Always, You

Prologue

ZAYN

My footsteps echo on the new oak floors as I walk through the house.

It’s the only sound. A reminder of how much space I’ve built for a woman who isn’t here yet.

It’s too quiet—a silence that feels like it’s waiting for something.

Waiting for her to walk through the door and bring the place to life.

I catch my reflection in the dark window and reach for my cuffs, unbuttoning them.

I haven’t been able to settle down since I crossed back into town.

I roll my sleeves up to my elbows, showing the ink that covers my arms now—from my fingers all the way to my shoulders.

There’s so much more of it than the last time she saw me.

Five years of wanting her, of changing—all of it marked on my skin.

But the roses are still there. They were the first tattoos I ever got—the ones she loved before everything fell apart.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel her fingertips tracing over them, so light it made my skin burn.

Two years ago, I added the wreath around my neck.

I sat through hours of pain from the needle, thinking about how she used to say my pulse jumped when she kissed me there.

Every piece of ink on my body leads back to her.

I look away from the window and focus on the room.

I run my hand along the bare wall. The plaster feels cool and smooth under my palm.

Sophie would love the way the light hits this room.

She used to talk about it all the time—how she wanted to wake up to a real sunrise.

A fresh start every morning. Every detail of this house, from the big windows to the way the hallways catch the morning light, I built with her in mind.

It’s a future she doesn’t know I’ve been planning since the day I left.

I haven’t forgotten a single thing she ever told me. Every dream she shared during our late-night talks, every small thing that made her smile—it’s all right here. I can still see the way her eyes would light up when she talked about having a place of her own someday.

That light in her eyes was all I could think about when I designed the kitchen.

It’s the heart of the house. Proof of the promise I made to her.

I spent weeks arguing with the builder, refusing to give in until every inch was exactly how I remembered her showing me in that magazine five years ago.

Through the back windows, the yard stretches out toward the trees.

There’s a tall wooden fence for privacy and plenty of room for a dog to run.

Her dog, Mia. I’ve seen them on the cliff path in the early mornings, the wind catching Sophie’s dark hair while Mia runs ahead.

I stayed back, hidden in the shadows, waiting.

I wasn’t ready to face her yet. Not until I had something real to give her.

Sophie belongs in this kitchen, sunlight shining on her dark hair. Her dog should be running in that yard. I’ve spent years preparing for this—for her—and I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving I’m not leaving again.

I press my hand against the stone countertop. The cold surface helps me focus through the rush of hope in my chest. “It’s waiting for you,” I whisper into the quiet house. “Everything is waiting for you.”