Chapter Twenty-Two - Hannah
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hannah
The Daily Grind hadn't changed. Same chipped mugs, same mismatched chairs, same old Pete behind the counter practicing his coffee bean juggling. But sitting across from David—Sophie's friend from kickboxing class—Hannah felt like she was looking at everything through warped glass.
"So you're a teacher?" David's smile was nice. Perfectly nice. "That must be... rewarding?"
Hannah wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. David had ordered it for her—hazelnut latte with whipped cream. She hadn't corrected him, hadn't mentioned she preferred a splash of cream, no sugar.
James had noticed her coffee preference.
"It is," she said, realizing she'd let the silence stretch too long. "My students are working on an community art project right now, actually. They're creating weather-based metaphors for emotions, helping the elderly residents in my building process their feelings about—" She stopped herself, recognizing the glazed look in David's eyes. "But you probably don't want to hear about all that."
"No, it's... nice." He smiled at her. "Kids are great."
Hannah took a sip of too-sweet coffee to hide her expression. James would have questions. Would have wanted to know how Tommy was doing with his storm clouds, whether Sarah had figured out how to express joy in her paintings, if—
No. She wasn't going to think about James Park and his perfect questions and his way of making her feel like everything she said mattered.
"What about you?" she asked, desperately reaching for conversation. "Sophie mentioned you work in finance?"
David brightened, launching into a detailed explanation of market derivatives that Hannah suspected was meant to impress her. She found herself studying his tie—plain blue, perfectly knotted. James's ties sometimes went slightly crooked by the end of the day, and he'd started leaving the top button undone when they'd get ice cream, and—
Stop it.
"...and that's why diversification is really the key to any solid portfolio," David finished, looking pleased with himself. "What do you think about market trends?"
Hannah realized she hadn't heard a word he'd said. "I think..." She looked down at her untouched pastry. "I think I should be honest with you."
"About market trends?"
"About this." She gestured between them. "You seem very nice, but—"
"But you're not over someone," David finished, not unkindly. At her startled look, he smiled. "I've been there. The way you keep looking at the door? Like you're expecting someone else to walk in?"
Hannah felt her cheeks warm. "I'm not—"
He leaned back, surprisingly understanding. "Sophie mentioned there might be... history."
"Sophie needs to stop trying to fix my life," Hannah muttered, but there was no heat in it.
David stood, gathering his coat. "For what it's worth? Whoever he is, he's an idiot if he let you go."
The bell above the door chimed as he left, and Hannah sat there, staring at her cooling coffee. Pete called out from behind the counter: "Want your usual instead?"
She nodded, grateful he didn't comment on her failed date. As he made her fresh coffee—splash of cream, no sugar—Hannah caught her reflection in the window. She looked exactly the same as she had weeks ago, when she'd sat in this very spot with James, watching his face light up as he learned about barista competitions and local dairy farms.
Everything was the same. The coffee shop. The mismatched chairs. Her boring shoes and practical clothes.
"Here you go." Pete set down her proper coffee with a sympathetic smile. "On the house today."
Hannah wrapped her hands around the warm cup, breathing in the familiar scent. "I'm fine, you know."
"Course you are." Pete started gathering what was left of the hazelnut lattes. "But sometimes being fine isn't the same as being happy."
Hannah watched the steam rise from her coffee, carrying away possibilities that had never really existed. "I know," she said softly. "Trust me, I know."
══════════════════
"He was nice," Hannah insisted as they walked home, their breath fogging in the evening air. "Very... professional."
Sophie shot her a sidelong glance. "Professional? That's what you're going with?"
"What's wrong with professional?"
"Nothing, if you're hiring an accountant." Sophie linked their arms, steering them around a patch of ice. "But for a date? Come on, Han."
Hannah focused on navigating the slippery sidewalk, grateful for the excuse not to meet her friend's too-knowing eyes. "He was interested in my job."
"Was he?" Sophie's tone was gentle but pointed. "Or did he just nod politely while checking his phone under the table?"
Hannah's step faltered slightly. "You talked to Pete."
"Didn't have to. It's written all over your face." They paused at a crosswalk, and Sophie turned to face her friend properly. "You're not actually over him, are you?"
"Of course I am." The response came too quickly, too sharply. "James made his choice. Twice, actually."
"Hmm." Sophie studied her for a moment. "Then why are you wearing the green sweater?"
Hannah wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of the soft fabric. She'd told herself she'd worn it because it was warm. Practical. Not because James had once said it brought out her eyes. Not because—
"It's just a sweater," she said, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears.
"Right. Just like you just happened to walk through the lobby six times yesterday."
"I had errands—"
"Han." Sophie's voice softened. "You're allowed to not be okay."
"I am okay." Hannah started walking again, faster now. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. David was nice, and maybe next time—"
"There's not going to be a next time." Sophie kept pace easily. "Because you're not ready. And that's okay too."
They walked in silence for a block, their footsteps crunching against salt-scattered sidewalks. Finally, Hannah whispered, "I hate that he still affects me like this."
"Like what?"
"Like..." Hannah gestured helplessly. "Like everything reminds me of him. David's tie was wrong. The coffee was wrong. The whole date felt wrong because..." She broke off, swallowing hard.
"Because he wasn't James," Sophie finished quietly.
Hannah nodded, not trusting her voice.
"You know what the worst part is?" she managed finally. "For a minute there, at the Morrison gala, I actually believed things could be different. That he'd changed. That I wasn't just... convenient."
Sophie squeezed her arm. "Oh, honey. You were never convenient. That's the whole problem, isn't it? You were real. Maybe too real for someone who's spent his whole life playing pretend."
They reached Hannah's building, its windows glowing warmly against the darkening sky. Somewhere up there, Hannah knew, James was probably working late in his perfect apartment with his perfect view. Not thinking about her at all.
"I just want to stop feeling like this," she admitted. "Like I'm still waiting for him to show up."
Sophie pulled her into a fierce hug. "I know. But you can't rush healing. And you definitely can't rush it by pretending to be interested in nice-but-boring finance guys who don't even know how you take your coffee."
Despite everything, Hannah felt herself smile. "He really was boring, wasn't he?"
"So boring. Like, watching-paint-dry boring. Starting-a-podcast-about-cryptocurrency boring."
Hannah's laugh was watery but real. "Thanks, Soph."
"For what? Pointing out that your date was basically a human screensaver?"
"For seeing through my bullshit."
Sophie linked their arms again, leading them inside. "That's what best friends are for. That, and having emergency ice cream in their freezer. Which, coincidentally..."
Hannah let herself be led toward the elevator, grateful for Sophie's solid presence beside her. And if her eyes strayed to the executive floor button—well, that was between her and the elevator's polished doors.
══════════════════
Hannah hadn't meant to stay so late in the community room. But grading papers in her small apartment meant silence, and silence meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering how James had looked at her over ice cream, how his hand had felt against her waist when he'd reached for her in the lobby, how—
The soft click of expensive shoes against marble made her hands still.
She knew those footsteps. Had memorized their rhythm during countless lobby crossings, had learned to recognize them even through closed doors. Had tried, and failed, to forget them entirely.
James appeared in the doorway, wearing soft-looking knitwear in a way that made him look human instead of perfect. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Hannah bent her head back to her papers, pen moving mechanically across student work she wasn't really seeing. She could feel him hovering in the doorway, could practically hear him choosing and discarding words.
"It's late," he said finally.
She didn't look up. "I have work to finish."
His shoes whispered against the floor as he stepped into the room. Not approaching her directly, but moving to study the children's artwork on the walls. Hannah forced herself to keep grading, even as her entire body hummed with awareness of his presence.
"Lily's getting better at her storm clouds," James observed quietly.
The simple fact that he remembered Lily's name, that he'd noticed the girl's progress, made something in Hannah's chest squeeze painfully. "She is."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid. James had pushed his sleeves to his elbows—when had he started doing that?—and Hannah tried not to notice how the fabric bunched at his forearms, or how his hair was slightly mussed, or how he smelled of coffee and late nights and—
"Hannah—"
"Don't." She stacked her papers with sharp movements. "Please don't."
He took a step toward her, then stopped when she tensed. "I just—"
"What?" Now she did look up, and immediately wished she hadn't. Because James Park in jeans and sweaters was infinitely more dangerous than James Park in his perfect suits with his perfect smile. "What could you possibly have to say that would make any difference?"
The raw honesty in his expression made her breath catch. "I miss you."
Hannah stood abruptly, gathering her things. "You miss the idea of me. The version of yourself you thought you could be when you were with me." The words tasted bitter. "But we both know that's not real."
"Isn't it?" His voice was rough. "Because I can't stop noticing things. How the lobby feels empty without you straightening pictures. How quiet a room is when you're not here. How—"
"Stop." Hannah's hands were shaking as she shoved papers into her bag. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to stand there looking all... rumpled and sincere and tell me you miss me. Not when you're the one who walked away. Twice."
James ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I know. I know I ruined everything. I just—" He broke off, looking lost in a way James Park never looked. "I don't know how to stop… caring about you."
The words hung in the air between them, too honest for either of them to handle. Hannah shouldered her bag, needing to escape before she did something stupid like believe him.
"Try harder," she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded. "You can be very good at not caring about things."
She moved past him, careful not to let their arms brush. But his quiet "Hannah" stopped her at the door.
"What?" She didn't turn around, couldn't bear to see his expression.
"I—" He hesitated, then said softly, "Be careful walking to work tomorrow. It'll be icy."
Hannah closed her eyes against the sudden burn of tears. Because of course he'd noticed the weather. Of course he'd worry about her. Of course he'd find ways to care about her in these small, devastating moments that made her wonder if maybe, just maybe—
"Good night, Mr. Park."
She left before he could say anything else, before she could let herself hope again. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, and Hannah tried not to think about storm clouds or rolled sleeves or the way James's voice had sounded when he said he missed her.
She had a class to teach tomorrow. Papers to grade. A life to live that had nothing to do with James Park or his ability to break her heart with two simple words.
Even if those words kept echoing in her mind, softer and more dangerous than any grand declaration could have been:
Be careful.