Sweet Romance14 min read
"I'm Back," I Said — and He Smiled Like I Belonged
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“I'm back,” I said, stepping out into the cool airport night.
“Bailey?” Lauren's voice wrapped around me like a blanket before I saw her face.
“I didn't mean to surprise you,” I said, trying to sound casual, while my hands tightened on the suitcase handle.
“Surprise? Honey, don't do that to your old aunt.” Lauren Burke hugged me hard enough to make the bones creak. “You're home. Finally.”
“It was supposed to be a quiet return,” I said.
“You have no such thing when you belong to me.” She laughed and dragged me toward the car where Boden Mendes waited.
Boden glanced up, surprised, then smiled. “Bailey, you look strong.”
“I've been practicing,” I said.
Lauren squeezed my hand. “We drove through Beijing for a week. Thought we'd stay away from home drama. But seeing you at the gate—” Her voice stopped. She kissed my forehead.
I wanted to tell her everything: the three years abroad, the quiet nights in cheap hotel rooms, the boxes of books that kept me company. I wanted to tell her how my chest clenched at the thought of living under this roof again, under this family's roof, where the man everyone called my brother lived.
We climbed into the car. Lauren held my hand all the way home like she would not let me go.
“Where will you stay?” Boden asked.
“I booked a hotel for tonight,” I said. “I'll sort out a room after I report to the office.”
Laurens swatted me with mock outrage. “No hotel. You're coming home.”
“Lauren—”
“We've had enough of you running away.” She sounded like a judge passing sentence and a lover making a promise at once. “You will move in.”
I looked over my shoulder at the dark house, at the second-floor windows where my room waited, exactly as I'd left it three years ago: pale purple curtains, the same little desk. The familiar felt like a story I had lived and now had to live again.
The front door opened.
“Owen,” Lauren said, like she had saved the best part.
He looked taller now, shoulders broader, hair tidy. He wore a black jacket and that same folded, calm face that once called me “country bumpkin” when I first arrived as a child.
“Owen,” I said, and my voice went oddly small.
“Bailey,” he said, flat. He didn't smile. He rarely smiled at me anymore.
We used to spar until knuckles hurt. That was our language. He jabbed; I jabbed back. We were born enemies in a house full of love—the way some people are born in a storm.
That first night back, I kept my light on late and logged into my old quiet account. Isaac Hahn—my online friend—had an empty, gray avatar like always.
“Imino,” I typed, and paused. Typing to him felt safer than looking at Owen.
“Welcome back,” Isaac messaged. “Tell me one thing that made you brave enough to come home.”
I read it and froze. “You okay?” he asked.
“I'm terrified,” I typed. “But also... curious.”
He answered with one line: “Good fear.”
Good fear. I liked that idea enough to close my laptop and go to sleep.
The next morning I found Owen's shoes at the entrance—black, studded with little beads of mud. He passed me in the hallway and gave a brief, “Morning.”
“Morning,” I replied.
He didn't ask how my flight was. He didn't offer to help with luggage. The ice of old fights was still a comfortable temperature between us.
“Your room's the same,” Lauren said, fluffing a pillow. “You change your mind, we'll talk about work tomorrow. Eat first.”
At the table, Owen ate with almost military silence. He glanced at me twice, his eyes flicking the way a bird checks the wind. Once, his hand covered the teacup, and for a half-second he looked like a younger version of himself: quick, sharp, busy.
“Report tomorrow at the firm?” Boden asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Headquarters.”
“You came back early,” Owen said finally. “The contract was three years. You cut it short.”
“I asked to be transferred back,” I said. “Headquarters needs people.”
“Owen,” Lauren said. “You promised not to chase her away.”
“I didn't chase anyone,” he said. His voice was even, but something like guilt hummed behind it. “She left because she chose to.”
There it was. The thing we'd never speak of properly. My first kiss—stolen, drunk, and then taken away as if it had never happened. He had held me that night like a storm had frozen into a fist. I had slapped him. I had vowed I would bite my tongue to stop him. The memory still made my throat dry.
“You'll be fine,” Lauren tried to smooth it. “You owe us a homecoming dinner, Bailey.”
“You always like to be hostess,” I said.
She flashed a grin. “That, and I plan weddings for my friends in my head, even when they don't want one.”
After dinner, I climbed the familiar stairs, undid the suitcase, and found the piece of my life that hadn't been sold or taken away: my box of books. They arrived this morning. My life has always had two things: work and books. The books were my fortress.
The morning at Central Audit Firm—Middle River Tower, 21st floor—was like stepping into another kind of household. Rows of desks hummed. People spoke in low professional tones. I reported to Etienne Stewart, a manager with hair that never betrayed a single gray strand and a voice smooth enough to melt professional steel.
“Bailey Briggs,” he said, glancing at the file. “Welcome to Division One. We heard good reports from your old mentors.”
“Thank you, Etienne,” I said. “I'll do my best.”
“You'll start on a small account today,” he said, then winked. “Prove you can fly, and I'll put you on the big bird next.”
“Big bird?” I repeated, catching the metaphor but not letting the attention make me unsteady.
“Maiden flight is next week,” he said. “Our large listed client. I want you on the team.”
“Me?” I asked, heart skipping.
“You're sharp. You look like you're hungry.” He smiled in that expert way. “Dinner later?”
“No, thank you.” I said it before thinking.
Etienne's smile softened. “Suit yourself. It's just lunch.”
At the office, I found the small corner seat. Charlotte Chen—bright and always polite—brought a file. “We have a work group chat,” she said. “I'll add you. Also, here's your buddy for the next week: Hugo Ayers.”
Hugo walked in on cue: young, confident, a grin like he knew the punchline to life. He said, “Hi, Bailey. I hear you're fast.”
“Maybe fast. Maybe steady,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “We'll be a good team.”
The firm felt like a new life. Etienne had big plans, and I was small but eager. I told myself: this job—this place—was mine now. The house, the old fights—that was another story.
That evening, back at home, Owen didn't meet me at the door. I found a note on the kitchen table: “Phone me when you need the car. - Owen.”
On impulse, I opened the glove compartment and found a small wrapped bottle of jasmine perfume—my favorite. My breath hitched.
“He gave me perfume,” I whispered to myself. “Is that... normal?”
The scent was the beginning of a language neither of us could yet say aloud.
Days at the firm became a rhythm. My first week I was thrown onto a small audit for a tech startup. Hugo trailed behind me like an eager pup and made me laugh with clumsy questions. Our team moved fast; I stayed later than most. Etienne gave me a task on the big client. I worked extra hours to show I deserved the slot.
Owen's presence at home settled into a different drumbeat. He shifted from an enemy to a kind of neutral gravity pulling close and then away. Some mornings he'd drop me at the firm, because he liked the way the city looked at dawn. Other days, the car remained in his garage.
“You asked me to move in,” I said one night as we stood on the balcony. “Now you pick me up, and I pay rent in pastries.”
“You told Aunt Lauren you'd move in,” he said. “I didn't force you.”
“You didn't stop me.”
“I didn't stop you.” He turned. The city lights carved his face into planes. He looked tired. “Are you okay here?”
“I will be,” I said.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Not sure is fine.” I leaned back and watched the sky.
He surprised me then. He reached out and brushed a speck of dust from my hair. His fingers were careful. In that small touch was an apology that came too late and also too early. I did not pull away.
“You still hate me,” he said after a moment.
“I don't hate you,” I said.
“You looked like you might bite someone.”
“Old threat,” I said. “Not functional now.”
He smiled once, a small, crooked thing. “Good. Bite me later.”
I left for work the next morning with his keys in my pocket. For a week, the two of us practiced living with a truce. We argued about nothing—the remote, the laundry detergent—and we laughed at small things. The distance between us shortened, not by force, but by inches.
But then Etienne started to notice me more than a good manager should. He was flattering in harmless ways: praise at meetings that felt too warm, invitations to one-on-one lunches that kept me alone with him. Once, at a quiet lunch, he reached for my hand under the table.
“Etienne,” I whispered, pulling back.
“I only meant to steady you.” He smiled like a man who believed in fate.
“You're my boss,” I said. “We should keep things professional.”
“Of course,” he said. But the way he said it made my skin crawl a little. He admired things in a manly way—he saw a trophy and wanted to prize it. That made me step closer to Owen even when he was not there.
“Owen, you ever think people try to buy attention?” I asked him one night.
“Sometimes attention buys you what you don't need,” he said. “Keep your eyes open.”
“Thanks for advice.”
“Not advice. Fact.”
He worried in the grown-up way. He fussed. He said he would drive me to a client meeting if I needed. Little things, consistent things. He became the quiet center I could test myself against.
The audit at Daven Technologies was a tidal wave of work. We were on site all day. At night the team ate together. I found myself sitting beside Hugo and felt protective of him in a teacher way. He leaned close and said, “Bailey, you were amazing today.”
“You mean tired and accurate?” I teased.
“Same thing,” he said.
One night, after a long day, Etienne invited me to his car for a short drive.
“We need to discuss the client,” he said.
We drove under a rain that made the city look like a wash of silver. He parked by the river. The world shrank to glass and tires and our small bubble.
“You're different,” he said. “You don't play games.”
“I don't enjoy games,” I admitted.
“You're what I like—calm with fire under your skin,” he said.
“No.” The word slipped out before I could weigh it. “No.”
He looked at me like someone who had been refused once before but thought he could try again. “I can offer you... stability.” He gripped my fingers. “I can make life comfortable.”
“I don't want comfort bought,” I said.
He paused, and something like disappointment flickered. “You think the offer is an insult.”
“No,” I said. “I think—” I stopped, because the truth was too complicated. I thought of Owen’s careful hands, his scolding that hid worry, the way he fought to be more than a brother. I thought of nights when I felt small and Owen was the country I'd return to.
Etienne dropped my hand politely. “Forgive me. I misread.”
“It's okay,” I said. “Please let's keep this professional.”
He nodded and drove me back. When I opened the door at home, Owen was on the porch with a bag of pastries.
“You're late,” he said.
“Lunch ran late,” I said. I almost told him about Etienne's hand, about the way it had tried to stay. I almost asked him to stop me from answering. But I didn't.
“You eat,” he said. He pushed a pastry toward me like a peace offering.
“Thanks,” I said.
He watched me eat, an odd, private expression on his face. “I called your firm and complained about a parking spot,” he said.
“Very mature,” I said.
“Shut up.” He smiled, then got serious. “You tell me if someone oversteps. I won't let it happen.”
“You mean Etienne?”
He shrugged. “Anyone.”
I slept better that night with that promise in my ears.
As Daven's deadline approached, we lived on office noodles and late-night lights. One evening Hugo drove me home because my legs wouldn't carry me. He parked and waited while I climbed the stairs. He waited enough to see Owen's light turn on in the hallway.
“Hi,” Hugo said, eyes round.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Hugo. He's my trainee.”
“Good to meet you,” Owen said. He shook Hugo's hand and assessed him like a captain assessing a new crewman. “You look fit.”
“I'm learning,” Hugo said. “Thanks for letting me ride with Bailey.”
Owen nodded. He watched me up the stairs and then followed. He opened the door and said, “You okay?”
“I am,” I said, and it was true. I felt sheltered. The small things had become my safety: his texts, the way he cleared the dinner table without being asked, the etiquette.
One afternoon I came back rushed from the training room with a bruise on my forearm from falling on loose steps. Owen pressed a cold pack against it without a question.
“Careful,” he said, then looked at me with a literal worry I had only seen in him twice before. “Tell me later what happened.”
I told him I tripped. He didn't ask further. Sometimes people who aren't used to confessing hold everything in their hands.
That night the house felt thinner. Lauren had gone to a charity event. Boden was at a board meeting. We sat like two people sharing a couch. I put my head on the armrest.
“Owen,” I said. “Do you remember when we were kids and you called me ‘country bumpkin’?”
“It was true then,” he said. “You were.”
“I was, but I learned to fold my life like a book. I didn't need to be small.”
He looked at me. The room hummed with warm air. He reached and smoothed my hair like a neighbor tending a plant. “You grew up well.”
“You grew up too.”
“Not as much as you.” He changed the subject, like he often did. “You're on the big project next week. Don't forget.”
“I won't,” I said.
“I might come by one night,” he said.
“You might?”
“Maybe.”
He left it open. I slept with the label “maybe” comfortingly pinned to my chest.
The weeks spun into a pattern. I lived between the firm and the house, between Lauren's lunches and Boden's quiet directions. The entire time the low hum between Owen and me grew warmer. It was not fireworks. It was a steady lantern.
One night, after a rough week, I sat up late, reading, and felt a knock. Owen's knock was deliberate, like an old code. “Open,” he said.
I opened. He held a small brown box. “You need help with your accounts?” I teased.
“No,” he said simply. He handed me the box. Inside was a small watch, simple and neat.
“You didn't have to—”
“I saw it in a shop. Thought you'd like it.” He didn't elaborate.
I put it on. It fit like someone had shaped it to my wrist. “Thank you,” I said.
“You're welcome,” he said.
He leaned against the doorframe. There was a long silence that felt like an invitation.
“Owen,” I said, too loud. “If... if we tried to be more than this, could it be strange?”
He looked at me the way someone looks at a map, measuring, deciding a path. “It will be strange,” he said. “It will be hard. But I don't think it's wrong.”
I swallowed. “I don't know how to be less afraid.”
“Start by holding hands,” he said.
We laughed. I stepped closer without thinking and took his hand. It fit like a glove. The world hummed. I felt my heart push against my ribs. He squeezed gently, then released.
“Good,” he said in a voice so small I almost missed it.
That week we became little conspirators. He would leave a hot mug of tea on my desk. I would find a sticky note on the fridge: “Bake again?” He would text me from the office, “Lunch?” and I would say, “Yes.”
We were not lovers openly. We were two people anticipating the first proper confession. Small kindnesses—calls at night, rides to work—became our vocabulary.
Then a rumor began. Etienne's office was busy with whispers. Someone had seen him with a different woman on his arm. The firm is a place of small storms. I realized then: actions have ripples. Etienne had tried, misread, and I had refused. I had thought the line had been drawn. But that night when the rumor blew over, I found my pulse slow and my mind steady.
“Owen,” I said later while we folded laundry. “Was this—us—always just a battle?”
He looked at me, then opened his mouth and closed it. “I wanted to protect you,” he said, shrugging. “You were always... important.”
“You could have said that before,” I replied.
“I should have,” he said.
“I wanted you to say 'I love you' before I had to beat you silly,” I teased.
He shoved a towel at me. “Stop testing me.”
He kissed me that night for the first time—not like an ambush, not like the storm—we had aged. He kissed me like apologizing and like promising. It was gentle, careful. I could feel his breath, the shape of him, the difference between a boy and a man. I closed my eyes.
Afterwards we laughed like children avoiding reprimand. “Well?” he asked.
“Well,” I said. “About time.”
We said the words in private, clumsy and earnest. He said, “I love you, Bailey.”
“You too,” I said, but I added the truth I hadn't said before: “I forgive you.”
He exhaled with something like relief. “Good.”
We kept it private for a while. Lauren, of course, knew: mothers always do. She staged casual lunches and bouquets. Boden approved but teased like a father will. Hugo was excited like a brother.
At the office, Etienne was careful to remain professional when he had to. He congratulated me once in a thin voice. I thanked him and kept my distance. He nodded and kept his distance too, business etiquette intact.
One night, when the audit for Daven closed successfully, we had a small celebration. Etienne invited the team out, and I sat with Owen, who had a strange, proud grin as if he had built something we were both in.
At midnight, outside the restaurant, he caught my hand. “You should know something,” he said.
“What?”
“I was jealous the first two times you left.” He didn't elaborate.
“You gave me space,” I said.
“That was because I didn't know how to hold you,” he said. “I didn't want to scare you away with myself.”
“You didn't,” I assured him.
“Good,” he said. He moved closer, his head near mine. “One day I will tell you the stupid things I did to prove I cared.”
“Like what?” I asked.
He looked down at me and smiled. “You saw the watch. The perfume. Not enough.”
“It was more than enough,” I said.
He kissed me in the dark, under a streetlamp that made halos of our breath. He tasted like tea and jasmine. Cars passed. Someone laughed two blocks away. We stood and didn't move.
“You're mine?” he asked, suddenly small.
“You said it first,” I teased.
“You keep pulling my strings,” he said.
“Good. Tie me down then.” I reached up and kissed him properly. Our lips fit like two pieces cut to match.
After that night, we told Lauren. She cried like a woman who had long loved both of us and finally had permission to be happy out loud. Boden clapped Owen on the back until he made a small face of mock pain. Hugo cheered like a brother.
At work, I told Etienne I appreciated his fairness and his earlier offer, but my heart belonged elsewhere. He nodded with grace and said, “Then I will be only your boss in the office.” He kept his word.
Owen was a quiet kind of man, but when it mattered, he became loud and clear. He told a small, intimate version of our story to a few people—friends who mattered. He never proclaimed it to the world with fanfare. He simply walked beside me at dawn and told his world I had a place in it.
Months later, one of the firm partners made a surprise announcement at a small party: our group had taken on a long-term client that would make the firm take notice. Etienne raised a glass. I smiled because all of this—work, home, the safe hands that had crossed my path—was a life I had fought for.
That weekend, Lauren and I walked in the park. The late summer wind made the leaves dance. She took my arm like two women who had been through storms.
“You know,” she said, “I always hoped you would come back.”
“I wasn't sure I belonged,” I confessed.
“You always did,” she said. “You just had to let someone show you.”
“Who do I have to thank?” I asked.
She smiled at the top of her mouth. “Owen. But also a girl who didn't run forever.”
I laughed and rested my head against her shoulder. The books I brought home sat in neat boxes by my desk. The firm had its rhythm. Owen had his quiet ways that made the house a home. We kept our battles; they were gentler. We kept our teasing; it was sweeter.
One evening, not too long after, I opened a small box on my desk. Inside was a small note: “Will you marry me?” The handwriting was Owen's, still precise, but with a shakiness that made it his.
My heart hit my ribs with a soft, frantic beat. I closed my eyes and pictured him laughing, ridiculously certain of himself and of us. I said nothing, because words like that need a room all their own.
I put the note to my lips and whispered, “Yes.”
He walked in then, as if he had been waiting outside the door. He watched me read, the light catching in his eyes.
“You always take forever,” he said.
“I needed to practice,” I answered.
He laughed and swept me into his arms, and the house hummed like an instrument that had finally tuned itself correctly. Upstairs, the small shelves of books watched us, patient and proud.
That night, under a blanket on a couch that had seen our bickers and our reconciliations, he kissed me like the man who had promised to learn how to love. It was gentle. It was steady. It had the right kind of weight.
“I love you,” he said again.
“I love you,” I said.
We both knew the truth: love isn't sudden; it is built like a ledger, with entries marked “care,” “apology,” “late-night tea,” “car keys,” small imprecise numbers that add up. We built ours one small, honest gesture at a time.
The river outside continued to move. The firm still hummed. The books on my shelf stood like witnesses. I opened my laptop and wrote a message to Isaac.
“I came home,” I typed. “I found someone who would not let me go.”
He answered with two words that felt like a benediction: “Well done.”
I closed my eyes and listened to the house breathe. Owen's hand found mine on the blanket, warm and true. I fit into that hold like a long-sought book into a shelf.
We had both been bruised and bright. The years apart had taught me one thing: home can be a person who grows with you. I thought of the small jasmine perfume and the watch and the way a supernal manager had tried to buy my attention and taught me what I would not sell.
Down the hall, Lauren's laughter echoed. Boden hummed an old tune. The future was not certain. But I had learned to be brave. I had learned to answer “Yes” when someone asked the most important questions.
And when Owen asked, in a small voice and with an old, clumsy charm, “Will you stay?” I did not hesitate.
“Yes,” I said. “I will stay.”
The End
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