25. Zola
ZOLA
Iwake up Monday morning to the smell of coffee and something sweet baking, and for a disorienting moment I think I'm twenty-one again, back in that old apartment where Declan used to make elaborate breakfasts just to make sure I ate.
But I'm not twenty-one. I'm twenty-nine, and Declan's in my kitchen—our kitchen, really, since he's basically moved himself in over the past week—and the weight pressing against my chest is Maeve, who is snuggled against me.
"Morning, baby girl." I kiss the top of her curly head, and she makes a sleepy sound, burrowing deeper against me.
Declan appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt that clings to his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry, and there's flour on his cheek. "You two look comfortable."
"She's a bed thief." I run my hand over Maeve's back, feeling her steady breathing. "Takes after someone I used to know."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." But he's grinning, that slow smile that used to undo me completely. Still does, if I'm being honest. "Breakfast is almost ready."
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He crosses to the bed, bending down to kiss my forehead. Then Maeve's. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually eat."
Eight years ago, that comment would have made me bristle. Would have felt like criticism, like he thought I couldn't take care of myself. Now it just feels like care, like someone noticing that I sometimes get so wrapped up in the bookstore and Maeve that I forget basic things like meals.
"Thank you." The words come easier than they used to.
"Always, love." He straightens, and the casual endearment does something to my chest—makes it tight and warm simultaneously. "Come out when you're ready. Stellan's stopping by in an hour."
Stellan's been coming by almost as often as Declan lately.
Sometimes with his brother, sometimes on his own.
Yesterday he showed up with takeout and a new teething toy for Maeve, then spent an hour reading to her from board books while I caught up on inventory.
The day before that, he'd brought coffee and helped reorganize the children's section while Declan dealt with a supplier issue.
It's becoming routine, having them both around. Having this sense of family that extends beyond just me and Maeve.
It's terrifying.
I carry Maeve downstairs twenty minutes later, after changing her diaper and getting us both dressed.
Declan's set the table—actual plates and silverware, not the mismatched collection I usually grab whatever's clean from.
There are blueberry pancakes stacked high, fresh fruit cut into neat pieces, and my coffee exactly how I like it.
"You're going to spoil me." I settle Maeve into her high chair, strapping her in before she can make a break for it.
"That's the plan." He slides a plate in front of me, then starts cutting up pancakes into tiny pieces for Maeve.
He knows exactly what size she can handle, has learned all her preferences over the past few weeks.
She likes fruit but not if it's too cold, prefers her pancakes slightly crispy on the edges, gets frustrated if pieces are too big but bored if they're too small.
He's learned her the way he used to learn me—through observation and attention and genuine care.
Maeve bangs her hands on the tray, making her impatient sound, and Declan laughs. "All right, all right. Here you go, sweetheart." He puts the pieces on her tray and she immediately grabs a fistful, shoving it toward her mouth with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
"She's going to be covered in syrup." I take a bite of my own pancakes—perfectly fluffy, just sweet enough.
"Good thing bath time exists." He sits across from me, watching Maeve with this soft expression that makes my heart do complicated things. "I love you, Maeve. Even when you're a mess."
She grins at him, syrup already on her cheeks, and babbles something that might be an attempt at his name.
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. He tells her he loves her now, the same way he tells me. Casually, constantly, like it's just a fact of existence. The sky is blue, water is wet, Declan loves Maeve.
"What?" He notices me staring.
"Nothing." I force myself to take another bite, but the pancakes suddenly feel too thick in my throat. "It's just... you're really good with her."
"She makes it easy." He reaches over, wiping syrup off Maeve's chin with his thumb. "She's a good kid. Sweet. Curious. Reminds me of someone."
"Nia." The name still hurts, still feels like a wound that hasn't fully closed.
"You." He corrects gently. "She reminds me of you."
I don't know what to do with that, so I focus on eating. On getting food into my body even though my stomach's doing gymnastics. On being present in this moment instead of spiraling about what it all means.
Stellan arrives exactly when he said he would, carrying a bag from the bakery down the street. "I brought muffins."
"We just finished pancakes." I gesture at the table, where Maeve is systematically destroying what's left of her breakfast.
"And? There's always room for muffins." He dumps the bag on the counter, then heads straight for Maeve. "Morning, kid. You're a disaster."
She reaches for him, making her demanding sound, and he picks her up without hesitation. A month ago, he was terrified of her. Now he handles her like it's second nature, unbothered by the syrup that immediately transfers to his expensive shirt.
"You're going to ruin that." I point at the spreading stain.
"It's a shirt." He settles Maeve on his hip, grabbing a muffin with his free hand. "I have others."
Declan's watching us with this satisfied expression, like seeing his brother with my daughter is somehow exactly what he wanted. Maybe it is. Maybe he's been slowly weaving us into his life, making sure we fit, making sure this becomes permanent before I can pull away.
It's working. God help me, it's working.
Tuesday afternoon, I'm trying to organize the romance section—which desperately needs updating, since Nia was the one who usually curated it and I haven't had the heart to touch it until now—when Declan shows up with lunch.
"You didn't have to." But I'm already reaching for the bag, stomach growling at the smell of Thai food.
"Needed an excuse to see you." He leans down, kissing me slow and thorough enough that heat floods through me. "Missed you."
"You saw me three hours ago." I'm breathless when he pulls back.
"Still missed you." He takes Maeve from where she's been playing with board books, tossing her gently in the air until she shrieks with laughter. "Missed you too, sweetheart."
We eat on the floor of the children's section, Maeve between us attempting to steal noodles from both our containers. Declan tells me about a supplier meeting that went well, asks about my plans for reorganizing the store, listens like my thoughts on shelf placement actually matter.
"I was thinking about expanding the children's section." I gesture toward the corner that's currently storage. "Clear that out, put in some bean bags, make it more welcoming for kids and parents."
"Good idea." He's not just agreeing to agree—I can see him actually considering it. "You'd need better lighting. Maybe some murals on the wall."
"I can't exactly afford a mural right now."
"I know someone who owes me a favor. Does good work." He says it casually, like he's not trying to solve my problems, just offering information.
Eight years ago, I would have bristled at that. Would have seen it as him trying to control things, trying to fix me. Now I recognize it for what it is: someone who loves me trying to help make my dreams happen.
"That would be nice." My voice comes out softer than I intended. "Thank you."
"Always." He kisses my temple, then Maeve's head. "I love you both."
There it is again. That casual declaration that feels anything but casual.
Wednesday night, after Maeve's asleep and the bookstore is locked up, Declan pulls me into the bedroom. We barely make it to the bed before he's kissing me, hands roaming, pulling at clothes with the kind of urgency that suggests he's been thinking about this all day.
"Missed this." He murmurs against my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Missed you."
"You were here this morning." But I'm arching into him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the solid muscle underneath.
"Still missed you." He gets my dress over my head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Miss you every second I'm not touching you."
We fall into bed together, all heat and desperation and the kind of connection that feels like coming home. He knows exactly how to touch me, where to kiss, what pressure and pace I need. Like the eight years apart didn't matter, like our bodies remember each other perfectly.
Afterward, we're tangled together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. "Stay." I say it without thinking, then immediately want to take it back because it sounds too vulnerable, too needy.
But he just pulls me closer. "I'm not going anywhere, love."
"You have to go eventually. You have work—"
"I'll stay as long as you want me." He tips my chin up so I'm looking at him. "Always."
I believe him. That's the terrifying part. I actually believe that he means it, that he's not going to wake up one day and realize he made a mistake choosing me.
Thursday brings rain, the kind that keeps customers away and makes the bookstore feel cozy and insulated from the world. Stellan shows up midday with coffee and lunch, settling in to work on his laptop while Maeve plays nearby.
"You don't have to keep doing this." I gesture at the food, the fact that he's here at all.
"Doing what?" He doesn't look up from his screen.
"Coming by. Bringing food. Watching Maeve while I work."
Now he does look at me, one eyebrow raised. "You're family. This is what family does."