
Will didn't even look up. "She likes when I talk about stock market crashes. It's soothing."
Eliza rolled her eyes. "Great. Our daughter's first words will be 'diversify your portfolio.'"
Lyra cooed in agreement.
They were in week three of life with a newborn. Sleep came in fractured bursts. The house was littered with soft muslin cloths, empty bottles, and piles of tiny, clean clothes that no one ever seemed to have the energy to fold. And still—it was perfect.
Because somewhere in that chaos, something had shifted. They were no longer two people learning how to love each other.
They were three, learning how to be a family.
—
Later that afternoon, Will tiptoed into the living room with Lyra tucked carefully against his chest in her favorite wrap sling. She'd fallen asleep in seconds—something she did with alarming ease when he was the one holding her. His heartbeat seemed to lull her like nothing else.
Eliza was curled up on the couch, hair messy, hoodie soft and oversized. She looked up from her book as he entered and immediately narrowed her eyes.
"She's asleep again?"
Will shrugged with a grin. "I have the magic touch."
Eliza scoffed, but there was a softness behind it. "Of course you do. She doesn't even cry when you try to burp her."
"That's because I sing Sinatra in the process."
"You're ruining her taste in music already."
He settled down beside her, lowering himself slowly so Lyra wouldn't stir. For a moment, they just sat there—quiet, warm, completely present. Will's arm found Eliza's shoulder instinctively.
"She's going to grow up thinking I'm the boring one," Eliza said after a moment, voice quieter now. "You're the fun one. The one she always wants to nap on. The one she'll crawl toward first."
Will glanced down at the top of Lyra's tiny head and then at the expression Eliza tried—and failed—to hide.
"You're jealous," he whispered, teasing.
"Shut up," she muttered, blushing faintly. "I'm not—okay, maybe a little."
He smiled into her hair. "She'll break both of our hearts eventually. It's what daughters do."
Eliza huffed. "Can she wait until she can sit up first?"
Will kissed her temple. "She'll always want you more. You're her home. I'm just the bouncy entertainment until she realizes you're the reason she feels safe."
Eliza went quiet at that, blinking quickly before looking away.
"I don't always feel like the safe one."
"You don't have to feel it," he said gently. "You already are."
—
That night, when Lyra woke crying at 3:12 a.m., Eliza didn't move.
Not because she didn't want to, but because she physically couldn't. Her body felt leaden. Her limbs were heavy from a week of broken sleep and long days of soft lullabies and sore arms and emotional whiplash.
Will was already up, already padding toward the crib with practiced ease.
She watched him in the moonlight, cradling their daughter, whispering soft words she couldn't hear. His body was loose, tired, but his expression... his expression made her breath catch.
He looked like a man who had everything.
And in that moment, despite the envy curling softly around her chest, Eliza felt something else, too—something bigger than exhaustion or postpartum confusion or even the identity shift that had consumed her over the last few weeks.
She felt safe.
Not just for Lyra. For herself.
This was the man who'd once handed her the sharpest pieces of himself and dared her to stay.
Now he was here—rocking their child, crooning lullabies off-key, loving their daughter so well that it almost broke her in half.
—
The next morning, Eliza woke before both of them.
She tiptoed past their room and into the nursery. Will was in the glider, head tilted back, Lyra asleep on his chest, both of them breathing in quiet, perfect synchrony.
Eliza didn't speak. Didn't reach for her phone. Just stood in the doorway again—watching the life she'd built, the man who'd loved her at her worst, the child who'd made her heart feel like it finally had a home.
The first bloom of spring had come not in flowers or sunlight.
But in this:A tired father holding a daughter who favored him.A mother learning to let go of being the one.A family growing in the softest of silences.