Chapter 22 The Key to His Heart #2
Harper and Reed follow. Harper shoots me a look that clearly communicates “You better call me tomorrow with all the details.” I nod knowingly, and suddenly it’s just Zayn and me alone in his house—maybe our house?
“So,” he says after closing the door behind them. “That went well.”
“Harper didn’t stab you with her fork, so I’d call it a success.” I’m still turning the key over in my palm, feeling its weight.
He approaches me slowly. I have to tilt my head back to look at him—I forget how tall he is sometimes. “You don’t have to use it,” he says, nodding toward the key. “It’s just there if you want it.”
“What if I want to use it tonight?” The words escape before I can reconsider. His eyes darken, intensify.
“Then you don’t need it yet, since you’re already here.” His voice drops lower, and goosebumps rise along my arms.
We’ve been taking things slow physically. We’ve made out on this couch plenty of times, explored each other, relearned. But I haven’t spent the night. Haven’t been ready to wake up beside him, to be that vulnerable and unguarded again.
But tonight feels different. The key is warm in my hand, and having our friends here in this space changed something. That last wall I’ve kept up suddenly feels too heavy to hold anymore.
I step closer until we’re touching. “I meant I’d use it in the morning. When I leave. So I can let myself back in.”
He frames my face with his hands, thumbs stroking my cheekbones gently while his eyes hold mine. “Is that what you want?”
In answer, I rise on my toes and kiss him. The kiss starts tender but deepens as his arms pull me close. I slide my hands beneath his shirt, feeling his warm skin and the muscles I’ve been getting to know again these past months. He makes a low sound when I drag my nails lightly down his back.
We’ve kissed before but tonight feels different.
There’s patience now. His hands move over me with care, touching places he remembers would make me sigh and lean into him.
We know each other from before, but we’re also discovering new things—we’ve both matured since I was eighteen and he was twenty-one.
We understand better now what this means.
“Bedroom?” he murmurs against my neck, and I nod, too overwhelmed by the sensation of his mouth below my ear to speak.
He takes my hand and leads me down the hallway to his room.
I glimpsed it once when he first showed me the house, but haven’t entered since.
It’s spacious and inviting, dominated by a massive bed facing the windows.
Even now at night, with curtains open, Bellrose’s lights spread below like scattered stars.
We undress slowly, touching and kissing each newly exposed inch of skin. When we finally lie down together, I feel all my fears melt away. This is Zayn—my Zayn—who came back to me, who built this house for us, who’s proven he’s staying this time.
His hands, decorated with those dark tattoos I love, touch me so gentle. “I missed you,” he whispers against my collarbone. “Every day. Every moment. I missed you so much.”
I can’t form words as we move together, falling back into the rhythm we always had. It feels both familiar and brand new—his body against mine, his quick breaths, the warmth of his skin. But now there’s something deeper than before. We both understand now what we almost lost forever.
I wake to brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows, exactly as he planned when he designed this house.
For a second, I can’t place where I am, then I feel Zayn’s arm draped heavy and warm across my waist, his steady breathing against the nape of my neck.
I stayed the entire night. In Zayn’s house. In our bed.
I turn slowly to look at him, trying not to disturb his sleep.
When he’s unconscious, his face loses that hard, angular intensity, becomes softer somehow.
Those impossibly long eyelashes I’ve always envied cast delicate shadows across his cheekbones.
The tattoos winding up his neck and arms don’t look as fierce in morning light, more like pretty pictures.
From this angle, I notice all the small details in the room I missed last night in the dark and the heat of the moment.
The nightstand cluttered with legal briefs and case files.
The built-in bookshelf with empty space that looks like it’s waiting for my romance novels to fill it.
The doorway leading to the bathroom with its oversized shower and deep soaking tub.
Everything planned thoughtfully, on purpose, with me in mind.
Outside those beautiful windows, the sky blazes pink and gold. The sunrise he knew I’d want to witness when I woke up.
I feel it then, a warmth that floods my chest and makes my eyes prick with tears. This is what coming home feels like. Not returning to a building, but to a person. To the version of myself I used to be before heartbreak hardened me. To the future I was too terrified to hope for.
Zayn stirs beside me, eyes opening slowly. When his gaze finds mine, he smiles—genuine, soft, still sleep-hazy.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice scratchy.
I shift closer, breathing in his scent that’s becoming as familiar as my own. “Morning.”
His arms tighten around me, and he presses a kiss to my forehead. “Sleep okay?”
“Perfect,” I whisper, and I mean it completely. No nightmares, no anxiety-induced insomnia. Just deep, peaceful sleep wrapped in his arms. “Really, really perfect.”
His thumb traces lazy circles on my bare shoulder. “Stay as long as you want. Forever, ideally.”
Forever. That word used to terrify me. Now it just feels like a promise I’m finally brave enough to believe in.
Outside, the sun continues its ascent, flooding the room with golden light that makes everything feel warm and possible.
Soon we’ll need to get up. Make coffee. Face our responsibilities.
Start our separate days. But right now, I want to stay suspended in this moment, watching the sunrise through those windows, feeling his heartbeat synchronize with mine.
“I love you,” I whisper against his chest.
His arms constrict around me, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough. “I love you too. Always have. Always will.”