20. Declan
DECLAN
Ifollow Zola up the narrow stairs to the apartment above the bookstore, Maeve's weight solid and reassuring against my chest. The space hasn't changed much—still cluttered with books and baby supplies, still smelling like vanilla and coffee with that underlying scent of old paper. Still utterly her.
Zola moves through the kitchen on autopilot, checking the fridge like she's looking for something that isn't there. Her shoulders are tense, movements jerky with exhaustion.
"When's the last time you had a proper meal?" I settle into the armchair by the window, the one with the best light. Maeve's completely dead weight now, mouth slightly open, one hand still fisted in my shirt.
"I told you, Naomi brought—"
"A few bites doesn't count." I pull out my phone with my free hand, already opening the delivery app. "What do you want? Thai? That place on South Street you used to love?"
She turns, leaning against the counter. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." I'm scrolling through the menu now, remembering exactly what she used to order. "But I'm going to anyway. So you can either tell me what you want or I'll order what I remember and hope your tastes haven't changed."
Something flickers across her face. "They haven't."
"Good." I add pad thai, spring rolls, mango sticky rice to the cart. "Go shower. Change into something comfortable. By the time you're done, food will be here and Maeve will be fed."
"Declan—"
"Please." I look up, meet her eyes. "Let me do this. You're exhausted and I'm here and it's just dinner."
She opens her mouth like she wants to argue, then closes it. Nods once, sharp and quick, before disappearing into the bathroom.
The water starts running and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. She let me stay. Didn't kick me out, didn't tell me to leave once Maeve was asleep. It's not much but it's something.
Maeve shifts against my chest, makes a small sound of protest at the movement. I adjust my hold, start that gentle rocking that always settles her.
"Shh, babygirl. I've got you." The words come out soft, instinctive. "You're alright. Just sleep."
She quiets immediately, burrowing deeper into my shoulder. Her trust is absolute—she knows I'll keep her safe, keep her comfortable, not let anything hurt her. The weight of that responsibility should terrify me but it doesn't. It feels right in a way nothing has in eight years.
The delivery app confirms the order—thirty minutes. Plenty of time to get Maeve fed and settled before Zola finishes her shower.
I shift carefully, reaching for the diaper bag on the side table. Her nighttime bottle is already prepped—Zola's nothing if not efficient—and I warm it quickly in the bottle warmer while Maeve dozes against my shoulder.
When it's ready, I settle back into the chair and angle her in my arms. She wakes slightly when the nipple touches her lips, those huge brown eyes blinking up at me in sleepy confusion.
"It's me, sweetheart. You're okay." I brush my thumb over her cheek, let her focus. "Just dinner time."
Recognition sparks and she latches on immediately, drinking with the single-minded determination of an exhausted baby who hasn't been eating properly all week. Her little hand comes up to grip my finger, holding on like I might disappear.
"I'm not going anywhere." The words come out rough, more promise than statement. "Not again. I know I scared you, being gone like that. But I'm here now and I'm not leaving."
She keeps drinking, eyes starting to drift closed again. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of the shower and her soft suckling. Peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"You're perfect, you know that?" I can't help the words, can't stop them from spilling out in the dim light of the living room. "Absolutely perfect. Smart and sweet and so damn cute it should be illegal."
Her eyes open slightly at the sound of my voice, tracking my face like she's memorizing it.
"I missed you so much, babygirl. Hated staying away but I had to handle some things first. Adult problems that don't matter to you.
" I brush a curl back from her forehead, gentle.
"What matters is your Mama Zola. She's the best person I know—strongest, smartest, most beautiful woman in the entire world. And she loves you more than anything."
Maeve makes a small sound around the bottle, something between contentment and agreement.
"I love her too." The admission comes easier than I expected. "Never stopped, even when I should have. Even when I tried to. She's it for me—always has been."
The bottle's nearly empty now. Maeve's sucking has slowed, eyelids drooping heavily.
"And you..." I pause, realize what I'm about to say is completely true. "I love you too, sweetheart. I know that's fast—we've only known each other a few weeks—but I can't help it. You're too perfect not to love. Too sweet and funny and brave."
She finishes the bottle and I set it aside, lifting her to my shoulder to burp her. She protests sleepily but settles when I start rubbing small circles on her back.
"I've never fallen in love this fast with someone before." The words are quiet, meant only for her. "But you made it easy. Just existing and being perfect and trusting me to take care of you. How could I not love you?"
She burps softly against my shoulder, body going boneless with satisfaction. I keep rubbing her back, gentle circles that soothe us both.
"We're going to figure this out." More promise, more certainty. "Me and you and your mama. Going to build something good. Something that lasts. I promise you that."
The shower cuts off. I hear Zola moving around in the bathroom, the quiet sounds of her nighttime routine. Getting dressed, brushing her teeth, braiding her hair before bed like she always did.
Maeve's completely out now, breathing deep and even.
I stand carefully, cross to the crib tucked in the corner of Zola's bedroom.
She doesn't stir when I lay her down, too exhausted to even notice the transition.
I arrange her carefully, make sure the stuffed elephant is within reach, pull the light blanket up to her waist.
"Sweet dreams, babygirl." I brush my fingers over her curls one more time before backing away.
Zola emerges from the bathroom as I'm closing the bedroom door. She's in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, braids pulled back from her face. No makeup, skin still slightly damp, looking soft and vulnerable in a way that makes something clench in my chest.
"She go down okay?" Her voice is quiet, mindful of the sleeping baby.
"Out like a light the second I put her in the crib." I move to the kitchen, start pulling plates from the cabinet like I have every right to be here. "Food should be here in five minutes."
She hovers near the bathroom door, watching me move through her space with an expression I can't quite read. Wary, maybe. Uncertain.
The delivery arrives right on schedule. I pay, tip generously, and start unpacking containers while Zola sits at the small table by the window. She looks nervous, picking at the edge of her sleeve, eyes tracking my movements like she's waiting for something to go wrong.
"Eat." I slide her plate across the table, loaded with pad thai and spring rolls. "Slowly. Your stomach's probably not used to proper food after a week of stress and nothing else."
"You're being bossy." But she picks up her fork, twirls noodles around it.
"Someone has to be." I take the seat across from her, though I'm not particularly hungry. "You're running yourself into the ground."
She takes a bite, closes her eyes like it's the best thing she's tasted in days. Probably is. She eats slowly, methodically, and I watch her rediscover the simple pleasure of actually being hungry and having good food to fix it.
We don't talk much. Don't need to. The silence is comfortable in a way I'd forgotten was possible—just existing in the same space, sharing a meal, not performing for each other.
She's halfway through her plate when Maeve makes a sound from the bedroom. Not crying, just a small noise of adjustment. Zola starts to stand but I'm already moving.
"I've got her. Finish eating."
Maeve's shifted in her sleep, gotten her foot caught in the crib slats. I free it gently, rearrange the blanket, run my hand over her back until she settles again. When I come back out, Zola's finished her food and is curled up on the couch, looking exhausted and uncertain.
I clean up the dishes because it's automatic, because taking care of the space means taking care of her. She doesn't protest, just watches me move through her kitchen like I belong there.
When I'm done, she's still on the couch. Knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, looking smaller than someone her size should. Looking scared.
I have no intention of leaving. Want to stay here, sleep on this couch if she'll let me, wake up when Maeve does and be with her so Zola can actually rest. Want to prove I meant everything I said—that I'm here, that I'm not going anywhere, that she doesn't have to do this alone.
But I can tell she's not sure. Can see the uncertainty in the way she holds herself, the way her eyes track me like she's waiting for me to push too hard.
I cross to the couch, kneel in front of her so we're eye level. "I want to apologize to you properly."
Her breath catches. "You already did. Downstairs with the papers and explaining about Bianca—"
"That was explaining." I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and rest my hands on her knees. "This is different."
"Declan—" But she doesn't move, doesn't tell me to stop.
"I hurt you." My thumbs brush small circles against her kneecaps, gentle through the fabric of her sleep shorts. "Made you think I'd moved on, that I'd built something with someone else. Made you feel like you'd lost me again. That deserves a proper apology."
Her fingers flex against her arms. "You didn't know she'd come here—"