She has no idea. She probably thinks Declan is some hot, normal guy with a crush.
My face burns. "Naomi?—"
"Call me later." She squeezes my arm as she passes. "And Zola? Don't overthink it. Sometimes good things just happen."
She leaves before I can argue, the bell chiming her exit.
The silence stretches between Declan and me, heavy with everything unsaid.
"She seems nice," he offers finally.
"She's my friend." I start consolidating the food, stacking containers. "I guess my only friend now."
His expression softens. "You have me."
Do I? I want to ask. Because friends don't make my pulse race when they walk in. Friends don't make me remember what it felt like to be touched like I mattered. Friends don't haunt me for eight years after I leave.
Instead I just nod. "Right. You brought lunch?"
"Thought you might be hungry." He moves closer, that familiar confidence in every step. "How's Maeve?"
"Asleep. She was up most of the night."
"You look exhausted."
"Thanks. Really selling my best features." The words come out sharper than I intend.
He doesn't flinch. "You're always beautiful. Even when you're running on no sleep and trying to do everything alone."
My chest tightens. This is what breaks me—not the grand gestures but the quiet observations, the way he sees me even when I'm trying to disappear.
"I should check on her."
I escape to the office before he can respond. Maeve's still sleeping, curled on her side with her thumb halfway to her mouth. She looks peaceful. Innocent. Everything I'm trying to protect her from.
Declan follows me, his presence filling the small space. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question."
"Why didn't you introduce me and Naomi?"
Because I haven't told her about you. Because explaining you means explaining why I left Philadelphia, why I spent all that time in New York pretending I was fine, why I came back and still avoided every place you might be.
Because telling her about you makes it real, and I can't handle real right now.
"I don't—I haven't talked about you. About us." I adjust Maeve's blanket, needing something to do with my hands. "It's easier that way."
"Easier for who?"
"Both of us." I turn to face him. "What do you want me to say? That we dated when we were young? That it ended badly? That we're trying to be friends now even though?—"
I cut myself off. Can't finish that sentence without admitting too much.
"Even though what?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
But he's closer now, trapped in the office doorway, looking at me like he used to—like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve.
