For a long moment, she just stands there, breathing me in like she’s deciding whether to believe me.
Finally, she steps back, her voice barely above a whisper. “Come in before you freeze.”
The air between us shifts, softer now, something like surrender.
I step inside.
The door closes behind me with a quiet click, sealing us in. The room smells like books and salt and her shampoo. A candle burns low on the counter, wax pooling in the shape of a heart that’s been melted and remade.
Bailey crosses her arms, watching me like she’s still deciding whether this is real. “So what now?”
“I figure that out here,” I say. “With you. If you’ll let me.”
Her lips curve—not quite a smile, not quite forgiveness. “We’ll see.”
And for the first time since I walked off that stage, the world feels right again.
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?”
