Chapter 9
nine
. . .
I wake up alone and I'm in my own bed, in my own apartment, and the sheets smell wrong. They don't smell like Bennett's detergent or his cologne or him. They smell like the cheap fabric softener I bought on sale three months ago.
The reality hits me all at once. I left. We had our first real fight, and I left.
I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up with notifications, and my stomach drops.
Bennett: I'm sorry for pushing. I just want you to know I'm here when you're ready to talk.
Bennett: I hope you got home safe.
Bennett: Goodnight, Hannah.
Each message is careful. Like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing and making it worse.
I stare at the texts until my vision blurs. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I should respond. I need to respond. But what do I even say?
I'm sorry I ran?
I'm sorry I can't be the person you need me to be?
I'm sorry I'm so fucking broken that I don't know how to let you help me?
I type and delete three different messages before finally settling on something safe.
Me : I'm okay. I'm sorry about last night.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately regret it. I'm sorry about last night. Like I spilled wine on his carpet or forgot to text him back. Not like I walked out in the middle of our first real fight because I couldn't handle the way he was looking at me.
The three dots appear almost immediately. He's awake. Of course he's awake.
Bennett: Don't apologize. Can we talk today?
My throat closes. I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to throw my phone across the room and pretend none of this is happening.
Me: I have work until 2.
Bennett: I'll come by after your shift. Or I can pick you up. Whatever you want.
Whatever I want. Like I have any idea what I want right now.
Me: Okay.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
My apartment feels too small. Too quiet.
I've lived here for two years, but suddenly it feels like a stranger's place.
The walls are bare except for a single framed print I bought at Target.
The furniture is mismatched, secondhand pieces I picked up from Craigslist. There's nothing personal here.
Nothing that says Hannah lives here and this is her home.
Because it's not. It never has been.
Bennett's house felt more like home after one night than this place has in two years.
I force myself out of bed and into the shower. The water is lukewarm—the building's hot water has always been unreliable—and I stand under the spray trying to wash away the tightness in my chest. It doesn't work.
By the time I get to Brewed Awakening, I'm already exhausted. Mara takes one look at me and frowns.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that." I tie my apron and avoid her eyes.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
She doesn't push, which I'm grateful for.
The morning rush starts, and I throw myself into the familiar rhythm of taking orders, pulling shots, steaming milk.
But my hands are shaking. I mess up two drinks in a row, and the second time a customer snaps at me about the extra foam, I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying.
"Hey." Mara touches my arm gently. "Take five. I've got this."
"I'm fine."
"Hannah." Her voice is firm. "Take. Five."
I step into the back room and lean against the wall, pressing my palms to my eyes. I can't fall apart here. Not at work. Not where everyone can see.
But all I can think about is the look on Bennett's face last night. The hurt in his eyes when I told him I didn't want to burden him. The way his voice cracked when he asked if I trusted him.
Do you?
I don't know. I want to. God, I want to. But trusting someone means letting them see all the ugly parts, all the broken pieces I've spent my whole life trying to hide. And what happens when he sees those pieces and decides I'm not worth the effort?
The door to the back room opens, and Mara pokes her head in. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm coming."
I splash cold water on my face and go back out front. The rest of the morning drags. Every time the bell above the door chimes, my heart jumps. But it's never him.
Until 8:15.
The door opens, and Bennett walks in.
He's not in a suit. He's wearing jeans and a dark blue henley, his hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it too many times. He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes, and his jaw is tight.
Our eyes meet across the shop, and everything else fades away. The other customers, the hiss of the espresso machine, Mara's voice taking an order—it all becomes background noise.
He walks up to the counter slowly, like he's not sure if I'll bolt again.
"Hi," he says quietly.
"Hi." My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"Can we talk?"
I glance at Mara, who's watching us with poorly concealed curiosity. "I don't get off until two."
"I know." He hesitates. "But I was hoping you could take a break. Or close early. Or—I don't know, Hannah. I just need to talk to you."
There's something raw in his voice that makes my chest ache. I look at Mara again, and she nods immediately.
"Go. I'll cover."
"Are you sure?"
"Hannah." She gives me a pointed look. "Go."
I untie my apron with shaking hands and grab my bag from the back. Bennett waits by the door, and when I reach him, he doesn't touch me. Doesn't take my hand or put his arm around me. He just holds the door open and follows me outside.
"Where do you want to go?" he asks.
"Your office?"
He nods. "Okay."
The drive is silent. I sit in the passenger seat of his car, my hands twisted together in my lap, and stare out the window. He doesn't try to fill the silence with small talk or reassurances. He just drives, his jaw tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
When we get to his office, the building is quiet. It's Saturday, so most people aren't here. He leads me upstairs to his private office and closes the door behind us.
For a long moment, we just stand there. Him by the door, me by the window. The space between us feels like a canyon.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
"Hannah—"
"I shouldn't have—" I shake my head, frustrated. "The way I left was?—"
"You don't have to apologize for leaving." His voice is tight. "I pushed too hard. I went through your phone, and that was?—"
"You were trying to help." The words come out defensive, sharper than I mean them. "I get that. But you can't just?—"
"Can't just what?" He steps closer, and there's something raw in his expression. "Can't care that you were planning to move out without telling me?"
"I wasn't—" I stop. Was I? "I don't know what I was doing."
"That's the problem." His voice cracks slightly. "You don't tell me anything. You just... handle it alone."
My throat tightens. "Because that's what I do."
"Who taught you that?"
The question lands like a punch. I stare at him, my hands twisting together.
"Who taught you that you have to handle everything alone?" he asks again, softer this time.
"Everyone." The word comes out barely above a whisper.
Silence.
He's staring at me like I've just confirmed something he suspected but hoped wasn't true.
"I..." I can't look at him. My eyes drop to the floor, to his shoes, anywhere but his face. "I never told you where I grew up."
"Hannah—"
"Foster care." The words feel heavy, wrong. "I bounced around. A lot. And every time I—" My voice catches. "Every time I needed something, or asked for help, or wasn't easy enough, they'd... move me somewhere else."
His face changes. "Hannah?—"
"So I learned." I'm talking faster now, the words tumbling out messy and uneven. "I learned to be easy. To not ask. To handle everything myself so nobody would get tired of me and decide I was too much work and?—"
"Stop." He closes the distance between us, his hands coming up to frame my face. "Stop saying that."
"It's true?—"
"It's not." His thumbs brush my cheekbones. "You're not broken. You're not too much. You're—" He stops, his jaw working. "God, Hannah, you're everything."
Tears spill over. I can't speak. Can't do anything except stand there crying while he holds my face in his hands.
"I fell in love with you the day you spilled coffee on me." The words come out rough, urgent. "The woman who laughed instead of apologizing. Who dances in my kitchen and teases me about my music and makes my house feel like home. I fell in love with you. All of you."
"But what if—" My voice cracks. "What if you see all the broken parts and change your mind?"
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He presses his forehead to mine. "Hannah, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to get tired of you or decide you're too much work or?—"
"But people do." The words burst out. "People always do."
"I'm not them." His voice is fierce now. "I'm not whoever hurt you. I'm not whoever made you feel like you had to be perfect to be loved. I'm here. And I'm staying."
I'm crying harder now, my hands clutching his shirt.
"I know." His voice breaks. "But you don't have to be scared alone. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You don't have to handle everything by yourself anymore."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Then let me show you." His thumbs brush away my tears. "Let me be the person you come to when things go wrong. Not because you can't handle it yourself, but because you don't have to."
I look up at him, and something in his eyes—the certainty, the steadiness—breaks something open inside me.
"I didn't tell you about the apartment," I whisper.
"I know."
"You didn't make me feel like I couldn't." My voice is shaking. "It was me. It's always been me."
"Then let's work on it together." He kisses my forehead softly. "No more hiding. No more handling everything alone. Okay?"
"Okay," I whisper.
"Say it again."
"Okay." Louder this time.
We stand there for a long moment. His hand slides into my hair, gentle, grounding. I can feel his heartbeat against my palms where they're pressed to his chest.
Then I kiss him. Soft at first. Tentative. Like I'm asking permission.
He kisses me back, soft and slow, and I melt into him. His arms come around me, pulling me close, and I bury my face in his chest. He smells like home. Like safety. Like everything I've been too afraid to want.
"I missed you," I mumble against his shirt.
"I missed you too." His hand strokes my hair. "Don't leave like that again. Please."
"I won't. I promise."
We stand there for a long time, just holding each other. Eventually, his hands start to wander. Down my back, over my hips, pulling me closer. I feel the shift in his breathing, the way his body tenses against mine.
"Hannah." His voice is rough.
I look up at him, and the heat in his eyes makes my stomach flip. "Yeah?"
"I need you."
The words send a jolt straight through me. "Here?"
"Here." He backs me toward his desk, his hands already working at the buttons of my jeans. "Right now."
I should probably protest. We're in his office. Anyone could walk in. But I don't care. I need this. I need him. I need to feel connected to him again after the distance of last night.
He lifts me onto the desk, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His mouth finds mine, hungry and desperate, and I kiss him back with everything I have. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my thighs, sliding under my shirt.
"I'm sorry," I gasp between kisses. "I'm so sorry."
"Stop apologizing." He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it aside. "Just let me have you."
"Yes." I'm already working at his belt. "Yes, please."
He makes quick work of my jeans, sliding them down my legs along with my panties. Then he's lifting me, positioning me at the edge of the desk, and I'm reaching for him, pulling him closer.
"I need you so much," he says against my mouth.
"I know." The words come easier this time. "I need you too, Bennett."
He pushes into me slowly, and I gasp at the feeling of him filling me. It's intense and overwhelming and exactly what I need. He sets a steady rhythm, his hands gripping my hips, and I cling to his shoulders.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I do. His eyes are dark and intense, locked on mine.
"You're mine," he says. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Bennett." My voice breaks on his name. "I'm yours."
He kisses me hard, swallowing my moans as he moves faster. The desk creaks beneath us, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of us cares. This is raw and desperate and real—two people finding their way back to each other after almost losing it.
When I come, it's with his name on my lips and his arms around me. He follows seconds later, his face buried in my neck, his body shuddering against mine.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard. Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at me.
"You okay?" he asks softly.
I nod, still catching my breath. "Yeah. I'm okay."
"Good." He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then my mouth. "Because we're not done talking."
I laugh, the sound watery but genuine. "I figured."
He helps me down from the desk and hands me my clothes. We dress in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other. When we're both decent again, he pulls me into his arms, his chin resting on top of my head.
"I'm glad you're here," he says quietly.
"Me too." I press my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
"Never." He tilts my chin up and kisses me softly. "Come on. Let's go home."