22. Declan
DECLAN
Ileave Zola's place around midnight, which has become my usual departure time.
She falls asleep around eleven most nights—exhausted from handling Maeve all day plus running the bookstore—and I stay until I'm sure she's out completely.
Then I slip away before I can do something stupid like crawl into bed beside her and refuse to leave.
Stellan's place is only ten minutes from the bookstore. His lights are still on when I pull up, which means he's either working or drinking. Possibly both.
"I'm not letting you crawl into bed with me if you're trying to find someone to cuddle with." He doesn't bother with pleasantries when he opens the door, just steps aside to let me in.
I scoff. "You wish I'd cuddle with you."
The living room's cleaner than usual—no empty bottles on the coffee table, only one jacket tossed over the back of the couch.
He's been better lately, more focused. Like having me around regularly again reminded him we're supposed to be running an empire together, not just going through the motions.
"Whiskey?" He's already pouring two glasses.
"Yeah."
We settle into our usual spots—him on the couch, me in the armchair. The silence stretches comfortable between us, the kind we've built over years of working side by side.
"How's Zola?" He takes a sip, watches me over the rim of his glass.
"Good. Better." I roll the whiskey between my palms, not drinking yet. "She's getting more sleep now that Maeve's on a schedule. Bookstore's doing well. She's eating regularly."
"That's not what I asked."
I look up. Stellan's expression is carefully neutral, which means he already knows the answer and he's just waiting for me to admit it.
"She's holding back." The words taste bitter. "I can feel it. Every time I think we're getting somewhere, she pulls away. Not physically—she lets me touch her, lets me stay—but emotionally she's got walls up I can't get through."
"Can you blame her?" He sets down his glass. "You were together two years, she left for eight more. That's a lot of scar tissue to work through."
"I know that." I finally take a drink, let the burn settle in my chest. "Doesn't make it easier."
"It'll take time." Stellan leans back, studies me with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing. "She's letting you in slowly. That's better than not at all."
"What if it's not enough?" The question comes out quieter than I intended. "What if she never lets me all the way back in?"
"Then you keep showing up anyway." He says it like it's simple. "That's what you do when you love someone. You show up and you wait and eventually they believe you're not going anywhere."
I want to argue that he doesn't understand, that he's never been in love so he can't possibly know what this feels like.
But the truth is he's right. Zola needs time and consistency, needs proof that I'm serious about this.
Needs to know I'm not just here because of Maeve or guilt or nostalgia, but because I genuinely want to build a life with her.
"I want to take her on a date." I set down my glass before I drain the whole thing. "Remind her that I love her for who she is, not just because she's an incredible mother. Get her with me outside of the bookstore."
Stellan raises an eyebrow. "You want to take her on a date."
"Yeah. Dinner, maybe. Something nice. Just the two of us.
" I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "We've never really done that before—the normal dating thing.
Last time we were together she was burying herself in work and college, and now she's so focused on Maeve that we haven't had time alone to just... be."
"That's not a terrible idea." He picks up his glass again. "When were you thinking?"
"This weekend maybe. Saturday night." I pause. "Which is where you come in."
The whiskey stops halfway to his mouth. "Where I come in how?"
"I need you to watch Maeve."
"Absolutely not." He sets down the glass with enough force that liquid sloshes over the rim. "Are you out of your mind?"
"You're her uncle."
"I've never even been around kids." He stands, starts pacing. "I don't know what to do with them. What if something happens? What if she cries and I can't get her to stop? What if—"
"Then you figure it out." I stay seated, keep my voice calm. "Same way you've figured out every other problem we've ever had."
"This is different." He whirls to face me. "This is a baby. A tiny human being who can't tell me what's wrong. What if I break her?"
"You're not going to break her." I allow myself a small smile. "She's tougher than she looks. And I'll teach you everything you need to know. Her schedule, what she likes, how to handle her when she gets fussy. You'll be fine."
"Why can't you hire someone?" He's still backing away like I suggested he juggle knives. "Get a babysitter. That's what normal people do."
"Because I don't want some stranger watching her." I stand now, close the distance between us. "I want family. Someone I trust completely. Someone who'll protect her if something goes wrong."
"Then get her friend that's always around—"
"Stellan." I grab his shoulder, make him look at me.
"You're my brother. You're Maeve's uncle whether you like it or not.
And you should want to know her. Should want to be part of her life.
Because if Zola and I make this work—and I'm going to make this work—then Maeve's going to be around for the long haul. She's family now."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite acceptance but not complete refusal either.
"Besides." I let my voice drop, take on the edge I usually reserve for people who've crossed us.
"If you don't want to meet her, don't want to protect her, then we're going to have a problem.
Because anyone who doesn't care about keeping my family safe is someone I can't trust. And if I can't trust you... "
"Are you threatening me?" There's almost amusement in his tone.
"I'm telling you that this matters." I release his shoulder. "Maeve matters. Zola matters. They're everything to me. So yeah, I need you to step up and be an uncle. Learn how to take care of a baby for one night so I can take the woman I love on a proper date."
Stellan stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. "You're actually serious about this."
"Deadly serious."
"Fine." He runs a hand through his hair. "Fine. I'll watch the kid. But if she cries the entire time and ends up traumatized, that's on you."
"She won't be traumatized." Relief floods through me. "She's actually pretty chill once you get to know her."
"When do I start learning?" He sounds resigned now, like he's accepted his fate.
"Tomorrow."
"Of course tomorrow." He picks up his whiskey, drains the rest. "Why would you give me any time to prepare?"
"Because you don't need it." I grab my own glass, finish what's left. "You've handled worse than one nine-month-old. This'll be easy."
"You're insane." But there's something almost fond in the way he says it. "Completely insane."
"Probably." I head for the door. "I'll pick you up at nine. Bring coffee."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, brother."
The next morning I show up at Stellan's place at eight-thirty, which gives him exactly zero time to back out. He answers the door looking like he hasn't slept, wearing yesterday's clothes and holding a travel mug that smells strong enough to strip paint.
"You said nine."
"I said be ready at nine. We're leaving at nine." I push past him into the house. "Get your shit together. We've got a baby to meet."
He mutters something that sounds like a string of creative obscenities but heads upstairs to change. When he comes back down he's in dark jeans and a black shirt, hair still damp from a quick shower.
"This is happening." He says it like he's trying to convince himself.
"This is happening."
We take my car—Stellan's too full of empty coffee cups and who knows what else to be presentable. He's quiet during the drive, which is unusual. Normally he'd be running through logistics or asking questions, but instead he just stares out the window like a man heading to his execution.
"You're really nervous." I can't help the amusement in my voice.
"I'm not nervous."
"You've got that look. The one you get before we walk into a meeting you think might go sideways."
"I've tortured people." He turns to glare at me. "I've handled negotiations with families who wanted us dead. I've cleaned up messes that would make normal people vomit. But yeah, meeting a nine-month-old has me sweating. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"I hate you so much right now."
I'm still grinning when we pull up outside the bookstore. I have a key now, which has my heart soaring as I fish it out. I let us in quietly, climbing the stairs with Stellan following like a man walking to the gallows.
Zola's in the kitchen when we walk in, Maeve on her hip while she attempts to make coffee one-handed. She freezes when she sees us—specifically when she sees Stellan standing behind me looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
"Morning." I cross to her, kiss her temple, take Maeve without asking. "Thought I'd bring someone by to meet this one properly."
"Stellan." Zola sounds surprised but not displeased. "Hi."
"Zola." He nods, staying near the door like he might need to make a quick escape. "It's good to see you."
"You too." She finishes pouring her coffee, turns to actually look at him. "Declan said you wanted to meet Maeve?"
"I..." He glances at me, clearly looking for backup. "Yeah. Figured I should. Since she's family and all."
Maeve chooses that moment to notice we have a guest. She turns in my arms, stares at Stellan with those huge brown eyes, then makes a curious sound.
"This is your Uncle Stellan." I bounce her gently. "He looks scary but he's actually harmless."
"I'm not harmless." But his voice has gone softer, careful. "She's... small."
"Most babies are." Zola's trying not to smile. "Want to hold her?"