25. Zola #2
Family. He says it so matter-of-factly, like there's no question about it. Like Maeve and I have already been absorbed into the Wolfe orbit and there's no point arguing about it.
"We're not—" I start, but Maeve chooses that moment to crawl over to Stellan, pulling herself up on his leg and demanding attention with her imperious baby sounds.
He saves his work, then picks her up without complaint. "What do you need, kid?"
She babbles at him, patting his face with sticky hands, and he just nods like she's making perfect sense. "You're right, that's a good point. We should definitely address that."
I'm watching them interact—Stellan holding my daughter like she belongs to him, Maeve comfortable and happy in his arms—and something in my chest cracks open. This is what family looks like. Not biology or obligation, but choice. Showing up because you want to, because someone matters to you.
Stellan catches me staring. "What?"
"Nothing." I force myself to look away, focusing on the inventory spreadsheet I've been neglecting. "Just... thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For caring about her." About us, but I can't quite make myself say that part out loud.
"She's a good kid." He says it simply, like that's all the explanation needed. "And you're important to Declan, which makes you important to me."
It's the most emotionally direct thing I've ever heard him say, and I have to blink back unexpected tears. "Stellan—"
"Don't make it weird." But there's something almost gentle in his expression. "Just let us be here."
So I do. I let him work at the table while I reorganize shelves, let him entertain Maeve when she gets bored, let him order dinner when it gets late and Declan texts that he's running behind.
Declan shows up around seven, looking tired but lighting up the moment he sees us. "Sorry. Meeting ran long."
"It's fine." And it is, because Stellan was here, because I wasn't alone.
Declan crosses to me first, kissing me thoroughly enough that Stellan makes a disgusted sound. Then he scoops up Maeve, who's been making grabby hands at him since he walked in. "There's my girl. You been good for Uncle Stellan?"
Uncle Stellan. He says it like it's already established, like there's no question about Stellan's role in Maeve's life.
"She was a terror." Stellan deadpans. "Absolute nightmare."
Maeve giggles, clearly recognizing the teasing tone if not the actual words.
We eat dinner together—the three of us plus Maeve, who's more interested in stealing food than eating her own. It feels domestic and comfortable and terrifyingly real. Like this could be our future. Like this could be what every day looks like.
After Stellan leaves and Maeve's in bed, Declan finds me in the kitchen washing dishes. He slides his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder. "Good day?"
"Yeah." I lean back into him. "Stellan keeps coming by. I don't think I've ever spent so much time with him."
"He wants to change that." His hands are warm on my stomach, solid and reassuring. "He likes you. Both of you."
"He's not exactly demonstrative about it."
"That's just Stellan. But he wouldn't be here if he didn't care." Declan kisses my neck, soft and sweet. "He's family now. We both are."
There's that word again. Family. Like it's already decided, already real, already permanent.
"Declan—"
"I love you." He says it against my skin, his breath warm. "In case I haven't mentioned it in the past hour."
He has. He tells me constantly now, like he's making up for years of not being able to say it. Every time he leaves. Every time he comes back. Random moments throughout the day when I'm just existing and he looks at me like I'm everything.
"I know." The words stick in my throat because I can feel my own building behind them, pressing against my teeth, wanting to be said.
But I can't. Not yet. Because saying it means admitting how completely he's stolen my heart again, how thoroughly I've let him back in, how devastating it would be to lose this now.
Friday night, we're tangled together in my bed—our bed, really, since Declan's been sleeping here every night this week—and I'm tracing the lines of his tattoos in the dim light. He's got new ones since I left, dark geometric patterns that wind around his ribs and down his side.
"When did you get these?" My fingers follow the ink, feeling the slight texture difference where it marks his skin.
"About six years ago." His hand is in my hair, fingers moving gently. "Needed something to focus on that wasn't missing you."
Six years ago. Two years after I left. Long enough that he should have been moving on, should have been getting over me.
"Did it work?"
"No." He says it simply. "Nothing worked. I just existed until you came back."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. "That's not healthy."
"Probably not." He shifts so we're face to face, his dark green eyes serious. "But it was true. You're it for me, Zola. Always have been."
I want to argue, want to tell him that's too much pressure, that he can't put his whole existence on me. But looking at him now, seeing the certainty in his expression, I realize he's not asking for anything. He's just stating facts. This is who he is. This is what he feels.
"I'm scared." The admission comes out whisper-quiet.
"Of what?" His thumb brushes my cheek, tender.
"This. Us. How much I—" I stop, swallow hard. "How much this matters."
"It matters to me too." He pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin. "More than anything."
"What if something happens? What if—"
"Then we handle it." His voice is steady, certain. "Together. But I'm not leaving, love. Not by choice. Not ever again."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts. But there's this part of me—the part that watched my mother die, that lost Nia, that spent years convinced I'd destroyed the best thing in my life—that keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I know you're scared." Declan's still talking, his hand moving in soothing strokes down my back. "I know you think I'm going to wake up one day and realize you're not worth it. But that's not going to happen."
"You can't know that."
"I can." He tips my chin up, making me look at him. "Because I already spent eight years without you and it was the worst years of my life. I'm not doing that again. Neither is Stellan."
"Stellan—"
"Adores Maeve. Tolerates you." His lips quirk, teasing. "His words, not mine."
Despite everything, I laugh. "He's such an asshole."
"He is." Declan kisses my forehead. "But he's family. And so are you."
There it is again. That word. That promise. That terrifying, wonderful certainty that we're building something real here.
By the time Saturday rolls around, I'm completely rattled.
Declan's here constantly, Stellan's integrated himself into our routine, and Maeve acts like having them both around is the most natural thing in the world.
She lights up when either of them walks in, demands their attention, falls asleep easily in their arms.
She's building attachments. Real ones. The kind that will hurt if they break.
I'm building attachments too, even though I'm trying not to. Even though I keep telling myself to be careful, to protect myself, to not let them all the way in.
But it's too late. They're already there. Declan with his constant affection and patient persistence, Stellan with his dry humor and unexpected gentleness with Maeve. They've woven themselves into our lives so thoroughly that I can't imagine what it would look like without them anymore.
And that's what terrifies me.
Because I've never had this. Never had family that showed up consistently, that wanted to be around, that loved without conditions or reservations.
My mother tried, but she was sick and overwhelmed and barely keeping us afloat.
Nia was chosen family, but even then I kept parts of myself separate, protected.
I never let anyone all the way in. Never trusted that they wouldn't leave, wouldn't get tired of me, wouldn't realize I wasn't worth the effort. Everyone has always left in one or another.
Declan's sprawled on my couch watching Maeve play with her blocks, and I'm supposedly doing inventory but really just watching them.
The way he responds to every babble like it's a conversation, the way she keeps checking to make sure he's still there, the way they've developed their own little language of sounds and gestures.
He's not going anywhere. I can see it in every gesture, every word, every moment he spends here. This isn't temporary for him. This isn't him humoring me until something better comes along.
This is real.
And I don't know how to let myself have it.