Chapter Thirty-Five - Hannah
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Hannah
Hannah had spent so long believing love was something she had to earn. That if she was good enough, selfless enough, small enough, then maybe—maybe—she would be someone's first choice.
But standing here, with James looking at her like she was his whole world, she finally understood.
She already was.
The apartment was quiet, but her pulse thundered in her ears as James traced his fingers along her jaw, his touch reverent, almost hesitant.
“Do you want to slow down?” he murmured, voice rough, wrecked.
She didn’t want to.
She wanted this.
She wanted him.
So she reached for him first.
James made a sound—something caught between a sigh and a prayer—as she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his.
The kiss was slow, unhurried. A confirmation. A promise. He let her set the pace, let her lead, his hands staying gentle even as his whole body trembled with restraint.
She deepened it, threading her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. No more space. No more hesitation.
James groaned softly against her mouth, his hands pulled her against his body.
She pulled away just long enough to look at him, to take in the way his chest rose and fell like he was barely holding himself together.
"Are you sure?" he asked, because of course he did.
James, who used to only think of himself, now putting her first, always.
She smiled. Not polite, not practiced—real.
"I’m sure."
Something in him cracked. A tension that had been holding him together for months finally gave way, and James exhaled shakily, resting his forehead against hers.
There was no urgency to their undressing, no frantic hands or rushed movements. Just James seeing her. Tracing his fingers over her skin like he was memorizing every inch. Just Hannah, lying James down on her bed with her.
Hannah had never felt like this before. Feeling like she could let go, like someone else would hold the weight for once?
That was new.
James kissed along her collarbone, down the delicate line of her throat, his breath warm against her skin. He showed her with every touch, every lingering press of his lips, every whispered reassurance.
Like she was a gift.
Like she was a choice.
Like she was his choice.
Before now, before James, giving herself to someone always meant losing a part of herself. She thought that intimacy meant sacrifice. That love meant diminishing, making room for someone else to shine.
But James didn’t take.
He gave.
James had always been good with his hands. Fixing things, making life easier in the background, never asking for credit. But now—now—his hands were on her.
And he wasn't fixing.
He was worshipping.
His fingers skimmed the curve of her waist, tracing reverently as if memorizing her, grounding her. His mouth followed, leaving slow, deliberate kisses down the line of her throat, his breath warm against her skin.
"Hannah," he murmured, like a prayer, like something sacred.
Her hands fisted in the sheets, her breath coming faster. He was so careful. So deliberate.
James kissed lower. Slower.
Hannah tensed slightly, instinctive, and James noticed immediately.
He lifted his head, searching her face.
Hannah’s throat tightened. "I don’t want you to stop,” she told him.
A slow, wrecked exhale. And then—
James pressed a kiss to her hipbone, slow and reverent. Another to her inner thigh. “Good, because I don’t want to stop either,” he said, his voice was raw with want.
It was almost unbearable, how intentional he was. Like he had all the time in the world.
Like he wanted this more than anything.
And when he finally—finally—put his mouth between her legs and kissed her where she was aching for him most, Hannah made a sound she didn’t recognize.
James groaned against her skin, as if he had been waiting for that reaction. As if this was the thing he had wanted all along.
The first flick of his tongue was soft, exploratory. Testing. But then he found what made her gasp and—oh.
"Oh, my god," Hannah breathed.
James made a satisfied noise—almost smug. He focused there, slow and methodical, his hands holding her open to him, keeping her in place as she gasped and gripped at the sheets.
He was not rushing. Not teasing.
He was giving.
He was taking his time.
And god, Hannah had never been taken apart like this.
She had never been the focus like this.
She had never been given this kind of care.
James had spent so long paying attention to what she needed. Clearing the sidewalks. Fixing the heating. Making her life easier. Doing things so she wouldn't have to ask.
And this—this—was his most devoted act yet.
Her head tipped back against the pillow, moaning his name, and James groaned in response. His hands tightened against her thighs.
As if he would never stop.
As if he would stay down here forever if she let him.
The thought was almost too much.
She came shaking, gasping, with James’s name falling from her lips, and still—still—he didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull away immediately.
Didn’t let go.
Just eased her through it, holding her steady as if he wanted to make sure she didn’t break.
And when she finally opened her eyes, dazed and wrecked, James was looking at her like she was the most important thing in the world.
She had always been second choice.
She had always been overlooked.
But James—this James, the one who had spent months learning how to love her properly—looked at her like she was the only choice.
Like she was everything.
Hannah let out a shaky breath. And then, heart racing, she pulled him up, kissing him deep, grateful, hungry.
James groaned against her lips.
"I love the way you taste," he murmured, wrecked and honest.
Her whole body shivered.
"Let me give you more," James whispered, gently pushing her back against the pillows, his weight settling over her, his forehead resting against hers.
Hannah's breath caught.
Because it wasn't just this moment. It wasn't just this act.
It was everything.
James, who hadn’t noticed her for month, was memorizing her now.
James, who had left her behind, was showing up in the most intimate ways possible.
James, who had spent so much of his life chasing the next big thing, had finally found something worth staying for.
She pulled him closer, and for once, let herself be chosen.
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Moonlight spilled through Hannah's half-bare windows, casting strange shadows from the moving boxes stacked against her walls. The room felt caught between states—some things carefully wrapped and labeled, others still stubbornly in place. Like her heart, she thought. Part of her still carefully protected, part of her already given away.
James's breath was steady against her neck, his arm a warm weight across her waist. Their clothes made a trail through the maze of boxes—his discarded henley draped over a box labeled "WINTER SWEATERS," her dress hanging from the corner of her dresser.
The gold apple pendant caught the moonlight as she shifted, clinking gently against its silver companion. James's fingers found them immediately, as if he couldn't help touching this physical evidence of how he saw her now.
“Should we talk about this?” she asked softly, into the quiet dark.
His hand stilled on the necklaces. “You have to know,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ll take whatever you're willing to give me.”
Hannah turned in his arms, finding his face in the shadows.
"Be selfish," she whispered. "Tell me what you want."
James's breath caught. His hand slid from the necklaces to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek with that devastating gentleness she was still learning to accept.
"You want to know what I want?" His voice was rough. "I want everything, Hannah. I want you in my bed every night. Want to wake up to you straightening pictures that don't need straightening. Want to bring you coffee exactly how you like it, just to see your smile."
His other hand tightened on her hip, pulling her closer.
"I want your cardigan collection taking up half my closet. Want your practical shoes lined up next to my dressy ones. Want to help you grade papers and organize art shows and make this building feel even more like home."
Hannah's breath hitched as James pressed his forehead to hers.
"I want your laugh in my kitchen. Your books on my shelves. Your influence in every part of my life." His voice dropped lower, intimate. "I want everyone to know you chose me. That somehow, impossibly, you're mine."
Tears pricked at Hannah's eyes. Around them, the half-packed room felt like a promise—not of ending, but of beginning.
"I want to deserve you," James continued, his voice catching. "Want to spend every day proving I can be the man you thought I was. Want to—"
Hannah pressed her fingers to his lips, stopping the flood of words. "James."
"Mm?"
"You already are that man." She replaced her fingers with her lips, kissing him soft and sure. "And you already have everything you want."
James made a sound—something between a groan and her name—before rolling her beneath him. The sheets tangled around them, and somewhere in the darkness, a stack of papers toppled from her bedside table.
Neither of them noticed.
They were too busy choosing each other, again and again, in the moonlight between packed boxes and scattered belongings. In this room that was neither past nor future, but perfectly, beautifully now.