Chapter Twelve - Hannah
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hannah
Hannah lost track of time in the building's shared workspace, surrounded by piles of art. Her students' weather paintings were spread across the table—their assignment to capture how emotions felt like different kinds of storms.
The soft click of expensive shoes against marble made her hands still. She knew that sound, had memorized it during months of lobby encounters. Had tried to forget it after Valentine's Day.
James appeared in the doorway, suit jacket over his arm, tie loosened. He looked... rumpled. Human. Nothing like the polished man who'd left her sitting alone at Nero's.
Not that she was noticing.
"Hannah." Her name sounded different in the midnight quiet. Less practiced. "You're up late."
"I am," she agreed, deliberately turning back to her work.
He stepped into the room anyway, and Hannah tried to ignore him as she sorted through drawings. He'd rolled his sleeves to his elbows and his hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his fingers through it.
These weren't things she was supposed to notice anymore.
"May I?" He gestured to one of the paintings.
She felt him move closer, felt the shift in the air when he leaned over to study Zack's work. Could smell his cologne.
“It looks like regret," he said quietly. "And sadness."
Something in his voice made her look up. James Park—successful, polished, perfect James Park—was studying a child's painting with genuine attention. The overhead lights caught the shadows under his eyes, the slight softening of his usual sharp edges.
"Children see things differently," she said, and immediately regretted engaging. "Their honesty can be uncomfortable for adults."
His mouth quirked. "Must be nice—saying whatever you want without overthinking it."
"Must be even nicer saying whatever you want, whether it's true or not." The words slipped out before she could stop them, sharper than intended.
James stilled, and Hannah waited for him to retreat behind his usual smooth facade. Instead, he kept looking at the painting, his fingers hovering over the storm clouds without touching.
"I deserve that," he said finally.
"I wasn't—" But she had been. The late hour made everything feel more raw, more honest. "It's late. I should pack up."
She started gathering the paintings, too aware of him still standing there, of how the empty building seemed to shrink the space between them.
"Let me help—"
"I've got it." But James's was already there, leaning over her, straightening the pile of artwork.
He was so close, that is seemed natural to Hannah when he put his hand on her arm.
His hand was warm through her sleeve. Hannah took a deep breath, the smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of late nights and fading perfection.
"Hannah—"
"Don't." She shrugged off his hand and went back to gathering the papers with mechanical precision. "We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"This." She gestured between them. "The late-night vulnerability. The careful apologies. The whole redemption narrative you're trying to craft."
He ran a hand through his hair—exactly as she'd known he would—messing it up further. "That's not what this is."
"No?" She met his eyes finally, wielding her calm like armor. "Then what is it, Mr. Park?"
The formality bothered him. She saw it in the tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something that might have been pain if James Park were capable of human emotions.
"I don't know," he said quietly, and the uncertainty in his voice was worse than any smooth explanation would have been.
Hannah zipped her bag closed with a jerk. She wouldn't let him see how the late hour made her defenses feel paper-thin, how his rumpled vulnerability threatened the careful distance she'd built.
"I suggest you figure it out." She shouldered her bag.
She walked past him, her sensible shoes silent against the marble floor. She could feel him watching her go, could almost hear all the things he wasn't saying.
Just before she reached the door, his voice stopped her: "They really are beautiful. The paintings."
Hannah allowed herself one breath, one moment to acknowledge the way her heart still betrayed her when he showed these glimpses of something real.
"Good night, Mr. Park."
She didn't look back. The empty hallway swallowed the sound of her footsteps, and Hannah tried not to think about storm clouds and honesty and the way James Park's voice sounded different after midnight.
══════════════════
Hannah was juggling Mrs. Peterson's grocery bags when the elevator doors opened, revealing James Park in his perfectly tailored suit. Her heart did that ridiculous little skip it always did, even as she tried to maneuver the bags without dropping them.
"Let me help with those," James said, already reaching for the heavier bags. His fingers brushed hers in the exchange, and Hannah told herself the warmth in her cheeks was from exertion.
They rode in silence, the gentle hum of the elevator marking each floor. Hannah was achingly aware of him beside her, of how his cologne mixed with the scent of fresh bread from Mrs. Peterson's bags.
The elevator stopped at eight. A door opened ahead—8B, the corner unit with the park view. Hannah had seen the 'For Rent' sign go up last week, had even let herself peek through the windows at the sunlit space that was twice the size of her studio. But the rent increase would mean no more spontaneous art supplies for her students, no more helping Ray stock the community room with tea and coffee. Some dreams had to wait.
"Everything okay?" James asked, and Hannah realized she'd been staring at 8B's door.
"Fine," she said quickly. "Mrs. Peterson's on nine."
James shifted the bags in his arms, his suit jacket pulling slightly across his shoulders. "After you," he said as the elevator doors opened again.
Hannah stepped out first, telling herself the flutter in her chest was just from carrying the bags. Not from the way James Park had touched her, or how gently he was carrying Mrs. Peterson's groceries, or how he smelled like expensive coffee and possibility.
Some dreams, she reminded herself firmly, had to wait.
Others weren't even worth dreaming about at all.