The Way Out He Never Saw Coming - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading The Way Out He Never Saw Coming, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of The Way Out He Never Saw Coming.
For a heartbeat, I swore it was Leon standing there, and my blood turned to ice. But then I caught the scent—warm tobacco, subtle and unfamiliar, nothing like Leon's.
I turned slowly, and in the dim hallway light, I saw a man a few steps above me. His face was kind, his eyes soft with concern. A stranger—except for that tiny red mole above his brow, tugging at some half-forgotten memory.
He moved closer, offering a hand to help me up, his expression steady and reassuring.
"Ollie? Weren't you supposed to be overseas for work?"
Hearing the old nickname, Oliver's lips curved into the faintest smile. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he knelt, gathering my scattered clothes and belongings from the staircase before standing and holding them out to me.
"Mom said you agreed to meet me," he said, calm and measured. "Whatever I had overseas could wait."
I took his hand, surprised by the warmth and strength of his grip—so different from the sweaty, fumbling hands of the boy I remembered. Back then, Oliver had been all nervous energy, blushing at the slightest touch. Now, he was solid. Grounded.
"So… how'd you find me here?" I asked, glancing away before he could see the flush creeping up my neck.
With a knowing half-smile, Oliver scooped up my broken suitcase one-handed, keeping the other firmly around me. "For the Gray family, tracking someone down in this city isn't exactly hard," he said, his gaze unreadable. "But let's get out of the cold first—come on."
I followed him to the car, caught between comfort and disbelief. His presence was… steadying. Inside his sleek black sedan, the faint scent of gardenias wrapped around me, pulling me back to summers long past—childhood laughter, endless promises.
Oliver drove in silence, his hands sure on the wheel, his focus on the road. Outside, Greenwoods slipped by, quiet under the night sky. In the glow of passing streetlights, I studied his profile—the sharp jaw, the slight furrow of his brows, that tiny red mole I'd almost forgotten. He seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if he felt it too—the weight of our childhood engagement hanging between us.
We pulled up to a sprawling villa on the southern edge of town, its garden overflowing with tall, fragrant gardenias. Oliver cut the engine and turned to me.
"Does the smell bring anything back?" he asked, voice low. "When we were kids, you told me gardenias were your favorite. Took some work, but I found them."
The simplicity of his words hit me harder than I expected, stirring something deep. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I just nodded. Sensing my silence, Oliver stepped out, circled the car, and opened my door, offering his hand.
"Come on. Dinner's ready."
Warm light spilled from the villa, painting the garden path in gold. I followed him, willing my pulse to slow. My mother's voice echoed in my head: "Ollie's grown into quite a young man…"
She wasn't wrong. The boy who used to trail after me was gone. In his place stood a man—tall, confident, his tailored suit hugging his lean frame. As he held the door open, I caught his profile in my periphery and realized, with a jolt, that he was handsome. More than I'd ever noticed before.
"Hurry up, or the food's getting cold," he said, watching me from the doorway, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Heat rushed to my cheeks—I'd been staring. Flustered, I ducked inside.
The dining table was set with a modest spread, but every dish was something I loved. Oliver didn't eat. He just watched me, his gaze unwavering yet soft. The silence grew thick, suffocating, until I finally broke it.
"Ollie, I know these arranged marriages are ridiculous. You don't have to humor this. Go back to your work—I'll handle the family. It's… it's just a hassle."
His eyes darkened, just for a second, before he leaned in, voice firm. "I don't find it a hassle."
The edge in his tone surprised me. The easygoing boy I remembered was gone. This man was sure. Unshakable. I swallowed, scrambling for a response—but before I could speak, he added:
"And one more thing. Don't call me Ollie anymore. Call me Oliver."
"Oh… okay. Oliver," I managed, something in my chest tightening at the command in his voice. His expression softened then, just a little, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
The silence settled between us again, heavy with everything left unsaid. His eyes stayed locked on mine, intense, leaving me exposed. Vulnerable.
I turned slowly, and in the dim hallway light, I saw a man a few steps above me. His face was kind, his eyes soft with concern. A stranger—except for that tiny red mole above his brow, tugging at some half-forgotten memory.
He moved closer, offering a hand to help me up, his expression steady and reassuring.
"Ollie? Weren't you supposed to be overseas for work?"
Hearing the old nickname, Oliver's lips curved into the faintest smile. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he knelt, gathering my scattered clothes and belongings from the staircase before standing and holding them out to me.
"Mom said you agreed to meet me," he said, calm and measured. "Whatever I had overseas could wait."
I took his hand, surprised by the warmth and strength of his grip—so different from the sweaty, fumbling hands of the boy I remembered. Back then, Oliver had been all nervous energy, blushing at the slightest touch. Now, he was solid. Grounded.
"So… how'd you find me here?" I asked, glancing away before he could see the flush creeping up my neck.
With a knowing half-smile, Oliver scooped up my broken suitcase one-handed, keeping the other firmly around me. "For the Gray family, tracking someone down in this city isn't exactly hard," he said, his gaze unreadable. "But let's get out of the cold first—come on."
I followed him to the car, caught between comfort and disbelief. His presence was… steadying. Inside his sleek black sedan, the faint scent of gardenias wrapped around me, pulling me back to summers long past—childhood laughter, endless promises.
Oliver drove in silence, his hands sure on the wheel, his focus on the road. Outside, Greenwoods slipped by, quiet under the night sky. In the glow of passing streetlights, I studied his profile—the sharp jaw, the slight furrow of his brows, that tiny red mole I'd almost forgotten. He seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if he felt it too—the weight of our childhood engagement hanging between us.
We pulled up to a sprawling villa on the southern edge of town, its garden overflowing with tall, fragrant gardenias. Oliver cut the engine and turned to me.
"Does the smell bring anything back?" he asked, voice low. "When we were kids, you told me gardenias were your favorite. Took some work, but I found them."
The simplicity of his words hit me harder than I expected, stirring something deep. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I just nodded. Sensing my silence, Oliver stepped out, circled the car, and opened my door, offering his hand.
"Come on. Dinner's ready."
Warm light spilled from the villa, painting the garden path in gold. I followed him, willing my pulse to slow. My mother's voice echoed in my head: "Ollie's grown into quite a young man…"
She wasn't wrong. The boy who used to trail after me was gone. In his place stood a man—tall, confident, his tailored suit hugging his lean frame. As he held the door open, I caught his profile in my periphery and realized, with a jolt, that he was handsome. More than I'd ever noticed before.
"Hurry up, or the food's getting cold," he said, watching me from the doorway, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Heat rushed to my cheeks—I'd been staring. Flustered, I ducked inside.
The dining table was set with a modest spread, but every dish was something I loved. Oliver didn't eat. He just watched me, his gaze unwavering yet soft. The silence grew thick, suffocating, until I finally broke it.
"Ollie, I know these arranged marriages are ridiculous. You don't have to humor this. Go back to your work—I'll handle the family. It's… it's just a hassle."
His eyes darkened, just for a second, before he leaned in, voice firm. "I don't find it a hassle."
The edge in his tone surprised me. The easygoing boy I remembered was gone. This man was sure. Unshakable. I swallowed, scrambling for a response—but before I could speak, he added:
"And one more thing. Don't call me Ollie anymore. Call me Oliver."
"Oh… okay. Oliver," I managed, something in my chest tightening at the command in his voice. His expression softened then, just a little, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
The silence settled between us again, heavy with everything left unsaid. His eyes stayed locked on mine, intense, leaving me exposed. Vulnerable.
End of The Way Out He Never Saw Coming Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to The Way Out He Never Saw Coming book page.