"It's not disappearing." His hands slide down to my shoulders, solid and warm. "I'm right here. Real and solid and not going anywhere."
"Promise me."
"I promise." He says it without hesitation. "I love you, Zola. That hasn't changed and it's not going to change."
I want to say it back. Want to tell him I love him too, that I never stopped, that leaving him was the worst mistake I ever made. But the words stick in my throat because saying them out loud feels like tempting fate.
Instead I pull him down to the couch, let him settle between my thighs, let him make me forget why I'm so determined to protect myself. He takes his time—always does—working me up slowly until I'm gasping his name into my own hand to stay quiet.
Afterwards he holds me while I catch my breath, fingers tracing patterns on my hip.
"Stay." I don't mean to say it but the words slip out anyway. "Just until I fall asleep."
"Okay." He adjusts us so we're both more comfortable, pulls the throw blanket over us. "Whatever you need."
I tuck myself against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Steady and strong and reliable. Everything I want and everything I'm still too afraid to fully claim.
His hand moves through my braids, gentle and soothing. "Close your eyes, love."
The endearment hits me like a physical thing—he used to call me that, back before everything fell apart. Hearing it again makes my chest tight with want and fear in equal measure.
But I close my eyes anyway. Let myself be held. Let myself imagine, just for tonight, that this could actually work.
22
DECLAN
Ileave Zola's place around midnight, which has become my usual departure time. She falls asleep around eleven most nights—exhausted from handling Maeve all day plus running the bookstore—and I stay until I'm sure she's out completely. Then I slip away before I can do something stupid like crawl into bed beside her and refuse to leave.
Stellan's place is only ten minutes from the bookstore. His lights are still on when I pull up, which means he's either working or drinking. Possibly both.
"I'm not letting you crawl into bed with me if you're trying to find someone to cuddle with." He doesn't bother with pleasantries when he opens the door, just steps aside to let me in.
I scoff. "You wish I'd cuddle with you."
The living room's cleaner than usual—no empty bottles on the coffee table, only one jacket tossed over the back of the couch. He's been better lately, more focused. Like having me around regularly again reminded him we're supposed to be running an empire together, not just going through the motions.
"Whiskey?" He's already pouring two glasses.
"Yeah."
We settle into our usual spots—him on the couch, me in the armchair. The silence stretches comfortable between us, the kind we've built over years of working side by side.
"How's Zola?" He takes a sip, watches me over the rim of his glass.
"Good. Better." I roll the whiskey between my palms, not drinking yet. "She's getting more sleep now that Maeve's on a schedule. Bookstore's doing well. She's eating regularly."
"That's not what I asked."
I look up. Stellan's expression is carefully neutral, which means he already knows the answer and he's just waiting for me to admit it.
"She's holding back." The words taste bitter. "I can feel it. Every time I think we're getting somewhere, she pulls away. Not physically—she lets me touch her, lets me stay—but emotionally she's got walls up I can't get through."
"Can you blame her?" He sets down his glass. "You were together two years, she left for eight more. That's a lot of scar tissue to work through."
"I know that." I finally take a drink, let the burn settle in my chest. "Doesn't make it easier."
"It'll take time." Stellan leans back, studies me with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing. "She's letting you in slowly. That's better than not at all."
