Chapter Fifty-One - Daniel
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Daniel
THE GRILL SMOKE hung low, clinging to the warm air above the lot behind the community center. Plastic chairs scraped against pavement. Children shrieked as they chased each other around the folding tables. The scent of charcoal and ketchup and something too-sweet filled Daniel’s nose.
He stood at the edge of it all, like an afterthought.
He hadn't brought anything. Just himself. Just that unbearable, constant ache inside his chest.
He took a breath. Stepped forward.
James spotted him first. Didn’t wave. Just lifted his chin slightly in acknowledgment before turning back to the grill. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a warning: stay in your lane.
Daniel nodded once. Fair.
He made his way to the drinks station. Took a bottle of water. Didn’t make eye contact. Someone brushed past him without apology. Another glanced at him, then looked quickly away.
That was fine. He hadn’t come to be forgiven. He was here to work. To be useful. To carry the weight he’d earned.
He grabbed a garbage bag and started circling the tables, collecting used napkins, empty cups, the stray chip bag crushed under someone’s boot. Nobody stopped him. Nobody thanked him.
Good.
He moved to the far side of the lot where the folding chairs had been abandoned, crooked and sun-bleached. He bent to unstack them, one by one. His shoulder throbbed with the motion, but he didn’t stop.
And then—he saw her.
Hannah.
Near the edge of the tent, laughing with Mia and Morgan. She wore a faded gray t-shirt knotted at the waist, the fabric pulled tight across her stomach. Her jeans hugged strong thighs, worn soft from wear. Her hair was down. Wind-tousled. Sunlit.
Daniel’s breath caught in his throat.
She was radiant.
Her body had changed over the last few months—more muscle now, more presence in her shoulders, her legs, her arms. But God, it hadn’t made her more beautiful. Just… different. Real. Grounded.
And still, all he could see was her. His Hannah. The woman he’d been obsessed with before the gym, during it, after it. He had loved her when her body was softer, loved her when it was leaner, loved her now that it could probably outlift his.
He’d never loved her for her body.
But he’d wanted her for it. Still did.
A wave of heat crept up his spine. He remembered how she used to sound—at the height of it. Mouth open, gasping, her fingers fisting in his hair. He remembered the way she’d collapse after, boneless and quiet, smiling like she’d just won something.
And then he remembered she had given that to someone else now.
Tristan .
Daniel’s stomach turned. His grip tightened on the chair in his hands until his knuckles went white. He pictured Tristan’s hands on her, his mouth on her skin, his cock inside her—
He blinked hard.
Don’t do this.
But it was too late. The image had burned itself into his skull. Tristan’s laugh echoing from her kitchen. Tristan’s mug on her counter. Tristan’s fingerprints on the body Daniel used to worship.
The jealousy was a knife twisting in his gut. But worse—so much worse—was the hunger underneath it. The desperation to make her feel that way again. To be the one who put that look on her face.
He didn’t want to claim her. He wanted to serve her.
He wanted to give her pleasure again. Every kind. With hands that asked. With reverence. With apology in every breath.
He swallowed hard and turned his head.
Mia stood a few feet away, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“Hey,” she said, arms crossed. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
Daniel wiped his palms on his jeans. “Yeah, well. Figured someone should take out the trash.”
Mia arched an eyebrow. “You volunteering or flagellating?”
“Both,” he said quietly.
She studied him. “You’ve been showing up a lot lately.”
“I’m trying not to be a problem.”
“Mm,” she said. “Trying not to be seen, more like.”
Daniel offered the smallest shrug. “Maybe I shouldn’t be.”
Mia looked over her shoulder—toward Hannah. “She’s not the same woman you cheated on, you know.”
Daniel felt shame like a bucket of ice water had been tipped over him. The self-loathing followed, a familiar wave of hatred.
“She’s stronger now.”
“I know.”
“And if she decides she wants you again—if she even lets you try —you better understand you don’t get to love her the same way. You don’t get to need her.”
Daniel looked down at his shoes. “I can’t help that.”
Mia tilted her head. “Can’t you?”
He met her eyes. And for a second, he let the truth bleed through.
“I’ll follow her to Denver.”
Mia’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“When she takes that job—I’ll move there. I wouldn’t bother her. I just…I’d need to be there. Just to be near.”
Mia didn’t speak.
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine living in a city where she doesn’t exist. I don’t want to breathe air she’s not breathing.”
Mia looked at him for a long moment. “You’re a mess.”
“I know.”
“And you still love her.”
More than life. More than himself.
“I always did,” he said. “I just didn’t deserve her.”
A silence passed between them. Then she sighed. “Well. Don’t screw up the lemonade station.”
Daniel gave a dry smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
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“Haven’t seen you all afternoon.”
Her voice.
Daniel turned toward it like it was a muscle memory. Like her voice still lived somewhere in the marrow of him.
Hannah stood a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, a plastic cup dangling from her fingers. Her hair was wind-swept. Her cheeks flushed from the heat or the crowd or maybe just from being alive in the way he remembered and didn’t get to know anymore.
His heart stuttered. She looked… breathtaking.
He remembered those arms wrapped around him. Wrapping around him after late nights. After bad days. After sex that had left them wrecked and laughing.
But that was before.
He straightened. Swallowed.
“I didn’t want to get in the way,” he said.
She tilted her head, considering. “You haven’t.”
It was nothing. A scrap. But it lit something in his chest—small and painful and warm.
He nodded, trying not to let it show. Trying not to drink her in.
But God , he missed her. Missed standing this close. Missed knowing how she liked her lemonade, how she rubbed her thumb along the side of her cup when she was thinking. He missed the scent of her sunscreen. The curve of her shoulder when she slept. The laugh she only gave him when she let herself be soft.
“I heard about Denver,” he said.
Her jaw tightened—barely—but he caught it.
“I didn’t know you were still talking to Marcus,” she said.
“I’m not,” he replied, quietly. “He just… texted.”
A silence. Not cold. But waiting.
“He told me you’d called him,” she said. “Emailed him. For me.”
“I didn’t mean for you to find out about that,” he added. His voice dropped a little. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know,” she cut in. Quick. Not harsh. Just sure. “I figured that out.”
He forced himself to meet her eyes. They were tired. Still guarded. But not closed.
“You were always the best of us,” he said softly. “And you’re better now.”
Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t respond.
He wanted to touch her. God, he wanted to touch her. To drop to his knees and beg forgiveness with his hands, his mouth, his body. Not for sex. Not for a second chance. Just to give . To worship what he had destroyed.
Instead, he stepped back. A breath of space between them. A buffer against the want.
“Anyway,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ll finish up the chairs.”
He turned before she could say anything.
Because if she did—if she gave him a thread of softness—he would stay.
And he didn’t deserve that.
Not yet.