Falling for sunshine Bonus Scene
Nora
When Nash opens the door, he looks tired in the way all new fathers do—hair rumpled, circles under his eyes, a baby blanket draped over one shoulder—but he’s smiling.
Really smiling.
The kind that reaches his eyes and softens his whole face and wraps everything I ever worried about him in a warm, glowing hush.
“Hey, Mom,” he murmurs, stepping aside to let me in.
It’s only been eighteen hours since I last saw little Noah in the hospital, felt his tiny fingers wrap around one of mine, breathed in that new-baby scent that opens every forgotten part of a mother’s heart. But stepping into their home—seeing this, the first day of the rest of their lives—it feels different. More real. More permanent. More like the beginning of the best, worst, hardest, most rewarding chapter of my son and daughter-in-law’s life.
The house is quiet the way only homes with newborns are: hushed, soft, wrapped in that gentle uncertainty of two people learning how to be parents together. A soft golden lamp glows near the couch. A nursing pillow lies abandoned nearby. Bouquets of flowers from Nash’s patients wishing him well overflow on every surface and his guitar leans against the couch. Balloons emblazoned with Welcome Home! bob gently as the door closes behind me.
Lucy looks up from the rocking chair, her blonde hair pulled into a loose braid, cheeks flushed with exhaustion and contentment.
“Hi, Nora,” she whispers. Then she shifts, just enough for me to see him.
Noah Robert Kincaid, four days old.
A full head of dark hair. Tiny, clenched fists. The softest little mouth.
My first grandson.
Hopefully the first of many.
My heart swells—a feeling both familiar and entirely new.
“Look at him,” I breathe, sinking to my knees beside her chair. “Oh, sweetheart… he looks just like Nash did when he was this little.”
“You think?” Lucy asks, stroking Noah’s cheek with her knuckle.
“Every inch,” I say, though that isn’t quite true. There’s softness in him from his mom. Something delicate and bright that reminds me of dance studios and city lights and second chances.
Nash steps behind her, laying a hand gently on Lucy’s shoulder as he leans down to look at their son. Something in him shifts when he gazes at that little bundle—his whole face folding into tenderness. A look that’s become more and more at home on his formerly drawn features.
The lighter he gets, the more he looks like his father.
Oh, Robbie. My Robbie. My husband.
The father Nash adored.
The man Nash thought he failed.
How he would have crowed over little Noah.
Watching my son now—grown and steady, softened and strengthened, holding this new life like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched—I see Robbie everywhere. The shape of his hands. The quiet strength in his stance. The gentle way he brushes a thumb across Noah’s forehead.
“You know,” I whisper, surprising myself with the thickness in my throat, “your dad would be so proud of you, son.” I stand and touch his cheek—the same cheek I cupped when he was a gangly kid with scraped knees and a too-big heart. “So proud. You’re everything he dreamed you’d be.”
A long breath escapes him, shaky around the edges. Lucy squeezes his hand, grounding him. They’ve always been good at that—holding each other steady, changing each other in all the right ways.
When Lucy first came into his life, I saw the thaw before Nash ever admitted it. A softening. A loosening of old grief. The boy I raised—the one who carried burdens too early, who chased perfection because he thought it would keep everyone safe—began laughing again. Smiling. Letting himself be loved.
Since he got married and opened his private practice, he’s grown into the man I always knew lived inside him. Strong. Tender. Brave in all the right ways.
“You ready to hold him?” Nash asks.
I give him an incredulous look. “How are you even gonna ask me that question? I’ve been wondering why he isn’t in my arms since I walked in the door.”
Chuckling, he lifts Noah gently, carefully, with hands made to heal and protect, and settles him into my arms.
Oh, my heart.
That tiny weight, warm and trusting against my chest—it’s almost too much.
“Hi, little one,” I murmur, rocking him lightly. “How do you like your new home? It’s filled with love and goodness, and once your great-aunt Violet gets here, it’ll be filled with cinnamon rolls, too. Now she looks just like me, because we’re twins, but you remember, I’m your grandma, so you love me most of all.”
Noah fusses suddenly, face scrunching, lips wobbling.
“He’s been doing that all afternoon,” Lucy says, worry flickering over her features.
I hush and rock him as Nash settles onto the couch and lifts his guitar. The familiar motion—the careful tuning, the subtle pluck of strings—takes me back years. Him on the porch at seventeen, playing through heartbreak. Him in the living room at twenty-five, playing through exhaustion.
And now… after years of silent strings… him playing for his son.
Noah quiets, though his little mouth still pulls into a frown and I get up to hand him back to his momma. She accepts him with the biggest, brightest grin I’ve ever seen, cooing gently. Oh, how I remember the way it felt to look into my sons’ faces, the love that pierced my heart through, a piece of me forever living outside my body, encased in theirs.
As Nash plays, Lucy sways, gentle, rhythmic movements that come from some deep, instinctive place. Noah’s cries fade to soft hiccups… then to silence. His little body relaxes against Lucy’s shoulder, lulled by the sound of his father’s guitar and his mother’s slow dance.
A perfect picture.
A small miracle.
The moment is so achingly tender I have to capture it.
“Hold on,” I whisper, lifting my phone. Nash, Lucy, and Noah together—father playing guitar, mother swaying, newborn snuggled between them—are a portrait of everything good in this world.
I snap the photo and send it straight to the family group chat.
Almost immediately, the replies come in.
Grayson
If you don’t stop making me make cute baby faces in public places, I’m disowning all of you. Also… damn. That’s kind of perfect
My heart squeezes. I always thought he’d be the family man. Now? With his lifestyle, there’s a chance that’ll never happen. The traveling. The fame. The attention from fans and publicists. Grayson’s a good man, but even the good ones fall prey to temptation.
Gideon
Tell Nash the kid has his scowl
Short. But heavy with meaning. My quiet storm-watcher.
Bennett
I’m actually on my way. I’ve got a present for my favorite nephew.
But don’t tell him I said that. Don’t need his ego to battle his dad’s
Oh, my boys.
How I hope happiness finds each of them.
Noah’s fussing slows, and sure enough, the little one nestles into Lucy’s chest, cooing softly.
“You sure you’re okay watching him when I go back to school?” Lucy asks, glancing my way while keeping her face angled toward her son.
“I am more than okay. I’m eager. I’m excited. My house gets quiet with the boys all grown. I can’t wait to have a little one around to keep me busy.”
“My mom said the same thing,” Lucy says. “I’m so grateful Noah will have two doting grandmothers.”
“You say that now,” Nash mutters, “but wait until he’s spoiled silly.”
Before Lucy can answer, the doorbell rings.
Nash freezes mid-strum. “Expecting anyone?”
She shakes her head. He disappears down the hall and returns with a massive basket wrapped in cellophane—diapers, stuffed animals, tiny sneakers, and a note affixed with gold tape.
“It’s from Sandro,” Nash says, already laughing.
Lucy brightens. “We really should have made those you never know with Sandro shirts.”
“He says, ‘Congrats on the new recruit. Writing him a lullaby. Babies love bass, right?’”
Lucy snorts. “That sounds exactly like him.”
Nash carries the basket in, shaking his head with affectionate disbelief. “That man is ridiculous.”
“But generous,” Lucy says, smiling.
They pull items from the basket—tiny booties, a plush guitar toy that Lucy immediately presses to her cheek, a onesie bedazzled with Tour Baby across the chest.
I look over at Noah.
At my grandson.
At the next chapter in a family that has weathered storms, held tight to love, and grown in ways I never could have foreseen.
And I whisper to myself, “I hope this kind of happiness finds all my boys…”
Before I can finish the thought, the doorbell rings again.
Nash groans. “If this is another celebrity baby basket, I swear—”
But it isn’t.
It’s Gabby and Stella, each balancing a casserole dish and several freezer bags like they’re competing in some postpartum-longest-meal-train challenge.
“We come bearing food,” Stella announces, stepping in and shoving the casserole into Nash’s arms before the two of them rush over to peer into Noah’s sweet face.
Lucy beams, rising carefully to hug them both. “Oh my gosh, you two did not have to do this.”
“Nonsense,” Gabby says, gently touching little Noah’s hair. “We’ve been dying to see him again. And is it just me, or does he already look bigger?”
Stella peers in. “How is he the cutest thing in the world?”
From my vantage point, I watch the two girls—so different, so dear to Lucy—lean over Noah with the kind of joy that only comes from loving fiercely. Nash puts the food away, mumbling something about needing a second fridge.
Before the laughter dies down, the doorbell rings yet again.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Nash mutters as he crosses the room to open the door to Bennett, holding a teddy bear nearly as big as he is. “Doesn’t anyone call first?”
“Don’t hate me,” he says wriggling the monstrous stuffed animal. “I couldn’t resist something this awesome for my favorite nephew.”
Lucy laughs. “He’s your only nephew.”
“Still counts.” Bennett shrugs as he wrangles the thing inside and Nash closes the door behind him.
Then he sees Stella.
Stella sees him.
And the air in the room changes. Tightens. Brightens.
She crosses her arms. “What are you doing here?”
“Bringing gifts,” he says, hefting the teddy bear with a smirk. “You?”
“Dinner.”
Their eyes lock. Something unspoken passes between them—an entire language of history, irritation, maybe longing. I may not know everything about future romances in this town… but my instincts are rarely wrong. And something says the thin line between love and hate between those two is blurry as all get out.
My heart swells. Not just from joy, but from the knowledge that this family’s story is just beginning.
The room fills. There’s laughing, visiting, hugging, teasing. Bennett leaning far too close to Stella to sneak a peek at the baby. Gabby cooing gently while Nash and Lucy beam with pride.
It is, without question, chaos.
Kincaid chaos.
And it is perfect.
I stand still amid the warm, noisy swirl of the people I love and look at the life my son has built.
My son, finally whole.
The woman who stitched him back together.
The child who will grow up knowing laughter and light.
A home filled with music, friendship, and more love than any one family should be allowed to hold.
My chest swells, painful and sweet.
Robbie would have loved this.
He would have been proud.
He would have teased Nash, kissed the baby’s head, hugged Lucy fiercely.
He would have seen every bit of himself in this boy.
I touch Noah’s tiny hand, and his fingers curl reflexively around mine.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whisper, “if the rest of life looks anything like this moment… we’re going to be just fine.”