27. Zola #2
"You could walk away." Naomi says it quietly. "Pack up Maeve, move somewhere else, start over again. Keep protecting yourself from everything that might hurt you."
"I could." The thought makes my stomach turn.
"Or you could stay." She squeezes my shoulders gently. "You could stop running, stop protecting yourself from possibilities, and actually let yourself have this. Let yourself love him the way he loves you. Build something real instead of just surviving."
"What if it ends?" My voice breaks. "What if I let myself have this and then I lose him and I'm left with nothing but this massive hole where he used to be?"
"What if it doesn't end?" Naomi counters. "What if you get fifty years together? What if Maeve grows up with a father who adores her and you get to be happy? What if you let yourself have the life you actually want instead of the life you think is safe?"
I don't have an answer for that. Don't know how to reconcile the terror with the wanting, the protection with the possibility.
"You have to decide." Naomi says gently.
"Either move away from him for good—cut ties completely, take Maeve somewhere he can't find you, actually move on.
Or let him in. All the way in. Stop holding back, stop protecting yourself, stop waiting for it to fall apart.
But you can't keep doing this in-between thing.
It's not fair to him and it's destroying you. "
She's right. I know she's right. I can't keep living in this space between wanting and fear, can't keep letting him show up and care for us while holding myself back emotionally in case everything crumbles.
I either have to leave for real or I have to stay for real. Choose protection or choose possibility.
Choose fear or choose him.
"Come on." Naomi pulls me into a hug, and I collapse against her, breathing in her familiar scent. "Pull yourself together and let's get back out there before someone comes looking."
I nod against her shoulder, then pull back to splash cold water on my face. My eyes are red but hopefully everyone will assume it's exhaustion from managing Maeve. I dry my face carefully, check that my braids are still neat, and follow Naomi back into the hallway.
The dinner table is set when we return, and Declan's plating food with the careful precision he always brings to cooking. Stellan's pouring wine, and everyone's finding seats, and Maeve's still sleeping peacefully in the other room.
I slip into the chair Declan indicates, and he sets a plate in front of me that looks like something from a magazine—perfectly arranged, beautiful, made with care.
"Okay?" He murmurs, hand briefly touching my shoulder.
"Yeah." I manage a smile. "Just tired."
He doesn't look entirely convinced but he doesn't push, just moves on to serve everyone else.
Dinner is incredible. Of course it is. Declan's always been an excellent cook, something he taught himself because he wanted to take care of me, wanted to make sure I ate properly when I was working multiple jobs and forgetting meals.
The conversation flows easily—Naomi and Stellan discover a shared appreciation for classic cars, Jordan asks Nilos about something related to security systems, Jamie makes dry observations that have everyone laughing. It feels normal. Natural. Like we could be any group of friends sharing a meal.
Except we're not. We're a collection of people from dangerous worlds and complicated pasts, and somehow it works anyway.
I watch Naomi laugh at something Nilos says, watch the way he looks at her like she's the center of his universe. I remember warning her about him. Telling her that men like Nilos were dangerous, that his world would consume her, that she needed to be careful.
But he's been good to her. More than good. He's protected her and Jordan, given them stability and safety and love. He's chosen them over and over again, made space in his life for the family they're building together.
I was wrong to warn her away from him. Or maybe I was right to be cautious but wrong about what would happen. Because watching them now, I can't see anything but happiness.
After dinner, we move back to the living room.
Declan checks on Maeve, returns with her awake and babbling, and suddenly she's being passed around again.
Stellan takes her without hesitation now, and she grabs at his collar with sticky fingers while he makes quiet sounds that might be attempts at conversation.
Jamie accepts her next with surprising gentleness for someone who looks like he's never held a baby in his life, and Maeve studies his face with serious concentration before patting his cheek.
"She's got excellent taste." Jamie observes. "Clearly knows quality when she sees it."
"She's drooling on your shirt." Stellan points out, and Jamie looks down at the wet spot spreading across his shoulder.
"Battle scar." He hands her back to Declan. "I'll wear it with pride."
Everyone laughs, and Declan settles Maeve against his chest, and she makes that happy humming sound she makes when she's content. She bounces between Stellan and Declan all evening, perfectly comfortable with both of them, clearly viewing them both as safe people.
As family.
I sip my wine and watch it all unfold—the easy conversation, the comfortable silences, the way everyone fits together despite their differences. Naomi catches my eye across the room and raises her eyebrows slightly, a silent question.
What's more important?
Staying safe or staying here. Protection or possibility. Fear or love.
Declan's laughing at something Jordan said, Maeve still in his arms, and he looks so genuinely happy that something in my chest cracks open.
I can't deny how much I love him anymore.
The last car pulls away and I'm left in the sudden quiet of Declan's house, my house, our house—I don't even know what to call it anymore. I start gathering plates from the coffee table, stacking them carefully while my mind replays Naomi's words on an endless loop.
Either leave for real or stay for real.
The kitchen smells like garlic and wine and contentment. I run hot water in the sink, watching it steam up the window above, and start scrubbing a plate even though Declan has a perfectly good dishwasher. I need something to do with my hands, need the repetitive motion to quiet my racing thoughts.
Maeve went down without protest, exhausted from being passed around all evening like the world's most beloved football.
She loved every second of it—all those faces cooing at her, making her giggle, treating her like she was precious.
She is precious. And Declan treated her that way from the moment he walked back into my life.
Not because he was trying to get to me. Not as some strategy. But because he genuinely cares about her.
I scrub harder at a spot that's already clean.
"You don't have to do that." Declan's voice comes from behind me, closer than I expected.
"I know." I don't turn around. "But everyone was here and we made a mess and I can't just leave it—"
His arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. I go still, plate suspended in the soapy water, breath catching at the solid warmth of him.
"Everything okay?" His voice is low, careful. "You disappeared into the bathroom with Naomi earlier and came back looking like you'd been crying."
Of course he noticed. Declan notices everything.
"I'm fine." The lie tastes stale even as I say it.
"Zola." His breath is warm against my ear. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out."
I set the plate down in the dish rack with trembling hands. Turn in his arms so I'm facing him, my back pressed against the sink, nowhere left to run.
He's watching me with those dark green eyes that see too much, that have always seen too much. One hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"Talk to me, love."
The endearment breaks something in me. I reach up, covering his hand with mine, pressing it harder against my face like I can absorb the certainty in his touch.
"I've been holding back." The words scrape out of me.
"Since you came back. Since you showed up at the bookstore.
I've been so scared of letting you in again, of needing you, of building something real because what if it ends?
What if I lose you? What if I let myself have this and the universe rips it away? "
Declan's quiet, just watching me, letting me get it out.
"My whole life I've protected myself." My voice cracks. "After Mom died, I learned that people leave. That you can't count on anyone to stay. So I handled everything alone. Never asked for help. Never let myself need anyone because needing someone means they can hurt you when they go."
"I know." His other hand comes up to frame my face. "I've always known that about you."
"And you loved me anyway." Tears are sliding down my cheeks now, hot and unstoppable. "You took care of me anyway. Made me feel safe. And when I left, you just... waited. Kept everything. Kept hoping I'd come back. Eight fucking years, Declan."
"I would have waited longer." He says it simply, like it's obvious.
"That's the problem." I press my palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath them. "You love me that much. And I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to be worthy of someone who kept a whole house like a shrine, who never moved on, who chose me over everything."
"You don't have to be worthy." His thumbs wipe away my tears. "You just have to let me love you."
"I'm terrified." The admission is raw. "Of your world. Of losing you to violence or betrayal or just the reality of what you do. Of ending up alone with Maeve and this massive hole where you used to be."
"So what are you saying?" His voice is careful, controlled, but I can see the tension in his jaw. "Are you leaving again?"