Chapter 19 Hannah
Hannah
I shouldn’t have taken that last shot.
Or maybe the one before that. The one Alex insisted on, even though Grace was giving him the look that meant he’d be sleeping it off on the couch in the honeymoon suite.
But I’d tossed it back without thinking… because thinking was the problem. Thinking meant remembering that Connor was leaving tomorrow, acknowledging that whatever this was ended tonight.
So I didn’t think. I drank to pretend everything was fine.
We climbed the stairs to our apartment, gripping the railing because the world had a pleasant tilt to it. Not spinning, just blurry. His bow tie hung loose around his neck. When had that happened?
I stopped on the landing, turned to face him. “I don’t want tonight to end.”
The too-honest words came out before I could stop them, and I wanted to take them back immediately for being too much. But Connor stepped closer enough to smell tequila on his breath.
“It doesn’t have to,” he said.
I kissed him before the moment could get heavier, before either of us could say something we’d regret.
He tasted like lime and salt and bad decisions, and I pressed closer, needing the contact, needing to feel something other than the growing pit in my stomach, the anticipatory anxiety of his absence.
We stumbled to the door. My keys slipped through my fingers. Connor’s hand covered mine, steadying it—or trying to, though his fingers weren’t coordinated either—until together we got the key in the lock.
We fell through the doorway, mouths still connected. I yanked at his bow tie, finally getting it off and throwing it… somewhere. His jacket followed.
My hands went to his shirt buttons, but they were so small, and my fingers felt thick and clumsy. “Why are there so many buttons?”
He laughed, helping me, and when the shirt finally fell open I pressed my palms against his chest. Warm. Solid. Real. I could focus on that instead of—
No. Not thinking. That was the whole point.
We made it halfway down the hall before I tripped and we crashed into the wall. I giggled, the sound escaping before I could stop it, and Connor grinned like I’d said something brilliant. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I lied, because saying anything else would mean admitting this wasn’t perfect, that tomorrow everything would go back to being terrible.
He kissed me again, his hands cupping my face, and the gentleness of it made my throat tight. I pushed into the kiss harder, needing it to be less tender.
Less like goodbye.
We stumbled into his room and I reached behind me for my dress’ zipper, but my fingers fumbled.
“Let me,” Connor said, turning me around and unzipping with deliberate slowness, but there was an edge to the movement, like maybe if he didn’t concentrate he’d fuck it up. Like he was holding onto control by his fingernails.
The dress pooled at my feet, and I turned to face him in just my bra and panties. The look on his face made my breath hitch—or maybe that was just a tequila burp.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice cracking.
“Connor.” I reached for his belt. “Stop talking.”
I didn’t want words. Words made things real, and if it was real then it would hurt when he left, and I couldn’t—I just needed—
“I know,” he said, helping me with his pants. His foot got caught and then we were falling onto the bed in a graceless heap that would have embarrassed sober-me.
But I wasn’t sober, and neither was he, and maybe it was easier this way so we could regret it in the morning.
But no, even as the idea appeared, I knew I wouldn’t regret this. I couldn’t.
His hands were everywhere, and I arched into the touch, chasing sensation, anything to keep me in this moment instead of thinking about tomorrow. My bra came off—I think I did it, or maybe he helped, it didn’t matter.
“Condom,” I managed. “Do you have—”
“Yeah. Hold on.” He rolled off me, fumbling with his nightstand. The drawer stuck. He yanked it too hard and it came all the way out, spilling contents onto the floor.
“Shit,” he muttered, squinting at the floor. “I can’t—where did it—”
I leaned over the edge of the bed, spotting the condom box. “There.”
“Right. Yeah. Got it.” He grabbed the box, hands shaking as he pulled one out.
Something dangerous flickered in my chest—affection or fondness, feelings I couldn’t afford to have.
Because I’d finally found someone who made me feel less alone, less like a complete failure.
Someone who looked at me like I mattered.
And he was leaving tomorrow.
“Hannah?” Connor was looking at me, brow furrowed. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said quickly, pulling him over me. “Don’t stop.”
He kissed me, and I tasted salt. Tequila or tears? Mine or his? I didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
We fumbled with the condom together, hands tangling, and then he was at my entrance, and I wrapped my legs around him.
“Hannah,” he said, and there was a question in it.
“Please.” I pulled him closer. “Just—please.”
He entered me slowly, his eyes searching my face. But whatever he was searching for? I didn’t want him to find it. I closed my eyes, rolled my hips, urging him faster, needing this to be about bodies and touch and not about… anything else.
We weren’t coordinated. We bumped foreheads trying to kiss. His elbow landed on my hair and I yelped. We laughed, breathless, and then the laughter died because it felt too good and too sad all at once.
His control slipped—I felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his breath came shorter. “I’m—geez, Hannah, I… you feel so good, and I don’t know if—”
I pulled his mouth to mine to stop whatever he was about to say. His hand slid between us, finding where we were joined, where I needed him, and his touch made me arch off the bed. Close. So close. But I didn’t want it to end because then we’d have to stop pretending.
“Don’t—” The word slipped out before I could stop it, but I bit off the rest. Don’t leave. Don’t go. Don’t make me be alone again.
Connor made a sound like I’d hurt him, and his rhythm faltered. I pulled him closer, hiding my face in his neck. “Just—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
His movements got more urgent, more desperate, and I matched him, chasing the edge where I didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel anything except the physical.
When I came, it felt like falling apart. I cried out—his name or just noise, I couldn’t tell—and felt him follow, his whole body shaking.
After, we lay tangled together, both breathing hard. The room spun when I closed my eyes, so I kept them open, staring at the ceiling as I dropped my foot to the floor—something to ground me and keep me from floating off.
“Hannah,” Connor murmured.
“Hmm?”
Silence. Then: “Nothing. Just… Hannah.”
His arm tightened around me, and I felt tears slip out. I wiped them away quickly, hoping he was too drunk to notice.
Tomorrow, he’d leave. Tomorrow, I’d have to figure out how to be okay again. How to go back to sleeping by myself and pretending I had my life together.
Tomorrow, I’d be alone.
But tonight—tonight I had this. His warmth, his weight, the rise and fall of his chest. I could pretend a little longer.
I fell asleep before the pretending could crack, before I had to face what any of this meant.
In the morning, everything would go back to normal.
In the morning, I’d be alone again, and I would be fine.
I had to be.