I save my progress on the spreadsheet and cross to the crib, peering down at her. Those huge brown eyes blink open, unfocused and confused for a moment before they land on me. Her face scrunches, bottom lip trembling.
"Hey, sweet girl." I lift her carefully, supporting her head the way Naomi showed me. "You're okay. I've got you."
She settles against my chest, tiny fist curling into my shirt. Not crying yet but considering it, that little huff of breath that could go either way.
I walk the floor with her, swaying slightly, humming something I don't quite remember the words to. Nia used to sing to her—actual songs with melodies and lyrics. I just hum and hope it's enough.
Gradually Maeve relaxes. Tucks her face against my shoulder and makes that soft sound that means she's content. For now.
I breathe through the relief. Another minor victory in a day full of tiny battles.
This is my life now. Holding a baby while trying to run a business, measuring success in moments instead of milestones, hoping I make it to bedtime without completely falling apart.
The bell above the door chimes.
I glance up, already shifting into customer service mode—the smile, the helpful tone, the pretense that I have any idea what I'm doing.
Then I freeze.
Because Declan Wolfe is standing in the doorway, looking at me like I'm something that hurts to see.
My heart stops. Actually stops beating for a full second before slamming back into rhythm so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He looks?—
God, he looks exactly the same and completely different all at once. Still tall, still broad-shouldered, still moving with that careful control that used to make me feel safe. But there's something hollowed out about him now, something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Dark circles. Sharp cheekbones. The kind of tired that goes bone-deep.
He's in a suit. Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the kind of expensive clothing that used to make me tease him about looking like a mob boss from a movie. His hair is still dark but there are threads of silver now, just at the temples.
He's thirty-one. Should still look young. Instead he looks like someone who stopped sleeping years ago and never bothered trying again.
We stare at each other. The silence stretches, heavy and loaded with years of unfinished conversations.
Maeve shifts against me, drawing his attention. His gaze drops to her, something flickering across his face—surprise, maybe, or confusion—before moving back to me.
"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Flat. Like I'm asking a stranger for directions.
He takes a step forward. Then another. Moving slowly like he's approaching something wild that might bolt.
Maybe I am wild. Maybe I am going to bolt. My entire body is screaming at me to run, to get Maeve out of here, to not let him close enough to destroy me all over again.
But I stay frozen. Watching him approach.
"I came to see you." His voice is rougher than I remember. Deeper. Like he's been smoking or screaming or just stopped using it for anything that mattered.
In my heart, nothing has changed. That's the worst part. Eight years of distance and grief and building a completely different life and one look at him unravels all of it. One sentenceand I'm twenty-one again, desperately in love with someone I knew I couldn't keep.
But I can't be with him. I've known that since the moment I walked away. He needs someone who can give him children, someone who can stand beside him in his world without flinching, someone who isn't fundamentally broken in all the ways that matter.
And now I have Maeve. This tiny perfect person who needs stability and safety and a life that doesn't include men with violence under their fingernails.
So I force my expression into something cold. Annoyed. Like his presence is an inconvenience instead of a gut punch. Because I can't want him.
No matter how much of my life has changed, that hasn't.
"I told you not to come looking for me."
