"I didn't." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes. "I saw you on the street the other day. Thought I'd come by. Say hello."
I just stare at him, not sure what to say. I'm not sure if he's lying or not.
It hits me that I once knew him better than anyone, and now he's a stranger that can still rip my heart from my chest. How do I handle that?
"We're old friends after all." He says it like he's testing the words. Seeing if they'll fit around whatever we used to be.
I scoff. Can't help it. The sound comes out bitter and sharp.
Inside, this is killing me. Every second he stands here is peeling away layers of carefully constructed armor, exposing wounds that never properly healed.
"We aren't."
"Maybe we could be." His gaze doesn't waver. "Friends. I know you said we weren't right for each other. But there's noreason to avoid each other, right? Philadelphia's a small city. We're bound to run into each other eventually."
The logic is sound. The logic is completely reasonable. Two adults who used to date learning to coexist in the same city without drama or complications.
Except there's nothing reasonable about the way my pulse is racing or the way Maeve's weight against my chest is the only thing keeping me grounded or the way every instinct I have is screaming that letting him back into my life in any capacity will destroy me.
But I can't explain that without admitting how much power he still has. How completely he wrecked me. How eight years wasn't nearly enough time to get over him when I'm the one that ended it and left.
So I swallow hard. Force myself to nod.
"Fine."
His face changes. Something that might be relief, might be hope, might be nothing at all because I've forgotten how to read him.
"Fine," he echoes.
Then he smiles. Small and careful and so familiar it makes my chest ache.
"I'll be seeing you around, Zola."
He turns. Walks toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame and looks back at me one more time like he's memorizing my face.
Then he's gone.
The bell chimes. The door closes. The bookstore falls back into silence.
I stand there holding Maeve, staring at the empty doorway, trying to remember how to breathe.
That just happened. Declan Wolfe just walked into my bookstore and asked to be friends and I said yes like an idiot because I couldn't think of a single valid reason to say no.
Except all the reasons that matter. Except the fact that being near him feels like standing too close to a fire—warm and dangerous and inevitably going to leave me burned.
Maeve makes a soft sound, pulling my attention back. She's watching me with those huge brown eyes, innocent and trusting, completely unaware that her entire world just shifted.
I press a kiss to her curls. Force my heart to slow down. Force myself to move, to walk to the register, to set my phone down with shaking hands.
I'm fine. I'm going to be fine.
This changes nothing. He's moved on I'm sure. I have Maeve. We can be civil. We can be friendly. We can coexist without it meaning anything.
The lie tastes bitter.
But I hold onto it anyway because the alternative—admitting that seeing him again shattered every defense I've built—is too much to handle right now.
So I hold Maeve close and return to my inventory spreadsheet and pretend my entire foundation didn't just crack.
