Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Hannah
The call comes on a Tuesday morning while I'm getting ready for work.
I'm standing in Bennett's bathroom—our bathroom, I've started thinking of it—brushing my teeth when my phone buzzes on the counter. Unknown number. I almost don't answer, but something makes me pick up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is this Hannah?" A woman's voice, professional but apologetic. "This is Carol from Riverside Property Management. I'm calling about your lease at 412 Maple Street."
My stomach drops. I rinse my mouth quickly, buying myself a second. "Yeah, that's me. Is everything okay?"
"Well, I wanted to give you as much notice as possible. The owner has decided to sell the building. You'll need to vacate by the end of next month. That gives you thirty days from today."
The words hit me like cold water. "Wait, what? Thirty days?"
"I'm so sorry for the short notice. It's in your lease agreement—the owner has the right to terminate with thirty days' notice if the property is being sold. We'll refund your security deposit in full, of course, and if you need a reference for your next place?—"
"Okay. Yeah. Thanks for letting me know." I'm on autopilot, my voice steady even though my hands are shaking. "I'll start looking."
"Again, I'm really sorry about this. If there's anything I can do to help?—"
"It's fine. Thanks." I hang up before she can say anything else.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face looks pale, my eyes too wide. Thirty days. I have thirty days to find a new apartment, pack everything, move out. Thirty days to figure out where the hell I'm going to live.
The panic hits in waves. I set my phone down carefully, like if I move too fast everything will shatter. My hands are trembling. I pick up my toothbrush again, finish brushing mechanically, spit, rinse. The motions are automatic, but my brain is spinning.
Thirty days. How am I supposed to find a place in thirty days?
I pull my hair into a ponytail, my fingers fumbling with the elastic. I can't afford a place like this. Bennett's house is beautiful, spacious, in a nice neighborhood. My apartment was cheap because it was old and small and the landlord never fixed anything. Even that stretched my budget.
I grab my phone and open my banking app with shaking hands. The numbers stare back at me, unforgiving. Checking account $1,847. Savings $2,203. Security deposit refund will be $650, but that won't come until after I move out.
I do the math quickly. First month's rent plus security deposit—that's at least $2,000, probably more. Moving costs. I'll need boxes, maybe a truck if I can't borrow one. That leaves me with almost nothing as a buffer.
My shoulders draw up tight as I force myself to breathe.
I can't ask Bennett for help. I can't. We've been together for what, a few weeks? Less than a month. I can't burden him with this. He has his own life, his own responsibilities. The last thing he needs is his girlfriend showing up with all her problems, asking him to solve them.
Girlfriend. The word still feels new, fragile. What if asking for help is too much too soon? What if it scares him off?
I take a shaky breath and force myself to finish getting ready. I pull on my work clothes, grab my bag. Bennett's already downstairs making coffee. I can hear him moving around the kitchen, the familiar sounds of our morning routine.
I paste on a smile before I walk down the stairs.
"Morning," he says, looking up from the coffee maker. He's already dressed for work, his suit perfectly tailored, his hair still damp from the shower. God, he's beautiful. "You okay? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine. Just tired." The lie comes easily. Too easily. "Didn't sleep great."
He frowns, stepping closer. "You sure? You feel okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Promise." I kiss him quickly, grabbing the travel mug he's already filled for me. "I have to run or I'll be late. See you tonight?"
"Of course. I'll pick up dinner on the way home."
"Perfect." I'm already moving toward the door, my heart pounding. "See you tonight."
I make it to my car before the tears start.
Seven days later, nothing has gotten easier.
I've searched for apartments during every spare moment.
On my lunch breaks at the coffee shop, scrolling through rental listings on my phone while my sandwich sits untouched.
Late at night when Bennett's asleep beside me, on my laptop doing the math over and over, hoping somehow the numbers will change.
They don't.
Everything affordable is either too far from work or in neighborhoods I don't feel safe in. Everything close and safe is way out of my budget. I've applied to a dozen places. Half never responded. The other half rejected me—income too low, credit not strong enough, too many other applicants.
There's one listing I keep coming back to. An efficiency apartment forty-five minutes from downtown. $950 a month. The photos show stained carpet and a kitchenette that's barely more than a hot plate and mini fridge. But it's affordable. Maybe.
I've done the math so many times I have it memorized.
Rent $950. Utilities $150, maybe more in winter.
Gas for the longer commute $120. Groceries $300 if I'm careful.
Phone $65. That's $1,585 before I account for anything else.
Car insurance. Toiletries. Clothes when mine wear out.
I'd have maybe $500 left each month as a buffer. One unexpected expense and I'm screwed.
I'm not sleeping. I lie awake beside Bennett, listening to his steady breathing, my mind racing. Twenty-three days left. Twenty-three days to find a place, to pack, to figure out how to tell him I'm leaving.
I'm not eating much either. My stomach is in knots most of the time. At work, I forget orders, mix up drinks. Mara asks if I'm okay. I smile and say I'm fine.
Always fine.
Bennett notices. Of course he does. He's too observant, too attuned to me.
"You've been quiet lately," he says one evening. We're sitting on the couch, some movie playing that neither of us is really watching. His arm is around my shoulders, my head resting against his chest. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just tired. Work was busy."
"You've been tired a lot."
I force a laugh. "Welcome to the glamorous life of a barista."
He doesn't laugh. His hand moves to my hair, fingers threading through it gently. "Hannah. Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine."
The lie sits heavy between us. I can feel him wanting to push, to ask more questions, but he doesn't. He just holds me tighter, and somehow that makes it worse.
By Friday evening, I'm wound so tight I feel like I might shatter. I've been on edge all day, snapping at customers at work, nearly crying when I spilled a drink on myself.
When I get to Bennett's house, he's in the kitchen chopping vegetables for dinner. He looks up and smiles. "Hey. How was your day?"
"Fine." I drop my bag by the door.
He sets down the knife, studying me. "You've been somewhere else all week."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"You heard me." His voice is calm but firm. "Something's been wrong for days, and you won't talk to me about it. I've been patient, but I need you to tell me what's going on."
"It's nothing you need to worry about." I'm backing toward the hallway, needing space.
"Hannah." He follows me, his expression serious. "I've watched you barely eat. I've watched you stare at your phone like it's going to explode. I've watched you lie awake at night thinking I'm asleep. Whatever this is, it's not nothing."
"I said it's fine!" My voice cracks. "Just... please. Drop it."
"No." The word is quiet but absolute. "I'm not dropping it. Not this time. You're falling apart and you won't let me help. Why?"
"Because it's not your problem!" The words burst out of me, sharp and desperate. "It's mine. I'll handle it."
"What problem?" His jaw tightens. "What are you handling alone that you think I can't help with?"
I open my mouth. Close it. The words stick in my throat, tangled up with shame and pride and fear.
He stares at me, and I can see the hurt in his eyes, the frustration. "You don't trust me."
"That's not?—"
"It is." His voice is rough. "Whatever this is, you'd rather carry it alone than tell me. That's what not trusting someone looks like, Hannah."
Tears burn behind my eyes. "You don't understand."
"Then help me understand." He steps closer, his hands gentle on my arms. "Please. Just talk to me."
I can't. I can't do this right now. I pull away from him, moving toward the kitchen. "I need—I just need?—"
I don't finish the sentence. I grab his face and kiss him, hard and desperate, almost angry. He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, but then his hands are on my waist, gripping tight.
"Hannah—"
"Don't talk." I kiss him again, rougher this time, my hands already yanking at his belt. "Please. I just need—I need you. Make it stop. Make everything stop."
His eyes darken. Something fierce and frustrated flashes across his face, but he doesn’t push me away. “Okay,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’ve got you.”
I pull him with me until my back hits the edge of the counter.
There’s no softness in the way we come together.
His mouth is hard on mine. My hands are clumsy and frantic as I shove his pants down.
He yanks my jeans and underwear down my hips in one rough motion, then lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing.
The cold marble bites into my bare skin. I don’t care.
“Hannah—” he starts, but I wrap my legs around him and pull him in.
“Now,” I demand, voice breaking. “Please. Just—now.”
He doesn’t make me wait. He pushes inside me in one hard thrust and I cry out, head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders. It borders on too much and somehow still not enough. He curses against my neck and starts to move — deep, punishing strokes that force every thought out of my head.
This isn’t like any of the other times. There’s no careful buildup. No murmured praise. Just the sharp slap of skin, the counter creaking beneath us, and the desperate, almost angry way he drives into me like he’s trying to fuck the secrets out of my body.
“You won’t talk to me,” he rasps against my ear, one hand locked around my thigh hard enough to bruise. “Fine. Then feel this. Feel me.”
I sob and cling tighter, meeting every thrust. The anxiety is still there, clawing at the edges, but the harder he fucks me the further it gets pushed down. I need it. I need him to wreck me until there’s no room left for anything else.
“Bennett—fuck?—”
“I’ve got you.” His voice is strained, almost angry. “Even when you won’t let me. I’ve fucking got you.”
His hand shoves between us, rough fingers finding my clit. The dual sensation rips a broken cry out of me. I’m so close, wound so tight I feel like I might shatter.
“Come,” he orders, forehead pressed hard against mine. “Let go. Give me something, Hannah. Anything.”
The orgasm slams into me so hard my vision whites out. I choke on his name, body clamping down around him as wave after wave crashes through me. He follows with a guttural groan, burying himself deep and pulsing inside me, his grip on my thighs almost painful.
For several long seconds the only sound is our ragged breathing.
Then reality rushes back in, cold and heavy.
The temporary blankness fades. The countdown is still there. The fear is still there. I still haven’t told him.
“Hey.” Bennett’s voice is softer now, concerned. He pulls back just enough to look at me, hands gentle as they frame my face. “You okay?”
I nod, but I can’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Hannah—”
“I’m fine.” I slide off the counter on unsteady legs, already pulling my clothes back into place. My hands are shaking. “I should clean up.”
He catches my wrist gently. “Talk to me. Please. Something’s been wrong all week, and I don’t know how to help if you won’t tell me what it is.”
I look at him then — at the genuine worry in his eyes, the way he’s still trying even after I just used his body to run from him. And I want to tell him. God, I want to.
But the words won’t come.
“I’m just stressed about work,” I lie. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
He doesn’t look convinced. For a second I think he’s going to push again. Instead he just exhales and nods once.
“Okay. But I’m here. Whatever it is, I’m here.”
“I know.” I kiss him softly, trying to pour everything I can’t say into it. “Thank you.”
We clean up in silence. He wipes down the counter while I straighten my clothes, both of us moving carefully around each other. The air feels heavy with everything unsaid.
That night, lying in bed beside him, I stare at the ceiling and count down the days. Nineteen days. Nineteen days left.
His breathing evens out beside me, deep and steady. He’s asleep. I turn my head to look at him in the darkness. Even in sleep he looks peaceful. Content. Like he has no idea I’m lying here falling apart.
The guilt is crushing. He deserves better than this. Better than me lying to him, hiding things, using his body as a temporary escape.
But I don’t know how to ask for help. I’ve spent my whole life figuring things out on my own. Every time I’ve relied on someone, they’ve let me down. Every time I’ve been vulnerable, I’ve gotten hurt.
What if I tell him and he realizes I’m too much work? What if he decides I’m not worth the trouble?
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. My mind won’t stop racing. Apartment listings. Numbers that don’t add up. The countdown that gets shorter every day.
Nineteen days until everything changes.
And I still don’t know how to ask for help.