Chapter 21 Hannah
Hannah
The door clicked shut behind Victoria, and suddenly the apartment felt too small. Or maybe that was just my head, still pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Three weeks. Victoria had given him three weeks to pack his things.
And then he'd leave. Back to his real life being Victoria Blackstone’s right-hand man. So important that when he didn't respond for twelve hours—when he wasn't at her beck and call—she showed up at his home.
He would pack his bed and his couch, and I’d be here, but sleeping on an air mattress in his former room, applying for jobs I’d never get, pouring drinks at Donnelly’s, living the small-town life he’d left behind.
At least until my sister moved out too. Then what?
The room spun slightly when I stood up. I grabbed the empty coffee cups, needing something to do with my hands, needing to move before I said something stupid or started crying or threw up. Maybe all three.
“Well. That was unexpected.” I forced my voice to stay casual, even though talking made my head pound worse. Like my heart wasn’t hammering. Like the fluorescent kitchen light wasn’t making me want to die.
“She’s… she’s good at giving her employees flexibility.” His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else.
I carried the cups to the kitchen, rinsed them in the sink. Watched the water swirl down the drain and tried to figure out what to say.
Tell him you’re falling for him. Just be honest.
But I’d been honest before—with Sebastian, with my parents, with the fucking SEC.
And look where that had gotten me: unemployed, publicly disgraced, and functionally homeless. And with a hangover that made me even more miserable than I'd already felt.
I dried my hands on a dish towel then turned to face him. He was still standing by the couch, watching me with that careful expression.
“So,” I said, aiming for practical. “I should probably move my stuff out of your room.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re going to need to pack up your stuff.
” I shrugged like it was no big deal, like my throat wasn’t closing up.
“I’ll get my stuff out of your way now, give you space to work.
Plus it’s not like we need to keep sharing a bed, right?
You told me to crash in your room because you weren’t here.
But now you’re back, and you’ll be busy with Alex’s firm and packing and everything, so… ”
He was looking at me like I’d just said something in a foreign language.
“If that’s what you want,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. Careful.
Of course it’s not what I want, I wanted to scream. I want you to tell me that you feel it too, that three weeks isn’t enough.
But I just smiled and said, “Yeah, it makes sense, right?”
“Right.” He nodded once. “I'll help you move your things.”
And that was somehow worse than if he’d argued. He was just… accepting it. Being respectful of my boundaries, not pushing back, giving me exactly what I’d asked for.
Because this was just temporary for him, a convenient arrangement while we were both here. Nothing worth fighting for.
Good. That’s good. Better to know now than get your heart broken later.
Moving my stuff took less than twenty minutes. I didn’t have much, just a mundane accumulation of clothes, books, and power cords. My hands shook slightly as I folded clothes—hangover tremors or emotions, who knew anymore?
We moved in silence, careful not to touch or make eye contact. The air between us felt fragile, like one wrong word would shatter something neither of us knew how to name.
Connor set my duffel on the couch and stepped back. His hands went to his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. I sat down on the couch—my bed again, I guess—and stared at the duffel bag.
You’re going to be packing anyway.
The words echoed in my head. I’d said them out loud, made them real. And I’d made it easier for him by removing myself from his space.
“I have a shift at Donnelly’s,” I said, checking my phone even though I already knew what time it was. “I should get ready.”
“Right. And I should do some grocery shopping, then get some packing supplies. Maybe head to Alex’s office.”
We stood there for a beat too long, neither of us moving.
“I’ll see you later,” I said quickly, pulling on my jacket and shoving on my shoes, because if he stood there a moment longer looking morose, I might cry. Or worse, I might ask him to stay.
Yet I couldn’t ask him to give up a job he loved… and I couldn’t get a job where he lived. Even if he wanted me, I couldn't afford to follow him.
The bar noise hit me like a physical force of glasses clanking and voices overlapping. My shift at Donnelly’s passed in a blur of muscle memory and forced smiles, every sound making my skull feel like it was splitting open.
Pour. Serve. Collect. Wipe down. Don’t throw up. Repeat.
I moved on autopilot while my brain was still back at the apartment, replaying the conversation with Connor on an endless loop.
“I should move my stuff.”
“If that’s what you want.”
If that’s what you want. Not I want you to stay. Not let’s talk about this. Just… acceptance. Agreement. Like it didn’t matter to him one way or another where I slept.
Every couple that came in holding hands made my chest tight.
Every time I wiped down the bar, I thought about Connor standing on the other side gripping the napkin I gave him to blot his tears.
Every time someone ordered a Manhattan, I remembered that checklist, ordering a perfect Manhattan by four pm.
You weren’t a part of my plan.
“You okay, kiddo?” Uncle Mike asked during a lull, wiping down glasses beside me.
“Fine,” I said automatically.
“You’ve been staring at that tap for five minutes.”
I blinked, realizing I’d been about to pour a Guinness into thin air. “Sorry. Distracted.”
“Boyfriend trouble?”
I laughed, but it came out hollow. “Is it boyfriend trouble if you’re not actually together?”
Mike gave me a skeptical look. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I grabbed a rag and started scrubbing an already-clean section of bar.
Because I didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to hear Mike’s well-meaning advice about how I needed to put myself out there or stop protecting myself or whatever therapy-speak he’d picked up from his ex-wife.
So I just shrugged and went back to work.
“He’s leaving in three weeks. Back to New York. This was just… temporary.”
Mike was quiet for a moment, just wiping down glasses in that methodical way he had. Finally: “Did he say it was temporary?”
“He didn’t have to. He has three weeks to pack his stuff and go back to his real life. I’m just… convenient while he’s here.”
“You really believe that?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, I didn’t know what I believed anymore. Every time I tried to sort through my feelings, they got tangled up with my fear and my history and the voice in my head that kept saying, Don’t be stupid, Hannah, you know how this ends.
Mike reached across the bar and squeezed my shoulder. “Hannah. You’re one of the smartest people I know. But sometimes you’re so busy protecting yourself that you don’t let yourself have anything worth protecting.”
I looked up at him, throat tight.
“Maybe he’s leaving in three weeks,” Mike said gently. “Maybe this is temporary. But maybe—just maybe—it doesn’t have to be. You won’t know unless you ask.”
“What if I ask and he says no?”
“What if you don’t ask and spend the rest of your life wondering?”
By the time I clocked out, the Gatorade and fries I’d scarfed during my break had finally kicked in.
The pounding in my head had downgraded to a dull ache.
Which meant I couldn’t blame the hangover anymore for the hollow feeling in my chest. I’d almost convinced myself that moving out of Connor’s room had been the right call. Professional. Boundaried. Smart.
Then I got home and saw the pot Connor had left on the stove, covered, with a bowl and spoon set out beside it. I lifted the lid and found chicken soup—not the canned kind but actual homemade soup, with hand-cut vegetables and chunks of real chicken.
My eyes stung, because Connor knew I’d feel like death, and he’d made the one thing that might actually help.
I ladled some into the bowl and slurped it standing at the counter, and it was exactly what my body needed. The warmth settled my still-queasy stomach. Of course it was perfect. Connor didn’t do anything halfway.
When I finished, I washed the bowl, brushed my teeth, and changed into pajamas, then stood in the hallway staring at his closed door.
He left it closed, I thought. He’s respecting your boundaries. He’s giving you space like you obviously wanted.
Except I hadn’t wanted space. I’d wanted him to say let’s figure this out.
But Connor wasn’t the type to push. He was careful, considerate, always letting other people set the pace. It was one of the things I liked about him—he never made me feel pressured or rushed.
It was also, apparently, going to drive me insane.
I laid down on the couch, punched my stupid flat pillows that didn't smell right, and tried to sleep.
Two hours later, I gave up.
I’d been lying there for an hour, trying to convince myself to just close my eyes and accept that this was my life now—sleeping alone while the man I was maybe falling for slept twenty feet away.
I needed to pee anyway. That was a legitimate reason to get up. Not weird at all.
I padded down the hallway in the dark, did my business, washed my hands. And then I stood in the hallway again, staring at Connor’s door.
There was a sliver of light beneath the door, barely visible. Was he awake too?
My heart started hammering. I took three steps, then stopped and turned back, standing there like an idiot.
Just touch the door, crack it open enough to see if he's awake.
But what if he’d left the light on by accident? What if he was asleep and that woke him up? What if I'd misread everything, and he was relieved to be rid of me? What if—
The door opened.
Connor stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair sticking up in about fifteen directions, his eyes soft and tired and so relieved to see me that my breath caught.
“You can’t sleep either, huh?” he said quietly.
I shook my head, not trusting my voice. My whole body felt shaky—not hangover shakes anymore, but something worse. Something that came from spending twelve hours trying to convince myself I could sleep apart from him.
He held out his hand.
I took it.
He led me into his room—our room, the one I’d been sleeping in for months, the one that smelled right and felt right and had pillows that were actually comfortable. He climbed into bed and lifted the covers beside him, and when I laid down, he tucked me against his chest like I belonged there.
I fit perfectly. Hip to hip, my head in the hollow of his shoulder, his arm around my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The silence said everything—I missed you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what we’re doing but I know I need this. Need you.
His hand traced lazy patterns, mindless and soothing. The tension I’d been carrying all day finally released. My headache, that last stubborn remnant of the hangover, melted away.
His breathing evened out, and my body remembered this, how to sync with his, how to finally relax. I closed my eyes and finally, finally, felt like I could breathe again.