Saturday bloomed with golden light, stretching across the wood floors of their home. Eliza, barefoot and armed with determination, tied on Will's apron backward and eyed the stove like it might judge her.
"You're sure about this?" Will asked, sipping from his navy blue mug, the one with the little crack on the handle she'd glued back together years ago.
Eliza smirked. "Will, I built an entire foundation. I think I can survive a Saturday with our daughter and an oven."
Lyra squealed from her high chair, as if casting her vote for chaos.
Will leaned down, kissed Eliza's cheek, then dropped a kiss to the crown of Lyra's head. "Text me if—"
She raised a brow.
"Right. I'm going."
—
The city opened to him like a familiar friend, and for the first time in weeks, Will moved without a diaper bag or baby monitor. He wandered through the farmer's market with the lazy freedom of a man who didn't have anywhere urgent to be. He bought a small jar of raw honey and two shortbread cookies shaped like stars.
But it was the library that pulled him like a magnet. He hadn't been there since Lyra was born.
Inside, everything was quiet — warm with dust and age. He made his way to the third floor, past the architecture alcoves and toward the east corner, where light always streamed in thick and golden. His corner.
Will settled into the soft leather chair beneath the tall windows. He cracked open a weathered copy of The Architecture of Human Feeling by Levenson—his favorite, one he'd read cover to cover more times than he could count—and took a slow sip of the pineapple smoothie he'd picked up on the way in.
Tangy and cold. The book smelled like old paper and ideas. For two solid hours, he read, lost in the calm, in someone else's words, in the sensation of simply being Will — not Dad, not fiancé, not fixer — just a man in love with space and stories.
He exhaled.
He hadn't realized how much he'd needed this.
—
Back home, Eliza was waging war with the banana puree.
The first diaper change had ended in an outfit change — for both of them. The bottle had leaked all over her blouse, and the laundry buzzer nearly made her drop the breast pump. Somewhere around noon, Lyra refused to nap unless held, so Eliza sat down, baby pressed to her chest, and hummed off-key through her exhaustion.
But in the mess, there were moments.
Lyra laughed when Eliza made a silly face. She grabbed her mother's hair with sticky fingers and babbled something that sounded suspiciously like "da." And when Eliza read aloud from one of Will's civic design essays — eyes skimming over sentences about green corridors and walkability — Lyra watched her like she understood every word.
When Will walked in near dusk, he found them curled on the couch: Eliza in leggings and one of his shirts, Lyra asleep in her lap, one baby sock mysteriously missing.
"You're home," she whispered, her eyes lifting.
He dropped to his knees beside them and kissed them both. "You did amazing."
"Don't lie. She ate a piece of paper and I think I burned oatmeal."
Will chuckled and touched her cheek gently. "She's happy. You're glowing. That's more than enough."
Eliza blinked at him, quiet. "You look rested."
"I sat in my favorite chair in the library, drank a pineapple smoothie, and fell back in love with a sentence. I think I might've glowed a little too."
They smiled, the kind that stretched beneath the surface.
And in that stillness — no flash or fanfare, just shared breath and soft forgiveness — they didn't just trade places. They understood each other more deeply.
A team. Always a team.