He gives me a look—flat and unimpressed—then plates a bagel and slides it across the counter. "Eat. Please."
I eat because arguing seems pointless and also because I'm actually hungry. He's already cut the bagel, spread the cream cheese exactly how I like it, even remembered to bring the kindof coffee I prefer. It's those small details that get me—the proof that he's been paying attention, that he remembers, that he cares.
"You busy today?" He's feeding Maeve pieces of banana, wiping her sticky hands with practiced ease.
"Inventory in the back room. Nothing exciting." I take another bite. "You?"
"Meeting at eleven. Should be done by three, then I'm free." He glances over. "Thought I could come back after. Help with whatever you need."
"You don't have to?—"
"I know." He wipes Maeve's face with a damp cloth, gentle despite her protests. "I want to."
And that's the problem, isn't it? He wants to be here. Wants to help, wants to take care of us, wants to build something. And I want to let him so badly I can barely stand it.
The first week establishes a pattern.Declan shows up in the mornings with breakfast. Stays until he has to leave for work—sometimes that's an hour, sometimes it's four. Then he comes back in the afternoon or evening, helps with Maeve, makes sure I eat, does all the small things that add up to feeling cared for.
He never pushes. Never asks for more than I offer. Some nights he leaves right after Maeve goes down. Other nights I let him stay longer, let him pull me down onto the couch and make me forget why I was so determined to protect myself.
He never kisses me though. I'm not sure if that's his boundary or if he's waiting for me to ask for it. Either way, there's something achingly tender about the way he touches me everywhere except my mouth—like that's reserved for something more permanent than whatever this tentative thing between us is.
Two weeks in, I'm doing inventory in the back room when Naomi appears with lunch.
"How's it going with Declan?" She settles onto a stack of boxes, unpacking sandwiches. "You've been quiet about it."
"It's going." I scan another barcode, add it to the spreadsheet. "He's here a lot."
"That's good, right?"
"I don't know." I set down the scanner, accept the sandwich she offers. "It's good but it's also terrifying because I keep waiting for something to go wrong."
"Has anything gone wrong?"
"No." I unwrap the sandwich—turkey and avocado from the deli down the street. "That's the problem. It's all been perfect and that can't last."
Naomi takes a bite of her own sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "You know perfection isn't the same as unsustainable, right? Sometimes things work out because both people want them to work out."
"Maybe." I'm not convinced. "Or maybe I'm just setting myself up to get hurt again."
"You've been hurt for so long." She points at me with her sandwich. "At least this way you get to be happy for a while first."
I don't have a good argument for that.
Three weeks in,Declan's gotten Maeve on a better sleep schedule. She goes down at seven-thirty most nights now, sleeps until six or seven in the morning. It's revolutionary—I'm actually getting sleep, which means I have the energy to think clearly.
Which is both good and bad because thinking clearly means acknowledging how completely I'm falling for him again.
It's the small things that get me. The way he always brings my favorite coffee. How he anticipates when I'm about to beoverwhelmed and steps in before I have to ask. The way he talks to Maeve like she's a person who deserves real conversation, not just baby talk.
Tonight he's on the floor with her, building block towers for her to knock down. She's delighted every single time, cackling like it's the funniest thing she's ever seen. She babbles at him in a way that definitely means she's bossing him away.
"Again?" He stacks the blocks carefully. "You sure? This one's going to be really tall."
She claps her hands, bouncing with anticipation. He makes a show of adding the last block, then sits back. She lunges forward and destroys it with one swipe, laughing so hard she tips over.
He catches her before she can face-plant, lifts her up and blows a raspberry against her stomach. She shrieks with joy, grabbing at his hair.
My chest hurts watching them. He's so good with her. Patient and playful and completely smitten. It would be easier if I could convince myself this was temporary, that he was just being nice until he got bored. But I can see it in the way he looks at her—genuine love, the kind that's not going anywhere.
