1. Zola #3
"You're the most stubborn person I've ever met." He's plating the pasta now, generous portions that steam in the cool air. "It's one of the things I love about you. Also one of the things that makes me want to lock you in this house until you remember how to take care of yourself."
The casual way he says love makes my chest tight. He sets a plate in front of me, along with a fork and napkin, then leans across the island to press a kiss to my forehead.
"Eat."
I do. The first bite is heaven—creamy, savory, exactly what my body's been craving without me realizing it. I make an involuntary sound of pleasure and Declan's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches me.
"Good?"
"Amazing." I take another bite, suddenly ravenous. "When did you learn to cook like this?"
"Been practicing." He comes around the island to stand beside me, one hand resting on the small of my back. "Figured if I could get you to at least eat when you're here, that's something."
The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that emotion clogs my throat. I swallow it down with another forkful of pasta, trying to find words for the complicated knot of feelings in my chest. Gratitude, frustration, love, fear—all of it tangled together.
"You don't have to take care of me," I say quietly. "I'm not your responsibility."
"Yes, you are." His hand moves in slow circles on my back, soothing. "That's what this is, love. That's what we do. Taking care of each other."
"But it's not equal." I set down my fork, turning on the stool to face him properly. "You take care of me and I just... what? Let you?"
"You love me." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "That's enough. That's everything."
"That doesn't seem like enough."
He cups my face in both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. His expression is fierce, intense enough to make me catch my breath.
"Listen to me." His voice is low, commanding in a way that makes me go still. "I don't care if you want to be a nurse or a fucking president or anything in between. I will support you. I will be there. But you have to let me in enough to help keep you alive while you're doing it."
"Declan—"
"No, hear me." He leans closer, our faces inches apart. "You want to make your own path? Fine. I respect that. I love that about you. But making your own path doesn't mean destroying yourself in the process. It doesn't mean refusing basic care because you're scared of needing someone."
The words hit too close to home. My eyes sting with unexpected tears.
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." His thumbs catch the wetness at the corners of my eyes. "You think if you need me too much, I'll leave. Or I'll die. Or I'll change my mind about you. But Zola, love—I'm not going anywhere. You understand me? I'm yours. Completely."
A sound escapes my throat, half sob, half laugh. "That's a dangerous thing to promise."
"I don't make promises I can't keep." He closes the distance, kissing me with a gentleness that feels like a vow. Soft, reverent, his lips moving against mine like he's sealing something permanent. "I love you. I'm in love with you. That's not changing."
"I love you too." The words come easier than they used to, less like an admission and more like simple truth. "So much it scares me sometimes."
"Good." He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that reignites the heat from earlier. "Be scared with me. But don't push me away because of it."
My hands find his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my palms. When he pulls back, I'm breathless again, lips tingling.
"Eat your pasta," he murmurs against my mouth. "Then I'm taking you upstairs and not letting you leave the bed until morning."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
He's right. I do. I love the way he takes control, the way he sees through my defenses, the way he refuses to let me self-destruct even when I'm determined to. I love his patience and his intensity and the gentle way he touches me even though I know what those hands are capable of.
I finish the pasta while he watches, satisfaction clear in every line of his body. When I'm done, he takes the plate and sets it aside, then lifts me off the stool like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist automatically, arms around his neck, and bury my face against his shoulder.
"Thank you," I whisper into his skin. "For feeding me. For caring."
"Always." His arms tighten around me as he carries me toward the stairs. "You and me. I'll prove it to you every single day until you believe it."
Always. The word should terrify me—commitment, permanence, all the things that can be ripped away without warning. But in his arms, with his heart beating steady against my chest, it doesn't feel frightening.
It feels like home.
And maybe, tucked in some secret corner of my heart I barely acknowledge, I can picture it. Marriage. A ring on my finger. Choosing him every day the way he chooses me. Maybe soon. Maybe sooner than makes sense for two people this young.
But nothing about us has ever made sense. Why should this?