Chapter Thirty-Seven - Hannah
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hannah
HANNAH TILTED HER head to the side, running her fingers through her damp hair as the warm air rushed over her skin. The scent of her shampoo mixed with the crispness of the industrial soap from the gym showers.
The low hum of the blow dryer filled the gym’s changing room, drowning out the distant clatter of weights and the chatter of a few lingering gym-goers.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced down.
Gym Guy: “ Drinks” later? ??
Hannah huffed out a laugh.
The sex had been good. Really good.
She loved her strength, her body, her power. She’d loved feeling him groan against her skin when she rolled her hips just right, his hands gripping her ass.
Hannah smirked at the memory, flipping her hair to the other side as she dried it.
Yeah, the sex had been great.
Fun. Hot. Easy .
And that was the difference.
She knew what sex felt like when it was tangled up in love and history and emotion so thick it made every touch feel devastating.
She knew what it was like to be touched by someone who adored her.
Someone who had whispered her name in the dark, not just because he was lost in pleasure, but because she was his .
Daniel had touched her like that..
Hannah would never be Sienna . Never be that effortless, bendy kind of sexy. Never have that kind of body, all lean lines and grace.
She flicked off the dryer, setting it on the counter.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, cheeks still flushed from her workout, hair slightly tousled from her rough towel-dry.
She looked different.
Stronger. More alive.
More like herself.
She ran her fingers over her collarbone, remembering the way Leo had wanted her—not gently, not delicately, but with heat, urgency, need.
She could still feel where he had been inside her.
But she could also feel the space he hadn’t filled.
Because Leo was just a man. A hot, talented, perfectly capable man.
But he wasn’t a future .
He wasn’t love.
And that was fine.
Because she didn’t want love right now. Didn’t want lingering kisses in the morning or whispered promises against her skin. Didn’t want to risk trusting someone again.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But still, she didn’t feel like sex tonight either. She picked up her phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Not tonight.
No excuse. No apology.
She set the phone back down and stared at her reflection again.
She liked this version of herself.
Not the version that waited.
Not the version that hoped.
Not the version that twisted herself into something smaller, softer, easier to love.
Just her.
══════════════════
The center hummed with quiet energy—the steady tap of keyboards, the occasional ringing of a phone, the murmur of conversation from down the hall.
Hannah sat in her office, fingers poised over her laptop keyboard, but her focus was shot.
"Got a minute?" Morgan poked her head in, already knowing the answer.
Hannah straightened, offering a quick smile. "Always."
Morgan stepped inside, gesturing over her shoulder. "I have a couple here for the mentorship program. Older, late sixties, early seventies. Sweet as hell. They asked if they could meet you before signing up."
Hannah’s brows lifted. "Sure. Bring them in."
A few moments later, the door opened again, and an older couple stepped inside—him with silver hair and a sturdy frame, her with sharp eyes and a warm smile.
"Hannah, this is Robert and Elaine."
"Nice to meet you both," Hannah said, standing to shake their hands.
"Nice to meet you too, dear," Elaine said, her voice rich with warmth.
"We’ve heard a lot about you," Robert added, his smile easy. "Morgan here tells us you started this whole thing yourself."
Hannah nodded. "I did. I wanted to create something that made aging feel less isolating. Something that reminded people that growing older doesn’t mean disappearing."
Elaine’s lips quirked. "You sound like my younger self."
Hannah gestured for them to sit, intrigued. "How so?"
Robert and Elaine exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations that people who’ve known each other forever can have without words.
“This is our second marriage. To each other. We were married when we were younger,” Elaine said. "A long time ago."
Hannah blinked. "You were?"
"Yes," Robert said, chuckling. "Back in our twenties. We were young, stupid, thought we had the world figured out."
"We didn’t," Elaine added wryly.
Robert let out a laugh. "No, we didn’t."
Hannah leaned forward, genuinely curious. "What happened?"
Elaine exhaled, tilting her head slightly as if remembering. "Life. Miscommunication. Stubbornness. We wanted different things, or at least we thought we did." She smiled, but there was something wistful in it. "We divorced when we were thirty-two."
"But you’re back together now," Hannah said.
"Married again at sixty-five," Robert confirmed. "Ran into each other at a mutual friend’s funeral, of all places. Spent hours talking. It was like…" He hesitated, then looked at Elaine, something soft in his expression. "Like coming home again."
Hannah’s chest tightened.
Like coming home again.
The words struck something deep inside her, something she had locked away after Daniel.
She had imagined growing old with him. She had pictured it so clearly—watching the lines of his face deepen with time, the silver threading through his dark hair.
She had looked forward to that.
She had imagined Sunday mornings with gray in their hair and years of history between them, moving through the world together with the kind of love that had been built, not just found.
Daniel would be incredible in his forties. His fifties. His sixties.
Now that future would belong to someone else.
She swallowed, forcing herself to focus on Robert and Elaine. "Do you ever regret the time apart?"
Elaine considered that. "Regret? No. But I do wish we hadn’t been so scared of working through the hard parts. We threw something away before we really understood what we were losing."
Robert nodded. "It’s easy to think you have all the time in the world. Until you don’t."
Hannah felt something sharp press against her ribs.
Because wasn’t that what she and Daniel had done?
Or rather—what he had done?
Thrown something away before he understood what he was losing?
The thought burned.
Because she had understood.
She had always understood.
Hannah exhaled slowly. "I think you two are going to be incredible mentors."
Elaine’s smile widened. "I hope so, dear."
As Morgan stepped back in to finalize their paperwork, Hannah sat there, fingers curled around the edge of her desk, her mind spinning.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel just anger toward Daniel.
She felt sad for him.
Maybe, one day—years from now—he would sit across from someone and say the same thing Robert had just said.
"It’s easy to think you have all the time in the world. Until you don’t."
And by then, it would be too late.
══════════════════
Hannah was gathering her things—tucking folders into her bag, slinging her jacket over her arm—when a knock at her office door made her freeze.
She looked up.
Daniel.
He stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. Guilt. Regret. Pain. It lived in the way he looked at her, like she was something holy he had broken with his bare hands.
Her body tensed before her mind could catch up.
It was reflex now. Not fear. Not even anger.
Just the ache of memory.
The ache of remembering what it felt like to be seen, held, loved by someone who hadn’t protected any of it.
“I’m not here to talk,” he said quickly, voice rough, like it had been sanded down. “I just… I need to ask you something.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t gesture for him to come in. She just stood still, waiting.
Guarded.
“The garden program launched this week,” he said. “I saw the updates. I wanted to ask if you still needed volunteers.”
Her brow furrowed. “You want to sign up?”
“I already did,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t make anything harder for you.”
That stopped her. The careful phrasing. The way he didn’t ask for permission—just asked not to be a burden.
She blinked. “Why?”
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
And his face did something quiet and terrible.
“Because it matters to you,” he said. “And that means it matters to me.”
Her throat tightened. She hated the flicker that rose in her chest—of grief, of recognition. He meant it. She could see it in every ruined line of his face.
He looked like a man hollowed out by love he no longer believed he had the right to express.
She folded her arms. “You’re not doing this to prove anything?”
“No,” he said immediately. “You don’t owe me anything.” He paused. Swallowed. “I’m not asking to be seen.”
There was a pause. A breath.
“I’ll do the shifts no one wants. The cleanup. The grunt work. I’ll be invisible, if that’s what makes it easier.”
There was something in the way he said it—like he wanted to be punished. Like anonymity was the price he’d finally learned to pay.
She almost scoffed. Almost told him it was too late for this kind of goodness to matter.
But something in her stopped.
Because he wasn’t asking her to forgive him. He wasn’t trying to fix anything.
He was just trying to be useful.
She stared at him, lips pressed in a line.
If he had shown up like this a year ago—hell, even six months ago—maybe their story would’ve bent a different way.
But he hadn’t.
Not until he had broken her heart open.
She let out a slow breath. “Fine. You can volunteer.”
He nodded once. No smile. No relief. Just a soft exhale, like he didn’t expect the grace and didn’t know what to do with it.
“Thank you,” he said.
And then he turned.
And left her office like a man stepping out of a church he’d never be allowed to worship in again.
══════════════════
Hannah wiped her palms against her jeans, glancing around the community garden. It was alive with movement—kids kneeling in the dirt, tiny hands pressing seeds into the earth, seniors guiding them with patient smiles.
Some of the older volunteers sat on benches, sharing stories about the gardens they used to keep, while others took their time tending to the plants, their wrinkled hands careful and practiced.
The scent of freshly turned soil hung thick in the air, warm and rich under the late morning sun. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak trees lining the park, carrying the quiet hum of laughter and conversation from all around.
This was exactly what she had envisioned when she pitched this program—a place where generations could come together, where stories and knowledge could be passed down, where people could build something real with their hands. Something that would last.
She should have felt proud. Should have felt light.
But instead, she felt like someone had knocked the air from her lungs.
Daniel was here.
Kneeling near one of the garden beds, sleeves pushed up, hands in the dirt. Listening.
A frail-looking older man sat on an overturned bucket beside him, gesturing as he spoke, voice low but animated. Daniel wasn't just nodding along, wasn't just waiting for his turn to talk. He was engaged, focused. His brow furrowed slightly like he was really thinking about whatever the man was telling him.
It didn't make sense.
Daniel didn't do events like this. He never had.
She had invited him to things like this before. Community days, fundraisers, engagement programs. Every time, he had some excuse—a work deadline, a game on TV, a vague promise of “next time.”
And now, here he was.
Not standing on the sidelines. Not watching. Not waiting to be noticed.
Just… helping.
Hannah swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away.
Because she didn’t know what to do with this.
She focused on the bed of seedlings in front of her, gently pressing a lavender plant into the dirt. The soil was cool beneath her fingers, grounding her. She exhaled slowly, trying to shake the tightness in her chest.
This didn’t mean anything.
It couldn’t.
Daniel being here—Daniel getting his hands dirty, laughing with strangers, listening to an old man tell a story—it didn’t erase anything.
Not the betrayal. Not the humiliation. Not the unbearable, all-consuming ache of knowing what he had done to her.
He didn’t get to change just because he wanted to.
A shadow fell across the ground beside her.
“You okay?”
Hannah blinked and turned to see Morgan crouching beside her, a knowing look in her warm brown eyes.
“I’m fine,” Hannah lied, shoving her trowel into the dirt.
Morgan followed her gaze, eyebrows lifting slightly when she spotted Daniel. “Huh.”
Hannah scoffed. “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”
Morgan plucked a small tomato seedling from its tray and started digging a hole for it. “Did you know he was coming?”
“He asked if it was okay.”
Morgan hummed. “And he’s… just volunteering?”
“Apparently.” Hannah shook her head, still not quite believing it herself. “Not talking to me. Not trying to make a scene. Just… here.”
Morgan didn’t say anything for a moment. “That’s kind of a big deal, Han.”
Hannah shot her a sharp look. “No, it’s not.”
Morgan sighed, wiping her hands on her jeans. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but maybe—”
“Don’t.” Hannah cut her off, voice taut.
Morgan frowned. “He never showed up to this kind of thing before. And now he is.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Hannah said firmly.
Morgan hesitated, then exhaled. “Okay.”
Hannah turned back to her work, shoving another plant into the soil. She could feel Morgan still watching her.
She sighed. “It’s just… he’s not supposed to be here. He doesn’t get to suddenly care about the things I care about now.”
Morgan’s voice was softer now. “But what if he does?”
Hannah’s hands stilled.
For a brief, terrible moment, she let herself consider it.
If that was true—if he had really changed, really grown, really become someone who deserved to be here—then what the hell was she supposed to do with that?
She shook her head. “It doesn’t change anything.”
Morgan nodded slowly, like she knew Hannah needed to believe that.
Even if it wasn’t entirely true.
A voice carried over from the next garden bed, raised enough to reach Hannah across the space.
“You have to be patient with these.”
Hannah glanced over. An elderly woman with thin silver hair was kneeling nearby, patting the soil around a tiny sapling with practiced hands. A small group of children were gathered in a loose semicircle around her, listening intently as she spoke—her voice carried over the garden, clear and steady.
“They take time,” the woman continued. “You don’t just plant something and expect it to thrive overnight.” She pressed the dirt firmly. “You tend to it. Every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s not growing the way you want it to.”
Hannah couldn’t help but look to Daniel. She saw him frozen.
He had heard her, too.
Hannah’s pulse quickened.
Because for a second—just a second—she saw something in his face that scared the hell out of her.
Understanding.
She turned away, heart hammering.
No.
She would not do this. She would not let this shake her.
She would not let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—he was actually changing. She couldn’t.