Zola's expression hardens. "I'm managing."
She's drowning. I can see it in the way her hands shake slightly when she sets down the coffee, in the tightness around her mouth that means she's holding herself together through sheer stubborn will.
But I can't say that. Can't push. Can only show up and hope she lets me help eventually.
Maeve makes a sound—soft and questioning. Zola immediately moves toward the office but I'm closer.
"Can I?"
I'm not even sure where the question came from. Most people wouldn't expect a man like me to be a decent father, but I always wanted this. And this little girl—blood or not—is Zola's, and I want to hold her.
She hesitates. Looks like she wants to say no. But then Maeve's face scrunches, bottom lip trembling, and Zola nods once.
I step into the office and lift the baby carefully, supporting her head the way I've seen people do. She's so small. Warm and solid and real against my chest, blinking up at me with huge brown eyes that are trying to focus.
"Hey there, love." The endearment slips out automatically. "You're alright."
She stares at me. Makes that huffing sound babies make when they're not sure if they should cry or not.
I walk slowly, swaying slightly, and her face gradually relaxes. She tucks against my shoulder, tiny fist curling into my shirt, and just—settles.
Like she trusts me.
When's the last time anyone trusted me like this? When's the last time I held something this fragile and didn't break it?
I look up and find Zola watching us. Her expression is unreadable but something in her eyes isn't quite as cold.
"She likes you."
"She's perfect." I adjust Maeve slightly, keeping her secure. "Must have good taste."
Zola's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Don't push your luck."
But she doesn't take Maeve back. Just stands there drinking her coffee while I hold the baby, and for five minutes we exist in the same space without walls or weapons.
It's the best five minutes I've had in eight years.
I come backthe next day. And the day after that.
Always with coffee. Sometimes with pastries from the café she used to love. Once with lunch from the Italian place that makes fresh mozzarella.
Zola accepts them with wary gratitude, like she's not sure what game I'm playing. She keeps her distance, keeps her walls up, but every day she lets me stay a little longer.
I learn Maeve's schedule. She naps around eleven and again at two. Gets fussy around four unless someone walks with her. Loves being held but hates being confined to the carrier for too long.
I start showing up right before naptime. Zola doesn't ask me to help but she doesn't stop me when I take Maeve from her,when I walk the floor with her until those big eyes drift closed and her breathing evens out.
The baby fits against my chest like she belongs there. Warm weight and soft sounds and complete trust that I won't drop her or hurt her or let her fall.
I buy her toys. Nothing big—just small things I notice in shop windows. A stuffed elephant that rattles when you shake it. Board books with bright pictures. A teething ring because Zola mentions she's cutting teeth and seems miserable about it.
"You don't have to do this," Zola says one afternoon, watching me hand Maeve the elephant. The baby immediately shoves it in her mouth, gumming it enthusiastically.
"I know."
"So why are you?"
Because I need a reason to be here. Because watching Maeve smile makes something in my chest feel alive again. Because every moment I spend in this bookstore with Zola is proof I still exist as something other than the hollow shell I've been.
