The Stranger I Married-Chapter 129: going back to work

The sky was soft and pale when Ella stepped onto the balcony, her robe pulled tightly around her. The air smelled like early autumn—cooler than summer, but not cold. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, tugging at the loose strands that fell past her shoulder. She leaned into the railing, sipping from the warm mug cupped in her hands.

She was healing.

Not all at once, and not without aches. But the deep purple bruises that had once painted her ribs had faded to faint yellow shadows. The soreness in her side no longer made her wince with each breath. Weeks of rest—paired with Nicholas’s relentless hovering and his quiet, unwavering care—had done their work.

But now... she was restless.

Behind her, inside the penthouse, the muffled sounds of his morning routine drifted through—the clink of ceramic against marble, the faint scrape of a chair being pushed in, low music from the speaker. He didn’t know she was up yet.

She let the steam from her coffee warm her face for one last moment, then turned away from the pale horizon and stepped back into the warmth of the penthouse.

Nicholas appeared almost instantly, like he’d been keeping track of where she was. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder, and there was a streak of flour dusted across his wrist. He’d been baking again. Lately, whenever his worry for her spiked, the kitchen became his retreat—producing croissants, muffins, and entire trays of brioche that never survived past lunchtime.

"You’re up," he said, his voice low and rich in that unhurried way he had in the mornings.

"I couldn’t sleep," she admitted. "I woke up early. Thought I’d get some air."

He came to her without hesitation, pressing a kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, as though he needed proof she was warm, alive, whole.

"Still sore?" he asked.

She shook her head, letting her gaze meet his. "No. Actually... I feel okay."

That earned her a quiet, measured look. He studied her face the way he had every morning since she’d been hurt—searching for the smallest signs of fatigue, discomfort, or pain. It was as though he had memorized the way she stood, the tilt of her shoulders, and could detect the tiniest shift.

She set her mug on the counter. "I was thinking," she said slowly, "maybe it’s time."

His brow creased. "Time for what?" 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

"To go back to work."

Nicholas straightened a little, the movement subtle but telling. "Work?"

"At the café," she clarified. "Not full-time. Just a few shifts a week, to start. I miss the routine, Nick. I miss feeling like myself."

His expression darkened, the protective edge in him sharpening like a blade. "Ella..."

"I know," she cut in gently. "I know what you’re going to say—that I should take more time, that I shouldn’t push it. And I get that. But I’ve spent weeks here in the quiet. It’s been good. I needed it. But I also need to move forward now. I need something that’s mine again."

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned against the island, his hands braced on the counter, eyes steady on her. "You’re not doing this to prove anything to me?" he asked after a moment. "Because you don’t have to."

Her smile was small, a little sad. "I know I don’t. But I need to prove it to myself."

He exhaled, gaze dropping to the floor briefly before coming back to her. "I hate it."

"I know."

"I just—" His voice caught, barely noticeable, but she heard it. "I just got you back. You scared the hell out of me, Ella. I still wake up some nights to check if you’re breathing."

The words loosened something in her chest. She stepped forward, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing herself into him until her cheek was against his chest. "I’m still breathing," she whispered.

His arms came around her instantly, holding her as though he could anchor her there forever. He pressed a kiss into her hair, then to her temple, then a soft one against her cheek.

"I don’t like it," he murmured, "but I won’t stop you. I know what it means to you."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"But," he added, pulling back enough to meet her eyes, "I’m driving you there. And picking you up. And you’re checking in every two hours."

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it. "You’re being ridiculous."

"I’m being careful," he corrected, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "There’s a difference."

She leaned up and kissed him, slow and warm. He deepened it for a moment, his thumb brushing her jaw, before breaking away with a sigh.

"You’ll text me if anything feels off?"

"I promise."

He still looked unconvinced but gave a reluctant nod. "Alright."

She smiled, lighter now than she had felt in weeks. "You’re really going to let me go?"

"I’m not letting you do anything," he muttered, stepping back to grab the dishtowel. "You’re doing it whether I like it or not. I’m just choosing not to hover too obviously."

She grinned at that, shaking her head.

That afternoon, when he was caught in a work call in his office, she slipped quietly into the spare room. Her work clothes had been neatly folded there—Rosa must have washed them days ago. The sight of her familiar apron made her chest ache in the best way. It still smelled faintly of espresso and sugar, like early mornings and the hum of conversation.

By evening, she had gathered everything she needed for the next day: her staff name tag, her order pad, the old chipped pen she stubbornly refused to replace. She placed them carefully in a small canvas tote and set it by the door.

Later, she caught herself looking at it, smiling without meaning to.

Nicholas noticed. He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his mouth curved in a knowing smirk. "You look like a kid getting ready for their first day of school."

"I feel like it," she admitted.

"Want me to pack you lunch?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "If you even think about cutting my sandwich into heart shapes—"

"Too late," he said, disappearing back into the kitchen before she could swat him.

She shook her head, but the smile stayed. For the first time in weeks, the air in her chest felt easier to breathe.

Tomorrow, she would go back. Not to prove she was fine, but to start feeling like herself again. And Nicholas—whether he liked it or not—would be right there, ready to drive her, ready to pick her up, ready to hover just enough that she could pretend he wasn’t.

And for now, that was enough.