Page 60 of Daddy's Ring
"You've been starving." He's already pulling out his phone. "I'm ordering groceries."
"You don't have to?—"
"Zola." He looks at me, his expression firm. "Let me do this. Please."
The please breaks me. Because he's not demanding or pushing. Just asking. Giving me the choice I never gave him eight years ago.
"Okay," I whisper.
He orders enough food to feed an army, then starts working with what I have—pasta and some jarred sauce I'd forgotten about, frozen vegetables that are somehow still good. While he cooks, I give Maeve her bottle and change her into pajamas.
By the time I come back to the kitchen, he's plated dinner and is setting the small table. It's such a domestic scene—him in my kitchen, moving like he belongs here, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the apartment.
"This is too much," I manage.
"It's dinner." He pulls out a chair for me. "Sit. Eat. Stop arguing."
I sit. Eat. And it's the best meal I've had in weeks because I'm not alone, because he's across from me watching to make sure I finish everything, because for one night I can pretend this is real.
After dinner he takes Maeve while I shower and get ready for bed. When I emerge in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, he's walking the floor with her, humming that same tuneless melody. She's almost asleep, her face peaceful against his shoulder.
"She likes you," I say quietly.
"I like her too." He glances at me, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. "She's amazing. Like her mother."
"I'm not her mother."
"Yes, you are." No hesitation. Just certainty. "Biology doesn't determine that. Love does. And you love her."
I do. So much it scares me sometimes—this fierce protectiveness, this overwhelming need to keep her safe and happy and whole.
He gets Maeve down in her crib, then joins me in the living room. I'm curled on the couch, exhausted but wired, not ready for him to leave yet.
I'm nervous as I stare at him, words on the tip of my tongue that could send me free falling. But I need to take this leap. "Do you want to stay?"
He goes very still. "Zola?—"
"I know we're not—I'm not asking for—" I stumble over the words, face burning. "Just stay. Please. I don't want to be alone tonight."
Something shifts in his expression. He crosses to the couch, sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"I'll have to leave in a few hours," he says quietly. "I have work I have to deal with."
Right. His work. The kind that happens in darkness and leaves marks.
"That's fine. Just—stay as long as you can."
He reaches for me, pulling me against his chest. I go willingly, tucking myself into his side like I used to. He's solid and warm and real, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs into my hair.
It's a lie. He'll have to leave eventually. But for tonight, I let myself believe it.
For tonight, I let myself have this.
16
ZOLA
