Chapter Twenty-Six - Hannah
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hannah
Hannah was reaching for the top shelf in the supply closet when she felt someone behind her. The warmth of another body, the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with something softer—coffee, maybe. Her heart recognized him before she turned around.
"Let me help with that." James's voice was low, close to her ear. He reached past her, his chest brushing her shoulder as he easily grabbed the box she'd been straining for.
Hannah turned, then immediately wished she hadn't. James was wearing a deep navy cashmere sweater that looked impossibly soft, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms. His hair fell across his forehead in natural waves, like he'd been running his fingers through it. The careful polish was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous—James Park, relaxed and touchable.
"Thank you," she managed, very aware of how little space there was between them in the supply closet. "I was just..."
"Art supplies?" His smile was different too—softer, more real. He glanced at the box in his hands. "For the community project?"
Hannah nodded, unable to form words. The sweater made his shoulders look broader, more inviting. Dark jeans and softer leather shoes had replaced his usual corporate armor.
"I can help you carry these to the community room," he offered, still standing close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.
"That's not necessary," she said quickly, reaching for the box. Their fingers brushed, and Hannah felt the contact like electricity down her spine.
"I insist." His voice had that gentle tone she'd heard him use with Mrs. Peterson. It was worse than his corporate smoothness—this genuine warmth that made her want to lean into him.
She stepped back instead, needing space to think clearly. "Fine. Thank you."
They walked to the community room in charged silence. Hannah was achingly aware of him beside her—the quiet confidence of his stride, how his sweater pulled across his shoulders as he carried the box, the way his hair curled slightly at his nape.
"Where would you like these?" he asked as they entered the room.
"By the window is fine." Hannah gestured vaguely, watching him set down the box. He'd missed a spot shaving, she noticed.
"Hannah." He straightened, taking a half step toward her. "I—"
"I should get back to work," she cut him off, gesturing at the supplies, at the room. At anything that wasn't him and his impossibly soft sweater and the way he said her name like it meant something.
He nodded, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. The gesture was so unconscious, so unguarded, that Hannah had to curl her fingers into fists to stop herself from reaching up to smooth it back herself.
"Of course." He moved toward the door, then paused. "The radiator's working better now. For when the seniors come tomorrow."
Hannah's heart squeezed. "Was it broken?"
"No." His smile was slight but genuine. "But it will be cold tomorrow, and Mrs. Peterson's arthritis..."
He left the sentence unfinished, but Hannah felt the weight of it settle in her chest. Because this James—the one who noticed drafts and arthritis and a hundred small needs—was so much more dangerous than the polished businessman who'd left her at Nero's.
That James, she'd learned to guard against.
This one...
"Thank you," she said softly.
He nodded once, then left. Hannah pressed a hand to her sternum, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow.
She had work to do. Children to teach. A community project to organize.
She absolutely wasn't thinking about how his sweater would feel under her fingers, or how his hair would curl around her hands, or how his genuine smile made something warm unfurl in her chest.
She wasn't thinking about any of that at all.
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Hannah's phone lit up with Mrs. Chen's name just as she was finishing lesson plans. Outside, the storm was raged on.
"Dear one," Mrs. Chen said without preamble. "I think James is the reason this whole building hasn't fallen apart."
Hannah's hand stilled on her papers. "What do you mean?"
"The generator's working perfectly. Everyone has emergency supplies. He's been checking on residents—knows exactly how each person takes their tea, if you can believe it." There was a knowing tone in Mrs. Chen's voice. "Rather like someone else I know."
Hannah swallowed hard. "He's probably just—"
"Just what? Making sure Mr. Thompson has his heart medication? Arranging for Mrs. Peterson's arthritis pills to be delivered? Installing space heaters in the older apartments?" Mrs. Chen's voice softened. "He's not just doing it for us, dear."
"I don't know what you want me to say," Hannah managed finally.
"I don't want you to say anything." Mrs. Chen paused, then added gently, "I just thought you should know that sometimes people surprise you. Even when you've stopped expecting them to."
Hannah stood, moving to her window. The storm painted everything gray, but the building felt different. Warmer. Safer. More... cared for.
"He remembered how everyone takes their tea?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
"Mm." Mrs. Chen's smile was audible. "Made notes, just like you always do. Though his handwriting isn't nearly as neat."
Hannah pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the rainfall. She could almost picture him—James Park, notebook in hand, making sure elderly residents had everything they needed.
"It doesn't change anything," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Doesn't it?" Mrs. Chen's tone was maddeningly calm.
Hannah closed her eyes, remembering James in the community room that night, rumpled and honest. I don't know how to stop caring about you , he'd said.
Maybe he hadn't meant to stop at all.
"I should go," she said quickly. "Lesson planning."
"Of course." Mrs. Chen's voice was gentle. "But Hannah?"
"Yes?"
"Sometimes the bravest thing isn't walking away. Sometimes it's letting yourself see people as they are, not as you fear they might be."