Her eyes warm to the amber hue I love.
Later, when the noise has faded and the city hums quietly below us, we return to the penthouse.
Lucy is tired in that deep, satisfying way that follows joy. She kicks off her shoes, sighs, and leans against the counter while I pour her a glass of water.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says carefully, “How are you feeling about the baby.”
I turn. “You deserved it.”
She smiles, and I move closer. "I am terrified and so excited it's almost painful. But I am so happy and lucky to get to experience it all with you."
Lucy's smile is blinding, and I clutch at my chest to try and stop my heart from bursting out of me. She steps into my arms, and we slowly start to move as one, swaying in each other's arms, a perfect way to end the day.
Later, after Lucy has fallen asleep, I remain awake.
The city glows beyond the windows, distant and small. Lucy lies curled against my side, one hand resting unconsciously over her belly.
I place my palm there gently, reverently.
“I didn’t know how to be loved,” I whisper into the quiet. “But she taught me.”
I pause, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
“I promise you something,” I continue softly. “I will choose you every day. Both of you. Even when I’m afraid. Especially when I’m afraid.”
Lucy shifts, murmuring in her sleep, and I smile.
For the first time in my life, the future doesn’t feel like a cold.
It feels like home.
Epilogue 2 - Lucy
Two a.m. has a sound.
It’s not just the baby crying, though that’s part of it; it’s the hum of the city beyond the glass, alive with the joy only summer can bring. It’s the low whirr of the monitor on the nightstand. It’s the faint rush of blood in my own ears as my body reacts before my mind catches up.
Instinct yanks me awake so fast my heart stutters.
I’m already pushing myself upright, already turning toward the bassinet, already reaching...
And then I realize…
Julian isn’t beside me.
“I’ve got her.” his voice is a low rumble.
I blink, sitting up fully now, and there he is.
Barefoot. Sweatpants. His chest is bare. Hair mussed. Stubble real, not curated. Our daughter tucked against his chest like she belongs there, which she does. Her mouth is open in a furious, betrayed wail that makes my whole-body ache with that fierce, irrational need to fix.
Julian rocks without thinking, a slow rhythm that matches the one he uses on the days she fights naps. He doesn’t look frantic. He doesn’t look unsure.
He looks… present.
“I was already awake,” he adds, like he’s explaining something practical. Like my nervous system isn’t a live wire, he’s learned how to hold gently.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, moving quietly into the bathroom before I feed her.
