Chapter 23 Welcome Home
Welcome Home
“You’re going to burn a hole in my toast if you keep staring like that,” Zayn says, not looking up from his buttering.
Sunlight streams through The Pearl’s windows, illuminating the familiar Sunday crowd—Mr. Collins with his newspaper, the bookshop owners in their corner, the usual faces that make Bellrose feel both impossibly small and comfortable.
Heat creeps up my neck. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were.” He glances up, meeting my gaze, and those intense eyes still make my heart stutter even after countless coffees, kisses, and nights tangled in his sheets. “What’s running through that beautiful head of yours, Sophie?”
I take a bite of my eggs Benedict to buy time.
The hollandaise is perfection—tangy and rich coating the runny yolk.
“Just thinking how surreal it is that this feels normal now. Us. Sunday brunch.” I gesture between us with my fork.
“Months ago I couldn’t even look at you without wanting to either flee or throw something at your head. ”
He laughs, and the sound warms me more than the coffee ever could. “And now?”
“Now I only want to throw things at you maybe twice a day. Significant progress.”
His foot finds mine under the table, a gentle press that feels more intimate than a kiss would.
Outside the window, seagulls wheel and cry, occasionally diving toward the water.
Their calls blend with the clatter of silverware and the low murmur of conversation surrounding us.
This is what happiness feels like, I realize with sudden clarity. This exact moment, right here.
“So,” Zayn says, pulling me back to the present. “I’ve got that property dispute case starting tomorrow. The infamous fence that’s been relocated three times.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “The Henderson-Mackley saga?”
“You know about it?”
“Mrs. Mackley brings her poodle for grooming monthly and discusses that fence the entire appointment. Apparently Mr. Henderson moved it six inches onto their property in 1997 and she’s still harboring a grudge.”
Zayn shakes his head, sipping his black coffee. “Try twenty-six years of property deeds, hand-drawn maps, and grainy photographs of fence posts. I’ve got literal boxes of ‘evidence’ to go through.”
I steal a piece of his bacon. “Poor baby lawyer,” I tease. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a ferret tomorrow who bites anything that moves and a cat who’s pulling out his own fur because he’s ‘anxious about politics.’”
“The cat told you that himself?” Zayn raises an eyebrow.
“His owner insists Mr. Whiskers is deeply invested in politics.” I fight a smile. “She plays CNN every evening and claims he meows differently when certain senators speak.”
We laugh together, and it feels effortless. That’s what’s changed. We laugh without forcing it. We can sit in comfortable silence without it feeling weighted. We simply fit better now.
“How’s the partnership paperwork progressing?” Zayn asks, signaling the waitress for more coffee.
My heart does a little leap thinking about it—me, Sophie Whitmore, about to co-own Bellrose Veterinary Clinic. “I signed everything Friday. Dr. Martinez is filing it all tomorrow.” I can’t suppress my grin. “It still feels completely unreal.”
“It’s very real.” Zayn takes my hand across the table, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm that send pleasant shivers up my arm. “You earned this, Soph. All of it.”
The waitress refills our coffee, and we continue discussing our upcoming week.
Zayn gets excited talking about his cases, particularly when he mentions helping locals navigate complex legal issues.
I describe the three-legged rescue pug coming in for his final checkup before officially joining his new family.
We laugh about Harper’s awful date last weekend and wonder if Sara’s weird haircut was on purpose or just a big mistake.
After we finish eating, Zayn pays the bill despite my offer to split it. He takes my hand as we stroll toward the harbor, our fingers interlacing naturally. Wind whips my hair across my face, and Zayn tucks it behind my ear before I can react.
“I was going to do that,” I protest, butterflies erupting in my stomach.
“Too slow,” he says, grinning.
We pass shops opening for the day, joggers, people walking their dogs.
Boats bob gently in the harbor, their lines creaking in the breeze.
Small pink roses blooms along the waterfront path.
I inhale salt air and coffee from the cup in my hand, feeling strangely content just existing here, right now, with him.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it while Zayn stops to greet a golden retriever and its owner. The text message makes my stomach plummet.
REMINDER: Apartment lease renewal due by Friday. Need your decision ASAP. - Tom
I shove my phone back in my pocket quickly, hoping Zayn can’t read the anxiety that just flooded my system. I’ve been avoiding this decision for weeks now.
“Everything okay?” Zayn asks, returning to my side. He always notices when something shifts.
“Yeah, fine.” I respond too quickly, too brightly. I sip my now-lukewarm coffee to hide my expression. “Just Sara asking about dinner plans tonight.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I can tell he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t push. He simply takes my hand as we continue walking.
My thoughts spiral. The lease deadline has been looming over me for weeks, but I’ve been avoiding discussing it with Harper and Sara.
And especially with Zayn. I already sleep at his place most nights.
Mia has her own bed in his living room now.
Half my wardrobe has migrated to his closet.
But making it official feels so big. Like I’m surrendering the last shred of independence I’ve been clinging to.
I stop walking abruptly, paralyzed by sudden panic. What if I give up my apartment, move in completely, and then—
I can’t complete the thought. Can’t articulate the fear gnawing at my chest. It’s irrational anyway. Zayn isn’t leaving. He refused New York. His law practice is thriving here. He loves me.
So why can’t I shake this anxiety coiling in my gut? What if he gets bored with small-town life? What if I’m not enough to keep him engaged long-term? What if history repeats itself?
Not again. I can’t survive that again.
“Hello? Earth to Sophie?” Zayn waves his hand in front of my face. “You completely stopped mid-sentence. And you’re doing the hair thing again.”
I realize my finger is wound tightly in a strand of my hair, twirling it round and round. I release it immediately. “Sorry. Just thinking about a complicated case at work.” I hate lying to him. I take a large gulp of cold coffee to avoid eye contact.
“Whatever you say.” Zayn gives my hand a gentle, understanding squeeze. “But I’m here whenever you’re ready to discuss what’s actually bothering you.”
I can only nod because I might cry if I speak. I stare out at the harbor—so vast and blue and beautiful. My future could be equally beautiful—if I can find the courage to jump in with both feet.
Sara sits cross-legged on the floor with flashcards scattered around her, studying for her advanced vet tech certification.
Harper’s sprawled on the couch painting her toenails metallic black while watching a baking competition on mute.
I can smell Harper’s marinara simmering on the stove and Sara’s lavender candles burning on the coffee table.
This place has been my sanctuary for years.
Where I retreated when Zayn left five years ago.
Where I slowly healed through countless movie nights with ice cream and wine-fueled heart-to-hearts.
“Tom texted about the lease,” I announce abruptly, then pour myself water just to have something to do with my hands. They’re trembling slightly, making the ice cubes clink against the glass.
Sara glances up, blonde hair falling across her face. “When’s the deadline?”
“Friday.” I lean against the counter, attempting casual. Like this isn’t a huge decision. Like my stomach isn’t twisted in knots. “We need to tell him if we’re renewing for another year.”
Harper caps her nail polish and sits up straighter. “I’m staying, obviously.” She wiggles her freshly painted toes. “Unless you two are abandoning me for somewhere fancy with functional heating and floors that don’t creak like a haunted house.”
Sara stacks her flashcards in a pile. “I’m staying too. I love being able to walk to work.” She looks directly at me, reading my expression like she always does. “But that’s not what you’re actually asking, is it, Soph?”
Heat floods my face. I set my water down, pick it up again, wipe the condensation off with my thumb. “I… I don’t know what to do.” The words tumble out. “About the lease. About staying. About… everything.”
Harper arches an eyebrow knowingly. “Everything? Or just whether you’re going to admit you basically already live at Zayn’s house and make it official?”
I curl into the armchair, pulling my knees to my chest. The worn fabric feels comforting against my skin, familiar as an old friend. “Is it that obvious?”
“Sweetie,” Sara says gently, “you’ve slept here maybe twice in the past week. Your toothbrush has been at his place since the day he gave you that key. Mia makes a beeline for his door the second you take her outside.”
“I still pay rent here,” I protest weakly.
Harper snorts. “Yeah, for the world’s most expensive storage unit for stuff you haven’t gotten around to moving yet.”
“It’s not—” I start, then stop. Because they’re absolutely right. I’ve been gradually relocating to Zayn’s house piece by piece without acknowledging it out loud. Like if I don’t say the words, it’s not really happening.
Sara moves to perch on the arm of my chair, her hand warm on my shoulder. “What’s really going on, Soph? You two seem incredible together. Better than incredible.”