Epilogue Lila
MONTHS LATER
I wake up because someone is staring at me.
Not in the creepy way, not in the “you left a window open” way, but in the way that makes the air feel warm even before I open my eyes.
I blink once, then twice, and I find Ethan sitting in the chair by the bassinet, bare feet on the rug, shirt half-buttoned like he got dressed using pure vibes and rage.
He doesn’t look tired. He looks awake.
He looks like he’s been awake.
His gaze is fixed on the tiny bundle in the bassinet, and his expression is so focused it’s almost funny. I clear my throat. “Sir.”
He doesn’t move. “She breathed weird.”
I stare at him. “She’s a newborn.”
“She breathed weird,” he repeats, like I’m the one being unreasonable.
I push myself up slowly, because my body is still doing that postpartum thing where it thinks a simple movement is a group project.
The hospital room is quiet except for the soft hum of a machine and the occasional tiny snort from our daughter, who is currently making the face of someone unimpressed with the whole world.
I lean over the bassinet and check her. She’s fine. She’s pink and warm and sleepy, her lips pursed like she’s already judging our decisions.
“She’s fine,” I whisper.
Ethan finally looks at me, and the moment his eyes meet mine, something in his face changes. The hard lines soften, but the intensity stays. He stands, crosses to the bedside, and kisses my forehead like he’s counting me too.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod then exhale because that question still hits me in the chest. “I’m okay.”
He touches my cheek, thumb gentle, and I swear his control has a tender setting that only turns on for me and our daughter.
“Pain?” he asks, and it’s practical, because he’s Ethan and he treats feelings like they need a plan and a backup plan.
“Managed,” I say. “Sore, but managed.”
He nods once, then glances at the bassinet again, like he’s checking she didn’t teleport in the last ten seconds.
“I’m going to say this,” I tell him, “and I need you to take it seriously.”
His brows lift.
“You can blink,” I say. “She will still exist if you blink.”
His mouth twitches. “I blink.”
“You stared at her for forty minutes without moving.”
“That’s not accurate.”
“It’s extremely accurate.”
He leans in, kisses my mouth this time, slow and careful, then rests his forehead against mine. “She’s perfect.”
My throat tightens. I swallow it down because if I start crying again, I’m going to get dehydrated and dramatic, and I already did the dramatic part yesterday when I screamed at a nurse for offering me ice chips like they were a gift from God.
“She is,” I whisper. “I can’t believe she’s here.”
“She’s here,” he repeats, voice rougher than usual. “And you did that.”
I make a face. “We both did that.”
He gives me a look. “Don’t.”
I blink. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t try to split it into a negotiation,” he says, low and certain. “You carried her. You did the hard part.”
I want to argue, because I always argue, and because giving him credit is my coping mechanism for being scared of how much I love him, but then our daughter makes a tiny noise that sounds like a complaint, and Ethan turns so fast it’s like he’s been trained.
He’s standing over the bassinet again in two steps.
“She’s awake,” he says.
“She’s making a noise,” I correct, because she’s not awake, she’s just announcing her existence like a CEO.
Ethan looks at me over his shoulder. “What does it mean?”
I laugh, which hurts a little, and I press a hand to my stomach. “It means she’s a baby.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It means she’s hungry, or uncomfortable, or sleepy, or mad, or simply making sure we know she’s in charge.”
Ethan stares down at her again, then carefully, like he’s handling something priceless and also explosive, he slides his hands under her and lifts her out.
My breath catches anyway. It still does when he holds her.
He brings her against his chest, and she settles almost immediately. Her head rests under his collarbone like she’s known him longer than two days.
Ethan’s face changes again, and it’s subtle, but I see it. The fear is there, the kind that shows up when you realize love can be taken, so you start planning how to prevent it. He swallows, then rocks her gently.
“She likes you,” I tell him.
“She likes structure,” he says, dead serious.
I snort. “She’s two days old.”
He looks down at her. “I’m going to teach her early.”
“Teach her what? Corporate governance?”
He finally smiles, just a little. “Boundaries.”
I watch him for a second, then I shift in bed and tug the blanket higher. My phone buzzes on the tray table, and I grab it out of habit.
A message lights up from Ethan.
I stare at it, then look at him.
He’s still holding her. He’s still looking down at her like she’s the center of the universe.
My phone buzzes again.
I open the chat thread.
Ethan: Don’t laugh. She’s looking at me.
I glance at the bassinet, then at the baby in his arms, who is not looking at him. She is asleep.
I type back with one hand.
Me: She’s asleep. You’re being dramatic.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Ethan: I’m being aware.
I cover my mouth to hide my grin, because the nurse is about to walk in and I’m not trying to look like I’m texting my husband while he stands there holding our newborn like a bodyguard in a suit.
But I am.
The nurse knocks and enters, cheerful and quiet, and she asks how I’m doing. She checks the baby, compliments her, tells me she’s beautiful, then asks if we’ve chosen a name.
Ethan’s eyes flick to mine.
We did choose a name, and we chose it months ago, but saying it out loud feels like making it real in a way I’m not ready for. Not because I don’t want it, but because I do, and that kind of wanting still makes me scared.
I inhale.
“Her name’s Sofia,” I say.
The nurse smiles. “Sofia. That’s lovely.”
Ethan repeats it under his breath like he’s locking it into his bones.
“Sofia,” he murmurs.
The nurse finishes up and leaves, and when the door clicks closed, Ethan looks at me again, and the softness in his face almost floors me.
“Hi,” I say, because my brain has stopped working.
He steps closer to the bed. “Hi.”
“I can’t believe we made a person,” I whisper.
He nods, still rocking Sofia gently. “We made her.”
I tilt my head. “Are you going to put her down?”
He looks offended. “No.”
I laugh again, then wince. “Okay. Fine. Keep her. I’m not fighting you.”
“Good,” he says, and his voice sounds satisfied in a way that makes me roll my eyes even while my heart does that stupid, dangerous thing.
The first week is a blur.
There are feeds and diapers and those tiny cries that sound like the world is ending. There’s me learning my body again, learning how to sit without cursing, learning how to accept help without turning it into an argument.
Ethan becomes a machine.
He tracks times, he sterilizes bottles, he sets alarms, he orders supplies before we run out, and he doesn’t act like it’s a big deal, which is annoying because it is a big deal and I want to shake him for being so calm.
But he’s not calm, not really.
He just functions through it.
He also becomes, somehow, ridiculously tender. He changes Sofia’s diaper like it’s a sacred ritual, then looks at me like he expects praise for not passing out.
“You want a sticker?” I ask him one night, while he’s swaddling her with the precision of a man wrapping a priceless artifact.
He glances at me. “I want you to sleep.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
He walks over and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Go to sleep, Lila.”
“I hate when you sound like that,” I mutter.
“I know,” he says, and the smugness is back for half a second.
By the time we hit three months, Sofia has cheeks that make strangers stop us on the street, and she has a tiny frown that looks exactly like Ethan’s when she’s unimpressed.
She also has my lungs.
Which means she can scream.
We’re in the kitchen one afternoon, sunlight on the floor, Sofia in her bouncer with a toy she’s aggressively losing interest in. I’m making coffee, and Ethan’s behind me, working on his phone.
I glance at him. “You’re not going to work.”
“I’m not working,” he says.
“You’re typing.”
“I’m typing.”
I turn, eyebrow raised. “At your office? With your CEO hands? While your daughter is in the room?”
He looks up slowly. “I’m sending a message.”
“To who?”
His eyes flick to Sofia, then back to me. “You.”
My phone buzzes.
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
He’s dead serious.
I pick up my phone, and I open the message.
Ethan: You look good in my kitchen.
I blink.
Then I look at him again, and he’s watching me like he knows exactly what that does to me.
I type back.
Me: I’m wearing stained leggings and a nursing tank.
His reply comes fast.
Ethan: Still mine.
My stomach flips, and it’s ridiculous because I’m standing in my own kitchen, three months postpartum, holding coffee grounds like a weapon, and I still feel like I’m about to do something reckless.
I glance at Sofia.
She’s staring at her own hand.
I type.
Me: Please stop sexting me in front of our child.
Ethan’s mouth twitches.
Ethan: She can’t read.
I glare.
Me: She can sense vibes.
He doesn’t even pretend to be ashamed.
Ethan: Good. Let her learn early.
I bark out a laugh, then immediately check Sofia because laughing too loud feels like tempting fate.
Sofia makes a happy little noise, and Ethan’s gaze softens again.
Then my phone buzzes.
Ethan: Come here.
I look up. “You are here.”
He puts his phone down on the counter, then steps into me, hands sliding to my hips. His voice drops. “I’m not talking about your phone.”
My face heats instantly.
“Ethan,” I warn.
He kisses the side of my neck, quick and light, then pulls back just enough to look at me. “We’ve got ten minutes before she decides she hates that toy.”
“We do not,” I whisper, because we have maybe thirty seconds, but his confidence is contagious and also infuriating.
He smiles. “We do.”