"You're perfect, you know that?" I can't help the words, can't stop them from spilling out in the dim light of the living room. "Absolutely perfect. Smart and sweet and so damn cute it should be illegal."
Her eyes open slightly at the sound of my voice, tracking my face like she's memorizing it.
"I missed you so much, babygirl. Hated staying away but I had to handle some things first. Adult problems that don't matter to you." I brush a curl back from her forehead, gentle. "What matters is your Mama Zola. She's the best person I know—strongest, smartest, most beautiful woman in the entire world. And she loves you more than anything."
Maeve makes a small sound around the bottle, something between contentment and agreement.
"I love her too." The admission comes easier than I expected. "Never stopped, even when I should have. Even when I tried to. She's it for me—always has been."
The bottle's nearly empty now. Maeve's sucking has slowed, eyelids drooping heavily.
"And you..." I pause, realize what I'm about to say is completely true. "I love you too, sweetheart. I know that's fast—we've only known each other a few weeks—but I can't help it. You're too perfect not to love. Too sweet and funny and brave."
She finishes the bottle and I set it aside, lifting her to my shoulder to burp her. She protests sleepily but settles when I start rubbing small circles on her back.
"I've never fallen in love this fast with someone before." The words are quiet, meant only for her. "But you made it easy. Just existing and being perfect and trusting me to take care of you. How could I not love you?"
She burps softly against my shoulder, body going boneless with satisfaction. I keep rubbing her back, gentle circles that soothe us both.
"We're going to figure this out." More promise, more certainty. "Me and you and your mama. Going to build something good. Something that lasts. I promise you that."
The shower cuts off. I hear Zola moving around in the bathroom, the quiet sounds of her nighttime routine. Getting dressed, brushing her teeth, braiding her hair before bed like she always did.
Maeve's completely out now, breathing deep and even. I stand carefully, cross to the crib tucked in the corner of Zola's bedroom. She doesn't stir when I lay her down, too exhausted to even notice the transition. I arrange her carefully, make sure the stuffed elephant is within reach, pull the light blanket up to her waist.
"Sweet dreams, babygirl." I brush my fingers over her curls one more time before backing away.
Zola emerges from the bathroom as I'm closing the bedroom door. She's in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hangsoff one shoulder, braids pulled back from her face. No makeup, skin still slightly damp, looking soft and vulnerable in a way that makes something clench in my chest.
"She go down okay?" Her voice is quiet, mindful of the sleeping baby.
"Out like a light the second I put her in the crib." I move to the kitchen, start pulling plates from the cabinet like I have every right to be here. "Food should be here in five minutes."
She hovers near the bathroom door, watching me move through her space with an expression I can't quite read. Wary, maybe. Uncertain.
The delivery arrives right on schedule. I pay, tip generously, and start unpacking containers while Zola sits at the small table by the window. She looks nervous, picking at the edge of her sleeve, eyes tracking my movements like she's waiting for something to go wrong.
"Eat." I slide her plate across the table, loaded with pad thai and spring rolls. "Slowly. Your stomach's probably not used to proper food after a week of stress and nothing else."
"You're being bossy." But she picks up her fork, twirls noodles around it.
"Someone has to be." I take the seat across from her, though I'm not particularly hungry. "You're running yourself into the ground."
She takes a bite, closes her eyes like it's the best thing she's tasted in days. Probably is. She eats slowly, methodically, and I watch her rediscover the simple pleasure of actually being hungry and having good food to fix it.
We don't talk much. Don't need to. The silence is comfortable in a way I'd forgotten was possible—just existing in the same space, sharing a meal, not performing for each other.
She's halfway through her plate when Maeve makes a sound from the bedroom. Not crying, just a small noise of adjustment. Zola starts to stand but I'm already moving.
"I've got her. Finish eating."
Maeve's shifted in her sleep, gotten her foot caught in the crib slats. I free it gently, rearrange the blanket, run my hand over her back until she settles again. When I come back out, Zola's finished her food and is curled up on the couch, looking exhausted and uncertain.
I clean up the dishes because it's automatic, because taking care of the space means taking care of her. She doesn't protest, just watches me move through her kitchen like I belong there.
When I'm done, she's still on the couch. Knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, looking smaller than someone her size should. Looking scared.
I have no intention of leaving. Want to stay here, sleep on this couch if she'll let me, wake up when Maeve does and be with her so Zola can actually rest. Want to prove I meant everything I said—that I'm here, that I'm not going anywhere, that she doesn't have to do this alone.
