"You can't keep doing this, Zola."
"Doing what?"
"Pushing me away. Pretending there's nothing here." His voice is low, careful. "I see you. I know you're struggling. Let me help."
"You are helping. You bring food, you hold Maeve, you—" My throat closes. "You're being a good friend."
"Is that what you want? Friendship?"
No. God, no. I want everything we had and more. I want him to stay, to be here, to help me raise this baby and run this bookstore and build something that doesn't feel so impossibly lonely.
But I can't have that. I made my choice when I left him that letter. When I walked away to save him from a life tethered to someone broken.
"It's what we can have."
His jaw tightens. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving you."
He comes backthe next day. And the day after that.
Always with coffee. Always with that patient determination that used to drive me crazy because he'd wait me out until I gave in, until I let him past my walls.
I'm trying to hold them up. Trying to maintain distance.
But it's getting harder.
Three days after the conversation with Naomi, I'm restocking the children's section when Declan arrives. Maeve's in her carrier strapped to my chest, fussing because she's teething again and everything makes her miserable.
"Here." He sets down coffee and reaches for her. "Let me take her."
"I've got her."
"You've been up since five. I can see it in your eyes." He gently unhooks the carrier, lifting Maeve free. "Go take a break."
"I don't need?—"
"Zola." His voice is firm but not harsh. "Take. A break."
Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's how Maeve immediately settles against his chest, her crying tapering to sniffles. Maybe it's how easy he makes it look, holding her like he's done it a thousand times.
I nod and escape to the back office, sinking into the chair and pressing my palms against my eyes.
This is killing me.
Watching him with Maeve. Watching him show up every day with exactly what I need before I ask for it. Watching him be patient and kind and everything I remember but somehow more because he's giving it all to me when I don't deserve it.
When I pushed him away.
When I'm still the same broken thing I was eight years ago.
I hear him out front, humming that tuneless melody while he walks with Maeve. Hear the soft sounds she makes, content now, safe with him.
He'd be such a good father.
The thought hits me hard, sharp enough to make my breath catch. He would be amazing—patient and protective and capable of the kind of love that doesn't come with conditions.
But not with me. Not with a woman who can't give him children. Not with someone who walked away once and would probably do it again if it meant protecting him from herself.
