The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the airport wasn't the traffic or the noise.
It was the heat.
A familiar warmth brushed against my skin like an old friend whispering, "Welcome home."
For a second, I just stood there, my crutches pressed against my palms, breathing in the air I grew up with. Seven years. It had been seven long years since I last set foot in this country.
And yet, not a single face waited for me outside those sliding glass doors.
No cheerful "Welcome back!"
No dad waving from the car.
No family hugging me like they missed me.
Typical.
Not that I was expecting a dramatic airport reunion scene straight out of a drama. But a part of me—maybe the small, childish part I never outgrew—still hoped.
I exhaled slowly. He's busy, I reminded myself. Of course he's busy. He's always busy.
But this time, I wasn't going to let that sting ruin the day. If no one was picking me up, then I'd just surprise him. And what better place to do that than at the very heart of his empire?
I gave the driver the company address, and the taxi sped through the familiar streets. As the buildings blurred past the window, I couldn't help but notice how nothing seemed to have changed.
The same billboard on the same corner. The same old bakery with that crooked sign. Even the same tricycle stand where I used to buy street food after school.
Seven years had passed, but home… stayed the same.
---
The company building rose in front of me like a glass giant, elegant and intimidating all at once. I paid the fare, took a deep breath, and hobbled my way inside with my trusty crutches. The lobby was polished and bright, the air conditioning too cold—just like I remembered.
A woman behind the reception desk glanced up, and her eyes widened.
"Oh my god," she gasped, recognizing me immediately.
I offered her a smile. "Hi."
"You look so beautiful!" she blurted out, covering her mouth as if the words escaped before she could catch them.
I chuckled softly. "Thank you. You haven't changed either."
She blushed, shaking her head like she couldn't believe I was actually standing there. "Your father is in his office. Should I let him know you're here?"
"No," I said quickly, a grin spreading across my face. "Let's keep this a surprise."
---
I took my time walking down the familiar hallway, the rhythmic tap of my crutches echoing softly against the marble floor. When I reached the office door, my heart did a small, ridiculous flip.
One soft knock.
"Come in," his voice said from inside—calm, composed, businesslike.
I pushed the door open. He was facing the window, talking to someone on the phone, his words sharp and precise. "Tell the Laxamana group the documents are ready. And move their meeting to Thursday. I don't want delays."
Laxamana.
The name felt strangely familiar.
He finally turned around. And for the first time in seven years, our eyes met. His face froze, phone forgotten.
"Sweetie?" he breathed out, almost in disbelief.
I laughed. "Surprise."
He didn't even wait a second. He rushed forward and wrapped me in his arms. His embrace was warm, steady, the kind that said welcome home without needing words.
"When did you arrive?" he asked, pulling away just enough to look at me. "Why didn't you tell me? I could have picked you up."
"I wanted to surprise you," I said, grinning like a little girl again.
He smiled—a real one this time. Not the polished, CEO smile he used in front of cameras. "You did. God, it's been so long."
We sat on the couch in his office, the kind where serious deals were usually made. But today, there was no business between us. Just laughter, stories, and seven years worth of catching up.
But then his eyes fell to my crutches. "What happened to your leg?"
The air shifted.
I sighed, tracing the curve of the handle. "The Prima Night. I fell. Hard. Fractured it. I… didn't exactly end the night with applause."
His expression darkened—not in anger, but in worry. "You should have called me."
"I'm fine," I lied.
Because if I didn't change the topic, I'd probably cry.
"So," I said casually, "Laxamana Group?"
His brows rose. "Business partners. We've been working with them for years now. Why?"
"Nothing," I said lightly. "It just sounded familiar."
He didn't pry. Instead, he smiled again and said, "Let's have lunch. My treat."
---
The Italian restaurant smelled like fresh basil and warm bread. It wasn't crowded—of course it wasn't. My father didn't do crowded.
He cut into his lasagna with the same precision he signed contracts. "Does your mother know you're home?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"She wasn't thrilled," I muttered.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. Instead, he changed the subject and asked about London, my performances, and everything else I'd left behind. For the first time in a long time, I felt… seen.
After lunch, he insisted on taking me to the hospital for a check-up.
"Call me if you need anything," he said as the car rolled up to the entrance.
I nodded. "I will. Promise."
He gave me one last look before his driver took him to his next meeting. I watched his car disappear, then turned toward the hospital entrance with a sigh.
---
Of course, the doctor I needed to see was on the third floor.
Of course, the elevator was slow as hell.
And of course, I decided to take the stairs like some tragic heroine in a drama.
One step. Two steps. My leg screamed at me with every move.
And then I missed a step. My crutch slipped. My body tilted backward. Oh great. This is how I die—on a hospital staircase.
But then—an arm.
Strong. Steady. Warm.
Someone caught me.
"You should be more careful," a deep, calm voice said just above my head.
I blinked. And oh. Oh no.
He was tall. Stupidly tall. His hair was neat but a little undone, like he didn't care how perfect he looked because he already was perfect. The crisp white coat made it clear he was a doctor. His scent—clean, warm, faintly minty—wrapped around me before I could even find words.
"Thanks," I managed to say, trying not to sound like someone who just forgot how to breathe.
He gave me a small smile. It wasn't the flirtatious kind. It was worse. It was gentle. Deadly gentle.
"Be careful next time," he said before walking away like he didn't just make my heart skip ten beats.
I turned to the nurse at the station, still clutching the railing like my life depended on it. "Where's Dr. Rivero's office?"
She pointed down the hall.
When I pushed the door open, my jaw almost hit the floor.
Of course. Of course.
It was him.
The man on the stairs.
He blinked at me, equally surprised, then laughed softly. "I guess fate works fast."
I wanted to melt into the floor. "Hi," I said weakly. "Jet lag. I'm not usually this clumsy."
He chuckled, leaning back slightly against his desk. "I'm sure."
The way he said it made me want to throw a crutch at him. Politely, of course.
We got through the consultation, or at least he did. I spent most of it trying not to stare at his face like an idiot. He asked about the pain, the fracture, my therapy schedule—normal doctor stuff. But he had this annoying habit of looking directly into my eyes when he spoke, like he could read all the things I wasn't saying.
"Are you listening?" he asked finally, a teasing glint in his eyes.
"Totally," I lied.
He coughed softly, almost like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
Jet lag. It's definitely just the jet lag.
When the consultation ended, I grabbed my bag, ready to flee the room before my brain embarrassed me any further. But then—
"Wait," he said.
I turned around.
"Can I have your number? Or maybe your social media?" he asked casually. "In case your schedule overlaps with my other commitments. So I can update you."
Right. Purely professional. Of course.
"Sure," I said, handing him my phone. "You're my doctor anyway. No malice."
"Of course," he replied, his lips curving slightly.
Liar.
I walked out of his office with my heart doing things it wasn't supposed to.
Welcome home, indeed.