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, touchingplaces 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 drapedheavy 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.”
CHAPTER 23
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?”
