Chapter Twenty-three – Bailey
The latch catches with a soft metallic sigh, and just like that, he’s inside my world again.
The heater hums. A single lamp throws a pool of light across the counter, catching the gold in his hair and the salt on his shoulders.
He looks too big for the space—broad, tired, still carrying the noise of stadiums even while standing on my worn rug.
I fold my arms because I need somewhere to keep my hands. “You’re dripping on the floor.”
He glances down. Water darkens the boards around his boots. “Add it to the list of things I need to fix.”
“You don’t get to start with the floor,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “There are other things broken first.”
He nods once. “Yeah. I know.”
Silence stretches. The air smells like rain and paper and the cinnamon candle that’s been burning since before midnight. He takes a step closer, then stops as if the room itself has drawn a boundary.
“You look tired,” he says softly.
“I’ve been running a business,” I answer. “And watching press conferences I didn’t want to see.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you to see that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have said what you did.”
“I had to.”
“You didn’t.” My voice trembles on the edge of breaking, so I turn toward the counter, pretending to tidy a stack of receipts. “You always think the only way through something is to let it hurt you first.”
He exhales slowly, the sound rough. “And you always think walking away makes it stop hurting.”
That hits too close. I press my palms flat against the counter until the sting in my hands steadies me.
When I finally turn around, he’s closer—close enough that I can see the small scar above his eyebrow, the one he got senior year when he tried to impress the class by catching a pass he never should’ve attempted. Some things never change.
“Why did you come back?” I ask.
“Because everything else started to feel like lying,” he says simply.
There’s a softness in his voice that wasn’t there before, an ache that pulls at something deep inside me. I want to stay angry. I want to remind him how many nights I sat here waiting for a text that never came. But instead, I whisper, “You left me to defend your silence.”
“I know.” His eyes find mine, steady, apologetic. “I’m done being silent.”
He moves toward the stove, rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to warm them. “Do you still have that kettle that wheezes like a dying seagull?”
I blink. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.” His smile is small, cautious. “You’d set it on before you started reading, and it’d scream right at the best part.”
A reluctant laugh slips out of me, light and startled. “It still does that.”
He reaches for it automatically, then stops. “Can I?”
I nod. Watching him fill the kettle and set it on the burner feels intimate in a way that almost hurts. His movements are slower now, deliberate, like he’s trying not to break anything—including me.
When the kettle finally starts its familiar whine, he leans back against the counter beside me. We stand shoulder to shoulder, not touching, staring at nothing. The quiet between us hums louder than the stove.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
“Me neither,” he says. “But I know I want to.”
He turns then, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. It’s the lightest touch, but it sets my pulse sprinting. I should step away, but I don’t.
“Bailey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I meant what I said. I left all of it. I’m not choosing between the game and you anymore.”
“You can’t just erase that world.”
“I’m not erasing it. I’m walking away from the part that stopped feeling like mine.”
The kettle shrieks, startling us both. I turn off the burner, grateful for the excuse to move, to breathe. I pour two mugs, hands trembling only a little, and slide one toward him.
He takes it but doesn’t drink. “This feels like déjà vu.”
“Because we’ve done this before,” I say quietly. “You show up, you promise, and then—”
“This time, I stay.” The words are quiet but unshakable. “I’m done running plays written by someone else.”
Something in his tone makes me believe him, even as every defense I’ve built insists I shouldn’t. I stare into my cup. Steam curls up and blurs my vision until I’m not sure if it’s fog or tears.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” I whisper.
“Then let me earn it.”
I look up. His eyes are the color of stormwater—dangerous and steady. He doesn’t reach for me again, doesn’t push. He just waits.
Outside, dawn starts to bleed through the windows, gray turning to gold. The light catches the dust motes in the air, making them shimmer like tiny possibilities.
I take a slow breath. “You’re still dripping on the floor.”
He smiles, small and genuine this time. “Guess I should mop.”
And somehow, absurdly, I laugh. The sound breaks the last of the tension, leaving room for air. He laughs too, low and quiet, and for a second, it feels like the world has finally exhaled.
I set my cup down and look at him—really look. “You’re not forgiven,” I say.
“I didn’t ask to be,” he answers. “Just asked to stay long enough to try.”
And when he says it, something in me unclenches. I nod once. It’s not yes, not yet—but it’s not no, either.
Outside, the gulls start their morning racket. The kettle clicks as it cools. The first true light of day spills through the windows, painting his profile in gold.
And just like that, I realize the storm might finally be over.