THE ONE WHO RAN AWAY

Chapter 9 — Welcome Back

Théo's POV

Lyon, France — Maison Moreau

I heard them before I saw them.

The office had a particular sound on Monday mornings — keyboards, coffee machines, the low hum of people settling into their week with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I knew that sound. Had been part of it for three years.

But today the sound changed the moment I walked through the door.

It didn't stop exactly. Nothing as dramatic as that. Just — shifted. A subtle recalibration. The kind that happens when something unexpected walks into a familiar space and everyone pretends they haven't noticed while noticing completely.

I kept my eyes forward.

Look at your desk. Walk to your desk. Sit down. Everything is normal.

I was halfway across the floor when I heard it.

"Oh." The voice came from my left. Arnaud — one of those particular colleagues who had made a quiet hobby out of making other people uncomfortable. He leaned back in his chair with a smile that had never once been friendly. "Look who's back. I was starting to think the company would have to send a search party." He glanced around at the people nearby — checking for his audience — and laughed at his own joke. "What was it — a vacation? Must be nice. Some of us actually showed up to work."

A few people looked away. Nobody said anything.

I looked at Arnaud for exactly one second.

Then I kept walking.

Not because I didn't have a response. I had several. But I had learned a long time ago that people like Arnaud fed on reaction — needed it the way plants needed light — and I had no interest in being anyone's source of nutrition today.

I reached my desk. Set my bag down. Pulled out my chair.

Breathe.

"Laurent."

The voice came from across the room. Sharp. Clipped. The specific tone of someone who had been saving it up.

I turned.

My team leader stood at the entrance to his office. Arms crossed. Expression set into something that had clearly been rehearsed over the past several days and was now ready for delivery.

"My office." He said. "Now."

The walk across the floor felt longer than usual.

I was aware of every pair of eyes that tracked me without technically watching. The particular office talent of looking busy while absorbing every detail of someone else's professional humiliation.

I stopped outside his office door.

"Can I—"

"Oh you're asking for permission now." His voice cut clean across mine. Loud enough that it carried — easily, thoroughly — through the open door and across the floor to every desk within range. "Interesting. Very interesting. Because I didn't notice you asking permission when you decided to take an unannounced holiday without a single word of notice. No application. No reason. No — anything. You just—" he made a gesture with his hand that communicated evaporation — "disappeared."

I stepped inside.

Stood in front of his desk with my hands at my sides and my face arranged into the specific expression I had developed for exactly these situations — attentive, neutral, giving nothing away.

"Do you have any idea—" he leaned forward — "any idea at all what this team had to deal with while you were gone? The Beaumont report. The quarterly projections. The supplier reconciliation that you were supposed to have finished before you — vanished." He said the word like it tasted bad. "Every single one of those fell on people who were already at capacity. Because of you."

Behind me I was acutely aware that his office door was still open.

Which meant the entire floor could hear every word of this with perfect clarity.

Which was — intentional. Obviously.

"I understand sir." I said.

"Do you." It wasn't a question. "Because standing there saying I understand doesn't particularly demonstrate understanding Théo. What it demonstrates is that you are currently in my office because you had no choice." He sat back. Looked at me with the particular satisfaction of someone who had been waiting for this moment. "The Marchand report. Full six months. Complete analysis. On my desk in two days."

I kept my expression neutral.

The Marchand report was a two week project under normal circumstances. Comprehensive. Dense. The kind of document that required coordination with three different departments and access to data that took days to compile.

Two days.

Without help.

"Yes sir." I said.

He looked at me for a moment — searching for something. Frustration, maybe. Or an argument he could continue. Finding neither he leaned back further and waved one hand toward the door.

"Get to work."

I walked back across the floor.

Sat down at my desk.

Opened my laptop.

Around me the office had returned to its normal register — keyboards and coffee and the low hum of people pretending they hadn't just heard every word of that. Arnaud was looking at his screen with the barely suppressed satisfaction of someone who had witnessed exactly what they'd hoped for.

I didn't look at him.

I pulled up the Marchand files.

Looked at the volume of data sitting in the folder.

Two days.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. Long and controlled and completely quiet.

Alright, I told myself. You knew this was coming. You walked back into this building knowing exactly what was waiting on the other side of that door. No surprises. No self pity.

This is the consequence of running.

You ran. Now you sit here and do the work.

I opened the first file.

Cracked my knuckles once.

And started.

Because this — the work, the screen, the numbers that made sense in ways that people rarely did — this I knew how to do. This I could control. Sit down, focus, deliver.

No Thailand. No hotel rooms. No blurred feelings I didn't know what to do with.

Just the work.

Welcome back Théo, I thought.

Back to your real life.

Back to exactly where you belong.

I wasn't sure if that last part was a comfort or a warning.

I decided not to think about it.

And typed the first line.