Chapter 6
six
. . .
Bennett
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the windows and Hannah still asleep beside me.
She's on her side, facing me, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her hair is spread across the pillow in waves of honey and gold. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing soft and even. She looks peaceful. Completely at ease in my bed, in my space, like she's always belonged here.
I don't move. I just watch her, memorizing the details. The way her lashes rest against her cheeks. The faint freckles across her nose. The gentle rise and fall of her chest under the sheet.
Mine.
The word settles in my chest with absolute certainty. She's mine. And I'm going to spend every day proving to her that she can trust that.
Her eyes flutter open, and for a second she looks confused. Then she sees me watching her and smiles, sleepy and soft. "Hi."
"Hi." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay." She stretches, the sheet slipping down to reveal the curve of her shoulder. "What time is it?"
"Early. You don't have to get up yet."
"Do you have to go to work?"
"Eventually." I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her waist. "But not yet."
She curls into me, her head on my chest, and we lie there in comfortable silence. The morning light fills the room. The house is quiet around us. And for the first time in years, I don't feel the usual urgency to get up and start the day. I just want to stay here with her.
"I should probably go home at some point," she says after a while, her voice muffled against my chest. "Get some clean clothes. Check my mail."
"Or," I say, running my hand up and down her back, "you could just bring some things here. Keep them in the closet. The bathroom."
She lifts her head to look at me. "You want me to leave stuff here?"
"I want you to be comfortable. To feel like this is your space too."
She studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she smiles. "Okay. I can do that."
"Good."
We eventually get up. I make coffee while she showers, and when she comes downstairs in yesterday's clothes, her hair damp and curling at the ends, I hand her a mug and kiss her forehead.
"I have to go into the office for a few hours," I say. "But I'll be back this afternoon. Make yourself at home. There's food in the fridge, the TV remote is on the coffee table, and the Wi-Fi password is on the counter."
"You're just going to leave me here alone?"
"Is that okay?"
She grins. "It's perfect. I'll probably take a nap on your very comfortable couch and raid your pantry."
"Raid away." I kiss her again, longer this time, and then force myself to leave before I decide to skip work entirely.
Over the next few days, pieces of Hannah start appearing throughout my house.
It starts small. A coffee mug left by the sink, the one with the chipped handle that she insists is her favorite. Her shampoo in the shower, the bottle bright and cheerful next to my plain black one. A sweater draped over the back of the couch, soft and oversized, smelling faintly of her perfume.
I notice every single one.
The mug makes me smile every morning when I see it. The shampoo reminds me of her every time I step into the shower. The sweater on the couch makes the living room feel warmer, lived-in, like someone actually uses this space instead of just passing through.
Then more things appear. Her toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom. A pair of her shoes by the front door. A book on the nightstand, the pages dog-eared and the cover worn. Her laptop on the kitchen island, surrounded by sticky notes and half-empty coffee cups.
I love it.
I love coming home and finding evidence of her everywhere. I love that my house doesn't feel like a museum anymore. It feels like a home. Our home.
One evening, I'm in the kitchen making dinner when Richard calls.
"Hey," I say, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I chop vegetables. "What's up?"
"Did you finish the Anderson brief?" he asks. "I need it before the morning meeting."
"Yeah, it's on your desk. I sent it over an hour ago."
"Perfect. Thanks." He pauses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "So... how's the barista?"
I laugh despite myself. "Her name is Hannah. And she's great."
"Great?" He sounds skeptical. "You sure? Because you've been leaving the office early, you're smiling at random times, and yesterday you actually laughed at one of my jokes. I'm starting to think you've been replaced by a pod person."
"I'm fine. Better than fine, actually."
"Does this have anything to do with Hannah?"
"Yeah. It is."
"Serious enough that you're going to bring her to the firm's charity gala next month?"
I pause, the knife stilling on the cutting board. "I hadn't thought about it."
"Well, think about it. Everyone's going to want to meet the woman who finally got Bennett Cross to smile."
"I'll ask her."
"Good. And Bennett?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm happy for you. You deserve this."
"Thanks, Richard."
I hang up and go back to cooking, but his words stick with me. My girlfriend. I haven't said it out loud yet, but that's what she is. That's what I want her to be.
Hannah comes downstairs a few minutes later, her hair piled on top of her head, wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of leggings. She looks comfortable. At ease. Like she belongs here.
"Smells good," she says, sliding onto one of the barstools at the island. "What are you making?"
"Stir-fry. Nothing fancy."
"Everything you make is fancy." She props her chin on her hand, watching me. "You're really good at this, you know. The whole domestic thing."
"I like taking care of you."
She smiles, soft and warm. "I like being taken care of."
We eat dinner together, talking about our days. She tells me about a difficult customer at the coffee shop, and I tell her about a case I'm working on. It's easy. Comfortable. Like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
After dinner, we're loading the dishwasher when my phone buzzes. It's a text from Richard.
Don't forget to ask her about the gala.
I glance at Hannah, who's rinsing a plate. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"The firm is hosting a charity gala next month. It's a big event, pretty formal. Would you want to come with me?"
She looks up, surprised. "You want me to go with you?"
"Of course I do. You're my girlfriend."
The word hangs in the air between us. Her eyes widen slightly, and something shifts in her expression. Not fear, exactly. More like... realization.
"Your girlfriend," she repeats softly.
"Yeah." I set down the dish I'm holding and turn to face her fully. "Is that okay?"
"It's more than okay." She steps closer, her hands finding my chest. "I've been thinking of you as my boyfriend for days now. I just didn't know if you..."
"I do." I cup her face in my hands. "I absolutely do."
She smiles, and it's the brightest, most genuine smile I've ever seen from her. "Then yes. I'd love to go to the gala with you."
I kiss her, slow and deep, and she melts into me. When we finally pull apart, she's breathless and flushed.
"So," she says, her voice a little unsteady. "Boyfriend, huh?"
"Boyfriend," I confirm. "And you're my girlfriend."
"I like the sound of that."
"Me too."