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?”
