~ Bonus Chapter 2 ~
Two Lines
The bathroom light felt too bright.
Eva stood there longer than she meant to, fingers curled tight around the thin plastic stick like it might float away if she loosened her grip. The world felt oddly suspended — not rushing, not stopping — just waiting.
Two lines.
Clear. Steady. Unarguable.
Her hands started shaking before her mind fully caught up.
She pressed her palm to the counter, breathing slowly, deliberately, the way she had learned to when emotions threatened to crest too fast. Fear came first — not loud, not panicked — but deep and weighty.
The kind that whispered everything is about to change.
Outside the bathroom door, Reed stood still, one hand braced against the wall, listening to the quiet stretch longer than usual. He'd noticed the silence. He always did. He told himself not to hover, not to crowd her, not to fill the space before she was ready.
But every instinct in him was tuned to her.
"Eva," he said softly, not knocking. "I'm here."
She opened the door slowly.
Didn't speak.
Just held the test out to him with trembling fingers.
For a moment, Reed's brain simply... stopped.
Not because he didn't understand — because he understood immediately. Completely. His chest tightened, breath catching, heart thudding hard against his ribs. He didn't smile right away. Didn't ask questions. Didn't reach for solutions.
He reached for her.
He took the test gently, set it on the counter, and pulled Eva into his arms like that was the only thing that mattered. Her face buried into his chest as she exhaled, a sound that carried weeks of unspoken tension.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
Reed kissed the top of her head, one hand firm at her back. "I know."
They slid down to sit on the bathroom floor together, backs against the tub, knees drawn up, hands still linked like neither of them trusted the ground not to shift beneath them.
Eva spoke first. About timing. About work. About her body. About the quiet fear that she might not know how to be someone's mother when she had spent so much of her life learning how to take care of everyone else.
Reed listened.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't minimize.
Didn't rush to reassure her out of her fear.
When she finished, he squeezed her hands gently.
"We don't have to have all the answers today," he said quietly. "We just have to keep choosing each other. I've got you. Always."
Her breath hitched.
Something in her chest loosened.
"And... I think," she said slowly, a small smile breaking through the fear, "I think I'm happy too."
Reed's mouth curved into a soft, disbelieving smile. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."
Months later, the hospital room was bathed in soft, muted light.
Eva was exhausted in a way she hadn't known existed — bone-deep, soul-tired — but grounded. Present. When the nurse placed their son into her arms, the world narrowed instantly.
He was warm.
Small.
Real.
Eva stared down at him, tears slipping free without warning. His eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused but unmistakable — a clear, deep blue that stole her breath.
"Oh," she whispered. "Reed."
Reed stood frozen for half a second.
Then his knees nearly gave out.
He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, shoulders shaking as tears spilled freely — silent, reverent, unstoppable. When he finally leaned closer, his forehead pressed gently against Eva's.
"He has your eyes," she murmured.
Reed shook his head, overwhelmed. "His are brighter."
The nurse smiled softly. "Have you decided on a name?"
Eva looked up at Reed.
Reed looked back at her.
No hesitation.
"Alexander," Reed said, voice thick. "Alexander Taylor."
The nurse nodded, writing it down. "He's beautiful."
Eva kissed Alexander's forehead gently, her heart expanding in ways she didn't know were possible. Reed rested his hand over both of them — his wife and his son — grounding himself in the weight of this new truth.
Love had made them a family long before this.
This just gave it a name.