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. Framedphotos 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.
