Declan glances at me, his expression softening. "You miss her."
"Every day." I enter another book into the system, blinking hard. "She should be here. Should be watching Maeve grow up and running this bookstore and—" My voice breaks. "It's not fair."
"No. It's not."
The simple agreement helps somehow. He's not trying to fix it or offer platitudes about how she's in a better place. Just acknowledging that it's awful and unfair and wrong.
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds Maeve's babbling and the rustle of cardboard. It feels almost normal—domestic in a way that makes my chest ache. Like we're a couple running a bookstore together, taking care of our daughter, building something.
Except we're not a couple. And Maeve's not ours. And this can't be real no matter how much I want it to be.
Around noon a customer comes in—a middle-aged woman looking for a specific title. I help her locate it while Declan stays with Maeve, who's decided the elephant is her new favorite toy. She shakes it, delighted by the rattle, then shoves it in her mouth.
"That's disgusting," I tell her after the customer leaves.
She grins at me, drool running down her chin.
Declan laughs—this real, genuine sound that makes something warm bloom in my chest. "She's not concerned with your hygiene standards."
"Clearly."
He picks her up, elephant and all, settling her on his hip. "You want to sing her the cup song? She loves that."
I watch as he demonstrates, stacking the cups while singing some tuneless melody that makes zero sense but has Maeve completely captivated. She reaches for the cups, knocking them over, laughing when they scatter.
"Again," Declan tells her solemnly, restacking them. "But this time try not to destroy my hard work."
She immediately knocks them over again.
"You're a menace." But he's smiling, rebuilding the tower. "A tiny, adorable menace."
It's unfairly adorable. He's unfairly adorable with her—patient and playful and completely unself-conscious about singing ridiculous songs in the middle of my bookstore. I should look away, should focus on work, but I can't stop watching them.
Can't stop imagining what it would be like if this was real.
Usually he leaves around three—some vague excuse about work or meetings. I never ask for details because I remember too well what those details look like. Blood and bruises and things I can't unknow.
But today he doesn't leave.
Four o'clock comes and goes. Then five. Maeve's getting tired, rubbing her eyes and whining. I'm about to start closing up when Declan shifts her to his other hip.
"You need dinner?"
"I have stuff upstairs." A lie. I have crackers and maybe some yogurt that's close to expiring.
His expression says he knows I'm lying. "Come on. Let me cook for you."
"You can't just?—"
"I can. And I am." He heads for the door, forcing me to follow. "Lock up and let's go upstairs."
I should argue. Should maintain boundaries. But I'm tired and hungry and the thought of him cooking—of not being alone for one night—is too tempting to resist.
So I lock the bookstore and lead him up to the apartment.
Declan takesone look at my refrigerator and raises an eyebrow. "This is tragic."
"I've been busy."
