Chapter 23 Welcome Home #2
I pick at a loose thread on my sweater, avoiding eye contact.
“What if I move in officially and then…” I trail off.
I can’t voice it. It’s the same fear that haunts me at night when Zayn’s sleeping peacefully beside me and I’m still awake, cataloging all the ways I could lose this fragile happiness.
“Then what?” Harper presses, pushing like she always does. “He leaves again? The apocalypse happens? Your hair spontaneously turns purple?”
“Not helpful, Harp,” Sara murmurs, but I shake my head.
“No, she should push.” I inhale shakily. “Yes, what if he leaves again? What if I give up this apartment—our place—and then I have nothing that’s truly mine?” My voice cracks slightly. “What if I’m all in and he’s… not?”
The room goes silent. Even the muted TV seems to pause. Sara squeezes my shoulder gently.
“Sophie,” she says after a moment, her voice kind but firm.
“Your romance novels are already on his bookshelves. The ones you swore you’d never let out of your sight.
Your favorite mug is in his kitchen cabinet.
Mia has her own bed in his living room. You keep your clothes and makeup and that ridiculously expensive shampoo you special-order in his bathroom. ”
I stare at her, my chest tight with a mix of feelings I can’t quite name.
“You’re already all in, Soph,” she continues softly. “Keeping your name on this lease doesn’t protect your heart anymore. It just means you’re paying rent on an escape plan you don’t actually need.”
I can’t breathe for a second. She’s right. I’ve been keeping this apartment like it’s some kind of insurance policy against heartbreak. Like a piece of paper with my name on it could somehow prevent devastation if things imploded.
“But what if—” I start again.
“What if he’s genuinely the man he claims to be now?” Harper interrupts, leaning forward intently. “What if he actually learned from his colossal mistakes? What if he really did choose you over New York and prestigious law firms and all that ambitious bullshit?”
“People change, Sophie,” Sara says quietly. “You have. Five years ago, you wouldn’t even let him buy you coffee without getting suspicious. Now you’re building an entire life together. You’re both different people now.”
Harper shifts to sit cross-legged on the floor beside my chair. “Look, I despised Zayn for a long time. Actively fantasized about keying his Jeep, remember?”
I manage a weak laugh. “I remember.”
“But even I have to admit he’s been rock-solid since returning. He shows up consistently. He chose to stay in Bellrose. He looks at you like you’re…” She pretends to gag dramatically, but I know she’s mostly kidding. “Like you’re his entire universe or whatever disgustingly romantic crap.”
The words barely emerge. “I’m just so terrified,” I whisper. “When he left before, I fell apart completely for months. What if history repeats itself?”
Sara squeezes my hand, her voice gentle but unwavering. “That’s always the risk with anything meaningful, right? But Soph, you can’t just stand still because you’re afraid of potential pain. That’s not living at all.”
“Plus,” Harper cuts in, “his house is far superior than this dump. You can actually take a hot shower for longer than four minutes without the water going arctic.”
That makes me laugh genuinely, breaking the heavy feeling in the room. “Would you guys be upset? If I officially moved out?”
Sara’s smile radiates warmth. “Actually, we’ve been discussing having my cousin Jenna take your room. She’s starting at the community college next month.”
“Really?” I’m genuinely surprised they’ve already planned ahead.
Harper shrugs casually. “Come on. You’re basically never here anyway. We knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
I look around our little apartment—the old couch with the permanent dip in the middle, the collage of photos showing our friendship on the walls, even the stubborn wine stains on the carpet from countless girls’ nights. This place saved me when I was down. But maybe I don’t need saving anymore.
“I think I’m ready,” I say, testing how the words feel in my mouth. “I want to move in with him. Officially.”
Sara squeezes my hand. “We knew you’d get there.”
“So I can claim your closet space?” Harper asks, grinning mischievously. “My yoga mat collection desperately needs a home.”
I grab the throw pillow beside me and launch it at her head. She catches it effortlessly, laughing. “Give me a minute to pack first!”
We’re all laughing together, and I feel something shift inside me. Like pieces clicking into place. Like finally knowing exactly what I want and being brave enough to claim it.
I barely get the front door closed before Mia comes racing around the corner, nails scrabbling on hardwood. She launches herself at me like I’ve been gone for years instead of hours, running circles around my legs, her entire body vibrating with joy.
“Hey, girl,” I laugh, dropping to my knees while she enthusiastically licks my face.
The house smells like fresh coffee and that vanilla candle I bought last week—the one Zayn initially dismissed as “too fancy” but now lights it every evening. I can hear typing and soft jazz drifting from the kitchen. My heart swells with that familiar warmth: the feeling of coming home.
I follow Mia to the kitchen where Zayn sits at the counter, laptop open, completely absorbed.
He looks intent, the screen’s glow casting shadows across his features.
He’s changed into sweatpants and a worn gray t-shirt that’s soft from countless washings.
His hair is disheveled, like he’s been dragging his hands through it while working—a habit I find ridiculously cute.
He glances up and his entire expression transforms. The professional intensity melts away, replaced by a smile that still gives me butterflies after all these months.
Zayn slides off his stool and crosses to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing me thoroughly. He tastes like coffee and the mint gum he constantly chews.
“You’re home early,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I missed you,” I admit. Even a month ago, voicing those words felt vulnerable. A few months before that, I couldn’t have said them at all without my throat closing.
Mia wedges herself between our legs, demanding her share of attention. We laugh and step apart.
“Perfect timing actually,” Zayn says, returning to his laptop. “I need to show you something.” He gestures me over. I settle onto the stool beside him, our shoulders touching.
“You look serious,” I observe. “Should I be concerned?”
“No, not concerned.” He angles his screen so I can see better. “Richard emailed me today. They want to offer me partnership at the firm.”
My breath catches. “Partnership? Already? Zayn, that’s incredible.” I scan the email with its formal language and the salary figure. “Wow.”
“It would mean longer hours initially,” he explains, scrolling through details. “More complex cases, heavier workload. But it represents long-term stability.” He meets my eyes, expression uncertain. “What do you think? How would this affect us?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with significance.
I stare at him, struggling to process what’s happening.
Five years ago, he chose his career over me and left for Seattle without thinking about us.
Now he’s asking my opinion before accepting a promotion at his local firm.
The contrast makes my eyes prick with tears.
“You genuinely want to know what I think?” I ask quietly.
He frowns slightly. “Of course I do. This would mean different schedules, probably some late nights at the office initially. It would impact both our lives.” He takes my hand. “I don’t make major decisions without you anymore, Sophie. I’m not that person.”
“I think,” I say, moving around the counter to stand beside him, “that you should absolutely accept it. You’re exceptional at what you do, Zayn. You’ve earned this.”
He swivels to face me, pulling me to stand between his legs. His hands settle on my hips, warm and solid. “We’ll still have our Sundays,” he promises. “No matter how demanding work becomes.”
“Our Sundays,” I echo, loving how that sounds. Our sacred time. Our ritual. Something we’ve built together that’s just ours.
He rests his forehead against mine. “So that’s a yes? You think I should do it?”
“Definitely yes.” I close my eyes, breathing him in. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re some hotshot partner.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Impossible.”
Later, after dinner and a movie on the couch with Mia sprawled across our laps, I stand to leave as usual. My overnight bag sits by the door, packed with tomorrow’s work clothes. This has become our unspoken pattern—I spend most nights here but still keeping the pretense of living elsewhere.
“Be right back,” I tell him, pulse accelerating with the decision I made during the movie. “I need to grab something from my car.”
Outside, cool night air hits my flushed face. I pop the trunk and pull out the cardboard box I packed after my conversation with Sara and Harper this afternoon. It’s not heavy, but it contains the pieces of myself I’ve kept separate. The last pieces of myself I haven’t brought into this house yet.
When I return inside, Zayn looks up from washing our dinner dishes. His eyes widen when he sees the box.
“What’s that?” he asks, drying his hands on a towel.
I set the box on the kitchen counter. Inside are things that matter—my favorite mugs from the apartment, including the chipped one Mom gave me when I first moved out.
Framed photos of me with Harper and Sara, and one of puppy Mia.
My stack of beloved romance novels I reread when I need comfort.
And most significantly, the wooden memory box from five years ago—ticket stubs, that lucky stone with a hole through the center, the dried rose, and the picture of us at the cliffs when we were young and happy and oblivious to what was coming.
“My lease is up,” I say, tracing the cardboard edge with my finger. “I thought maybe…” I trail off, suddenly uncertain despite knowing exactly what I wanted to say earlier.
Zayn crosses the room slowly, like he’s afraid I might change my mind if he moves too fast. His eyes never leave mine, trying to read whether I mean what he desperately hopes I mean.
“Sophie,” he breathes, my name emerging like something precious.
“I’m not renewing,” I force myself say the words out loud. “I want to live here. With you. Officially. If you still want that.”
He pulls me into his arms so fast I gasp with surprise. My face presses against his chest where I can feel his heart hammering wildly. “Of course I want that,” he says into my hair. “I built this entire house for you. For us. It’s been waiting for you to come home this whole time.”
When he kisses me, it’s both tender and intense in a way that makes the room spin. His hands frame my face gently, his tattooed fingers warm against my skin. I can feel him smiling against my mouth.
“We should celebrate,” he murmurs between kisses. “Make it official.”
I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck. “What kind of celebration did you have in mind?”
“Well,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “I’ve been saving that champagne. Since you made partner at the clinic.”
“Perfect,” I agree, but neither of us moves toward the refrigerator. His hands slide beneath my sweater, warming my skin.
“The champagne can wait,” he says, lifting me effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. The marble feels cool beneath my thighs—the same counter he installed because I showed him the magazine photo five years ago.
When he kisses me again, I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. I realize suddenly that Sara was absolutely right. I’ve been completely committed for weeks, maybe months. Maybe I never truly stopped loving him entirely, even during those five years of separation.
I’m still a little scared. I might always carry that small ember of fear. But I’m not letting it control me anymore. I’m not letting it prevent me from claiming the life I want—the life we want—together.
“Welcome home,” Zayn whispers against my collarbone, his breath warm and real.
Home. Not his or mine, but ours.