Chapter Eighteen
Hayden
Something In The Way
Nirvana
Warm morning light filters through the sheer curtains covering Vanessa’s bedroom windows, pale gold stretching across tangled sheets and bare skin when I open my eyes. For a second, I don’t move. Because Vanessa is asleep against my chest.
One leg tangled with mine beneath the blankets. Copper hair spread across my shoulder, her hand curled against my ribs like she fell asleep touching me and never stopped. And Christ. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced peace quite like this enough to understand how to trust it.
Vinny lifts his head from the foot of the bed the second he notices I’m awake, green eyes blinking at me lazy and slow, before the traitorous cat stands, stretches, and walks directly across my stomach to shove his head beneath my hand.
I stare at him. He stares back. “You’ve known me for less than twenty-four hours.” The cat purrs in response, head-butting my hand for more pats.
Vanessa makes a soft sound against my chest, shifting closer at the vibration of my voice before her eyes blink open.
For one sleepy second, confusion flickers across her face.
But then, she looks up at me and I’m awarded with a smile that’s filled with warmth.
And Jesus if that doesn’t slam hard against my ribs.
“Morning beautiful.” My hand slides through her hair, fingers catching gently in the waves tangled around her shoulders.
“Morning.” Her gaze drifts across my chest before she glances toward the cat sprawled across my stomach like he pays rent here.
“You stole my cat.”
“He made his choice.” Vinny purrs louder as if confirming my words.
Vanessa narrows her eyes as she glares at the cat. “I feed you.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop it, and something in her expression softens further at the sound.
“You laugh more now.”
The observation catches me off guard. “So do you.”
Neither of us moves after that. And maybe that’s what feels strangest of all about us being together again. It’s not the sex, or even the intimacy. It’s the ease of things between us.
Like somewhere over the last week, we accidentally slipped back into something that fits too well to be safe.
Vanessa’s fingertips drag down my stomach beneath the sheets, and every coherent thought leaves my body instantly. “Nessa…”
Her mouth curves against my skin. “Yes?”
“That’s dangerous.”
“You say that like it’s a problem.” She kisses my chest once before sliding over me, her skin warm against mine as her hair falls forward around us both. And God help me, whatever restraint I woke up with disappears in an instant.
The kiss starts lazy and slow, but so deliberate. All warm mouths and wandering hands beneath tangled sheets while the city breathes outside the windows. And Vanessa still knows exactly how to unravel me. Always has. Especially like this.
Soft laughter between kisses. Her thighs sliding against mine. My hands gripping her hips tighter when she shifts over me with skillful pressure that pulls a rough sound straight from my throat.
“There he is,” she murmurs against my mouth.
I flip her onto her back before she can get smug about that. Vanessa laughs outright this time, breathless and bright beneath me as I pin her wrists lightly above her head. “You’re aggressive this morning.” I growl into her ear.
“You like aggressive.” She murmurs, her pulse jumping beneath my mouth as I kiss slowly down her neck.
“You seem extremely confident in that assessment.”
“Because you know I’m right.”
“Maybe.” I flash a feral grin before sealing my mouth over hers, and the sound she makes when I kiss her tells me everything I need to know.
By the time we drag ourselves out of bed nearly an hour later, Vanessa’s apartment smells like coffee and sex and the sunflowers I brought her yesterday. They sit in a blue vase, bright against the kitchen counter.
Vanessa stands barefoot in the kitchen wearing my black t-shirt while she pours coffee into mismatched mugs. Everything feels so domestic and for one unhinged second my brain offers up the thought:
I could get used to this.
And it’s terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.
“You’re staring again.”
I lean one shoulder against the counter, my eyes dragging over bare legs and messy hair and her lazy smile. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“You left it on the floor.”
“That’s not technically permission.”
“It absolutely is.”
God, this woman. I move toward her before I can stop myself, sliding one hand around her waist while I steal a slow kiss that tastes like coffee and warmth and something close to happiness.
“What are your plans today?”
Vanessa studies me over the rim of her mug. “That depends.”
“On?”
“How much you plan to monopolize my weekend.”
I consider that honestly before I answer with a shrug, “As much as you’ll let me.”
Her laugh hits me square in the chest. And there it is again; that terrifying ease. The thing that makes this feel less like rekindling something old, and more like building something entirely new.
Vanessa sets her coffee down before looping her arms around my neck. “Well.” Her mouth brushes against mine again. “Lucky for you, I was hoping you would.”
Vanessa agrees to spend the day with me. Just like that. Without a second of hesitation. No soft warning wrapped around the word yes. She simply smiles at me from the middle of her kitchen, barefoot in my shirt with coffee warming her hands, and agrees to give me the rest of her day.
I don’t trust how easily that settles inside me. Ease has never been my natural state. I understand structure. Schedules, with patterns and precise timing. I understand effort and discipline and the quiet security of knowing where everything belongs. This is different.
This is Vanessa standing in a patch of late-morning sunlight with her hair tangled from my hands and my mouth, smiling like the world hasn’t shifted under my feet. Like I haven’t already started rearranging myself around her again.
We take longer than necessary to leave her apartment.
Part of that is because she insists on feeding the cat before we go, even though Vinny looks like he’s never missed a meal in his life.
Part of it is because I can’t stop touching her.
A hand at her hip while she rinses our mugs.
My fingers brushing the back of her neck as she searches for her boots.
One last kiss near the door that turns into three because she laughs against my mouth and tells me I’m going to make us late.
“For what?” I ask.
“For whatever you planned.”
“I didn’t plan anything.”
She pulls back enough to look me in the eye. I hold her stare for all of three seconds before she laughs with a tilt of her head. “Hayden.”
“Okay, I may have planned a little bit.”
“There’s the Hayden I know.” She flashes me a smile of pure adoration, and it stuns my heart enough to stop it for a beat.
By early afternoon, we’re walking into my building, the doorman nodding once as we pass through the lobby.
Vanessa doesn’t comment on the height of the ceilings or the polished stone or the quiet efficiency of the staff.
She does take it all in, though. I feel her attention moving over everything the same way I felt it inside my room at Gild.
She’s not impressed by the grandeur, she’s more interested in what the space says about me.
The elevator ride up is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Her shoulder brushes mine once when the car rises, and I have to fight the instinct to pull her closer. I don’t, and that feels important.
When the doors open to my floor, she steps out first, gaze drifting down the hallway before landing on me. I unlock my door when we reach it. She steps inside when I push it open for her. The apartment is quiet when we enter.
“This feels very you.”
“Meaning?” I arch a brow in her direction.
“It’s just feels very controlled.”
Of course that’s the first word she chooses. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the lake, the water gray-blue beneath the afternoon sky, roughened by wind. The furniture is clean-lined and dark, expensive without being loud. Nothing sits where it doesn’t belong. No clutter. No excess.
Vanessa wanders ahead of me, her fingers trailing lightly along the back of the sofa before she stops near the windows. The lake holds her attention first. I continue to watch her as she absorbs my space.
“You can see everything from here.”
“Most things.”
She glances over her shoulder, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “That answer feels intentional.”
“It was.”
Her smile deepens, but she turns back toward the view.
For a moment, I let myself imagine this as something normal.
Her here. In my space. Her coat over the back of one of my chairs.
Her books on my table. Her coffee mug next to mine in the morning.
The image lands too hard, so I move before it can settle any deeper.
“I’m going to shower and change.”
Vanessa turns to face me. “Am I allowed to snoop?”
“No.”
“Do you think you can stop me?” Her smile growing wider.
“No.” A short chuff escapes me which pulls a laugh from her, the sound following me down the hallway long after I leave her standing in my living room.
The shower should clear my head. It doesn’t. Water beats hot against my shoulders as I stand beneath it longer than necessary, hyperaware of the woman moving through my home on the other side of the door.
She’s seeing pieces of my life I’ve kept closed to everyone else. Touching my books. Reading record spines. Noticing things I forgot I left visible. That should bother me, but what’s strange is that it doesn’t.
By the time I turn off the water and step out, I can hear faint music drifting from the living room. It’s not from my overhead speakers though, as I recognize the crackle that only comes from vinyl.
I dress in jeans and a black sweater, towel my hair dry, and follow the sound down the hall.
Vanessa is standing barefoot near the record player, her boots abandoned by the sofa, one of my old blues records spinning beneath the needle.
She’s holding the sleeve in both hands, studying the worn edges like she’s examining an artifact.
Her eyes find mine when I enter the room. “You have a very organized system.”
“Obviously.”
“It’s deranged.” She declares, as she points to the cataloged rows and rows of records.
“It’s precise.” I contend on a shrug.
“You have blues between melancholy and destructive longing.”
“That’s where it belongs.”
She looks up at me, eyes bright with amusement. “You know most people simply alphabetize.”
“Most people lack imagination.” I toss back like it’s a well-known fact.
Her laugh comes easier now. So does mine.
And that’s probably the most dangerous thing about this entire day.
The fact that she’s standing in my apartment like she already belongs here and me realizing how much I like it.
How much I like all the ordinary parts. The ridiculous argument over record organization.
The way she’s made herself comfortable without asking permission.
The fact that the apartment feels less silent with her in it.
Vanessa is sliding the record sleeve back into place when I notice her gaze catch on something near the end of the shelf. I know what it is before her fingers even reach for it. It’s a small framed photograph, half-hidden beside a stack of vinyl I rarely touch anymore.
Emily. Six years old. Missing front tooth. Hair in uneven pigtails. Grinning at the camera with both hands wrapped around a bouquet of sunflowers nearly as big as her chest.
Vanessa’s hand freezes before she touches the frame. She doesn’t pick it up. She just looks and that restraint does something to me I’m not prepared for.
“It’s one of the last pictures we took of her,” I share almost on a whisper.
Her gaze shifts to me, soft but careful. “It’s a wonderful memory to have.”
I nod once. For a second, the room changes. The air tightens around a name that still has the power to make me feel ten years old. Vanessa doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t fill the silence with comfort I didn’t ask for. She simply looks back at the photo, her expression gentle.
“She was beautiful.”
“She was a menace.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “Aren’t all little sisters?”
The pressure in my chest eases enough that I can breathe again. I cross the room and take the frame from the shelf, not because I’m hiding it, but because I realize I want to hold it. The glass is cool beneath my thumb. “She liked sunflowers.”
Vanessa’s eyes flick to mine as she makes the connection. The flowers yesterday. Van Gogh. Emily. A thread I didn’t even realize existed until this moment.
“I didn’t know that.” She breathes out.
“No.” I stare down at the photograph for another second before setting it carefully back into place. “It hurts to talk about her.”
“I know.”
There’s no judgement or pity in her reply, just understanding. And somehow that makes it easier to move back into the day instead of sinking into the grief that usually sinks in its claws until I’m fraying at the edges.