Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
Hannah
The apartment looks smaller when I know I'm leaving it.
I stand in the middle of the living room, surrounded by half-filled boxes and packing tape, and try to remember what this place felt like when I first moved in. Safe, maybe. Mine. A space where no one could tell me what to do or who to be.
Now it just feels empty.
I've been packing since dawn, methodically working through each room. Clothes folded into boxes. Books stacked carefully. Kitchen items wrapped in newspaper. Every item I touch feels like a small goodbye to the version of myself who lived here alone, who thought she needed to be alone.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Bennett: How's it going?
I smile despite the ache in my chest.
Me: Slow. Turns out I have more stuff than I thought.
Bennett: Need help?
Me: I've got it. Promise.
I set the phone down and reach for another box. The truth is, I could use help. But asking for it still feels like admitting something I'm not ready to admit. That I can't do this alone. That I don't want to.
I'm taping up a box of kitchen supplies when I hear a knock at the door.
My heart jumps. I'm not expecting anyone. For a second, I freeze, that old fear rising, what if it's someone from the gala? What if they tracked me down to tell me again how I don't belong?
But when I open the door, it's Bennett.
He's standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive over. He's holding a stack of flattened moving boxes under one arm and a roll of packing tape in the other.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." I stare at him. "I said I had it."
"I know." He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the boxes down by the door. "But I wanted to help anyway."
My heart twists. "Bennett, you really didn’t have to.”
"I'm not taking over," he says quickly, turning to face me. "I'm just here. If you want me to leave, I'll leave. But I thought maybe you could use an extra pair of hands."
I look at him standing in my small apartment, surrounded by boxes and chaos, and something inside me softens. He's not here because he thinks I can't do it. He's here because he wants to be.
"Okay," I say quietly. "You can stay."
His shoulders relax slightly. "Good. Where do you want me to start?"
We work in comfortable silence for a while. Bennett takes the bedroom, carefully packing my clothes and shoes into boxes while I finish the kitchen. Every so often, I glance over and catch him folding one of my sweaters or wrapping a picture frame in newspaper, his movements careful and deliberate.
"You're good at this," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He looks up, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'm a lawyer. I'm good at organizing things."
"Is that what this is? Organizing?"
"Among other things." He sets a box aside and stands, crossing the room to where I'm standing. "How are you doing? Really?"
I shrug, trying to keep my voice light. "Fine. It's just packing."
"Hannah." He cups my face gently, his thumb brushing over my cheek. "It's okay if this is hard."
My eyes sting. "It's stupid. I should be happy. I'm leaving this place. Moving on."
"It's not stupid." His voice is soft. "This was your home. It's okay to feel sad about leaving it."
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"Yes, you do." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "You're moving forward. That's all."
We go back to packing, and the silence feels easier now. Less heavy. Bennett hums under his breath while he works, some song I don't recognize, and I find myself smiling despite everything.
By early afternoon, most of the apartment is packed. Boxes line the walls, labeled in my messy handwriting. The furniture that came with the place looks bare and sad without my things scattered around it.
Bennett carries the last box out to his car while I do a final walk-through. The bathroom is empty. The closet is empty. The kitchen cabinets echo when I open them.
I stand in the living room one last time, looking at the space that held me together when I needed it most. Then I close the door behind me and lock it for the last time.
Bennett is waiting by his car, leaning against the driver's side door. "Ready?"
I nod, even though I'm not sure I am.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in. The backseat and trunk are packed with my boxes, my entire life condensed into cardboard and tape.
We're halfway to his house when he speaks.
"Hannah."
"Yeah?"
He glances at me, then back at the road. "Why don't you just come home with me?"
My breath catches. "What?"
"Come home with me." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Move in. Officially."
I stare at him. "Bennett, we've talked about this.”
"I know." He pulls over to the side of the road and puts the car in park, turning to face me fully. "But I need you to hear me."
My heart is pounding. "Okay."
"I'm asking you to come home." He reaches over and takes my hand. "Make my house ours. Leave your shoes by the front door and your coffee mugs on every surface and dance in the kitchen whenever you want."
His thumb traces circles on my palm. "That's all I need. You. Exactly as you are."
I'm crying now, my chest tight with emotion. "What if I mess it up?"
"Then we'll figure it out together." He squeezes my hand. "Come home with me. Please."
I look at him through my tears, this man who showed up at my apartment with boxes, who told me he loved me without expecting anything back, who's asking me to build a life with him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And suddenly, I know.
"Okay," I whisper.
His eyes widen. "Okay?"
"Yes." I laugh through my tears. "Yes, I'll move in with you. I'll come home."
The smile that breaks across his face is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. He leans across the console and kisses me, slow and deep, his hand cradling the back of my head.
"Thank you," he murmurs against my lips.
"For what?"
"For trusting me. For choosing this. For choosing us."
I kiss him again, pouring everything I can't say into it. All my fear and hope and love.
When we pull apart, he's still smiling. "Let's go home."
"Home," I repeat, testing the word. It feels right.
We drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence, his hand holding mine across the console. When we pull up to his house, our house, I feel something settle in my chest.
This is real. This is happening.
We spend the rest of the afternoon unloading boxes and finding places for my things. Bennett insists I take half the closet, half the dresser, space in the bathroom for my products. He makes room for me everywhere, like he's been waiting for me to fill these spaces all along.
By evening, the house looks different. My books are on his shelves. My throw blankets are draped over the couch. My shoes are by the front door.
It looks like home.
Bennett orders takeout for dinner, and we eat on the couch, my feet in his lap, talking about nothing and everything. He tells me about a case he's working on. I tell him about a regular at the coffee shop who always orders the most complicated drink possible.
It feels easy. Natural. Like we've been doing this for years instead of months.
After dinner, I stand and stretch. "I should probably unpack more.”
"Later." Bennett pulls me back down onto his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist. "Stay here for a minute."
I settle against him, my head on his shoulder. "This is nice."
"It is." He presses a kiss to my temple. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too." The words come out quieter than I intended.
We sit like that for a long time, just holding each other. The house is quiet around us, warm and safe. I can hear his heartbeat under my ear, steady and sure.
And then, without planning it, without overthinking it, the words just come.
"I love you."
Bennett goes completely still beneath me.
I pull back to look at him, my heart racing. "I love you, Bennett. I'm sorry it took me so long to say it, but I do. I love you."
His eyes are wide, searching mine like he's trying to make sure he heard me right. "Say it again."
"I love you." I cup his face in my hands. "I love you so much it scares me. But I'm done being scared. I'm done running. I love you, and I want this. I want us."
He kisses me then, hard and desperate, his hands fisting in my hair. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet. "I love you too. God, Hannah, I love you so much."
I laugh, tears streaming down my face. "I know. You've been very clear about that."
"Good." He stands, lifting me with him, and I wrap my legs around his waist. "Because I'm never letting you forget it."
He carries me to the kitchen, setting me on the island. I'm laughing now, giddy with relief and joy and love.
"What are we doing?" I ask.
"Celebrating." He steps between my legs, his hands on my thighs. "You just told me you love me. That deserves a celebration."
"Oh really?" I loop my arms around his neck. "And what did you have in mind?"
He kisses me again, slower this time, his hands sliding up my sides. "I have a few ideas."
I pull him closer, my fingers threading through his hair. "Show me."
He does.
His hands are everywhere, sliding under my shirt, tracing the curve of my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space between us. I arch into him, gasping when his mouth moves to my neck.
"I've got you." His voice is rough, breathless. "I've always got you."
He pulls my shirt over my head, and I do the same to him. His skin is warm under my hands, muscles flexing as he lifts me slightly to pull off my leggings. I'm laughing between kisses, fumbling with his belt, both of us clumsy and eager.
"This is ridiculous," I say, giggling as he struggles with my bra clasp.
"Shut up." But he's smiling too, that rare, genuine smile that makes my heart flip.
When we're finally naked, he pauses, his hands framing my face. "I love you."
"I love you too." I pull him down for another kiss. "Now stop talking and?—"
He laughs, the sound low and warm, and then he's moving, and I forget how to form words.
It's joyful. Playful. We're laughing and gasping and whispering I love you between kisses. His hands are gentle but sure, knowing exactly how to touch me, where to kiss me, how to make me fall apart.
When I come, it's with his name on my lips and his arms around me, holding me like I'm the most precious thing in the world.
Afterward, we stay there on the kitchen island, wrapped around each other, breathing hard. He pulls back to look at me, his eyes soft, and presses his forehead to mine. "Welcome home, Hannah."
I smile, my chest full to bursting. "It's good to be home."