Chapter 176: Through her eyes
Morning sun filtered through the sheer drapes, casting a soft gold over everything in our bedroom that whispered to the world to be gentle. I lay still, eyes half-closed, soft breathing. Caspian was beside me, one arm resting on his head, the other lightly across my belly as if he worried he'd let me slip away if he ever loosened his grip.
The silence was airy, not heavy. Not yet.
I slowly rotated my head to look at him. His eyelids were shut, his lashes resting against his cheek, his lips slightly open in sleep. And something about the way he slept like that—vulnerable, peaceful—made a wave run through my chest. I placed my hand on the back of his hand on my stomach. He stirred.
His eyes flickered open, and for a moment he just looked at me. That gaze—that unimaginably still, burning gaze—passed over mine like a query and a response in one.
"Morning," I whispered, my own voice still mired in sleep.
"Morning," he said, deep and rough. His thumb moved in the smallest circle down my side. "How are you feeling?"
It was the question now. The one that lingered in every room like the sound of thunder.
"I'm fine," I told him, and was. "A little nauseous. A little… reticent."
His brow creased, but not with worry this time. "You've been quiet recently."
I nodded. "It's not bad. It's just… everything is different now."
Caspian sat up, his palm stroking over my arm, fingers curling around my wrist. "Different how?"
I paused. The words were too fragile on my tongue, and I didn't know if saying them would make them powerful—or break me apart.
"I see things," I finally said. "Like. I'll walk past a kid with their mother, and I just can't help turning to look. Or I'll listen to a baby laugh in the park, and it's like my body moves towards the sound before I even know it's happening."
He grasped my hand, grounding me. "You're dreaming," he whispered. "You're beginning to see the world like a mother."
My throat tightened, and I couldn't figure out why. I wasn't afraid, not really. But the scope of it all—the transformation, the becoming—it rested in the back of my heart, thudding slow and steady like a second pulse.
"I don't know if I'll be any good at it," I admitted.
Caspian didn't flinch. Rather, he tightened his hold on my hand. "You will. You already are."
I searched his face, eyes racing across the angular planes and curve-filled recesses I knew better than my own. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I see the way you hold things," he told me. "People. Words. You don't just touch—Lily, you carry. You feel too much and still manage to keep your head. You give even when it hurts. That's what it takes."
My eyes welled up with tears, and I let one fall, just one. "What if I ruin it?"
He leaned in again, his lips brushing my temple. "Then we work it out together."
I moved so we faced each other, our noses almost touching. The space between us charged, heavier, warmer. He looked at me as if I were something precious. Not fragile. Uncommon.
"I wonder," I breathed, "what of you will be in them."
He smiled faintly. "Hopefully the serene bit."
I laughed, short and startled. “You think you’re the calm one in this relationship?”
His eyes narrowed in mock offense. “I’m deeply serene. Stoic, even.”
“You threw a lamp last month.”
“It was one time.”
I was laughing now, tears forgotten. Caspian tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and leaned his forehead to mine. The space between us was too close for anything but truth.
"I want them to have your fire," he said. "Your stubbornness. Your light."
"I want them to have your stillness," I whispered. "The way you guard things without yelling about it. The way you love in secret, but entirely."
His fingers caressed my jaw, along my neck, and down to my collarbone. I caught my breath. He wasn't trying to seduce me—not like he used to anyway. This was something else. Awe. Reverence.
"Do you think they'll have your eyes?" I asked.
Caspian nodded his head.
"If they do, we're in trouble."
"Why?"
"Because your eyes unravel me," he said.
And then he kissed me.
It was slow, not hesitant—measured. As if we had all the time in the world. As if we’d already stepped into the life we were building, and this kiss was simply the language we used to speak it.
I leaned in closer. My body ached differently now—tired, sore, raw—but in that moment, I was not aware of ache. I was aware of skin and air and the curve of his shoulder against my palm.
He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. His thumb traced my cheek, my lower lip, and then settled again on my belly.
"It's still hard to believe," he whispered.
"I know."
"Can you feel it? Inside of you?"
I nodded. "Not bodily, not yet. But something's different. It's like… my body knows. Like something old and mystical moved inside of me and whispered, 'You're no longer alone.'"
Caspian's forehead rested on my shoulder, breathing me in. I closed my eyes and let him. Let myself be cradled.
"I keep thinking," he said softly, "about the first time I hold them. What that's going to do to me."
"It'll ruin you," I breathed.
He looked at me, and there it was again—his heart, wide open behind his eyes. "Good. I want it to."
The day dragged. We didn't do anything noteworthy. He prepared breakfast. I poked at mine, then ate a bowl of strawberries as if I hadn't eaten in a month. He read while I had my head in his lap, sleeping fitfully aware as his fingers ran through my hair.
And every time I opened my eyes, he was looking at me.
Not the look of bodies waiting for someone to break. Not the look he used to have, when fear added point to every step. This was different. This was slow and endless.
Love, yes.
But something more than that—wonder.
That night, after we got ready for bed, I stood in front of the mirror for a little longer. My hand curled over my belly. Still flat. Still silent. But I talked to it anyway.
I'm working," I told him. "I don't know yet what I'm doing. But I'll work it out. I promise."
Caspian remained in the doorway, observing me, and when I turned back to face him, he reached out his hand.
I took it without a word.
And that was enough.