6. Grim
GRIM
When Hannah finally pulled back, her bright eyes searched mine. “We can't pretend this didn’t happen.”
“I don’t want to.”
"So we're actually doing this?"
I brushed my thumb along her jaw. "Yeah. We are."
She nodded once. Then she smiled, and something loosened in my chest.
The rest of the day unfolded a hell of a lot different than the rehearsal dinner. I was done pretending. Every touch meant what it meant.
When we walked into the bridal brunch, I kept my hand at the small of her back. Not for James's benefit. Because I wanted it there.
Hannah leaned into me while Lyra opened gifts. Her shoulder pressed against my arm. Her knee bumped mine under the table.
She texted me from three feet away.
Hannah: Are you staring at me?
I typed back without looking down.
Me: Yes.
Hannah: Why?
Me: Because I can.
She bit her lip to hide a smile, and that small movement made everything even more real.
James appeared briefly during the outdoor games on the lawn. He stood with Carson near the bar, watching us with an expression I couldn't quite name. Irritation, maybe. Or disbelief.
Hannah noticed him too. Her posture shifted and tension crept into her shoulders.
I slid my hand into hers and squeezed.
She glanced up at me, then back across the lawn. James had already turned away.
"He doesn't matter," I said.
"I know." But she squeezed my hand back anyway.
Later, during the couples' lawn game tournament, Hannah made a spectacularly bad throw. The beanbag sailed wide, missing the board entirely.
"That was tragic," I said.
"Shut up." She laughed and shoved my shoulder. "You're supposed to be supportive."
"I am. I'm supporting your right to fail."
She grabbed another beanbag and aimed it at me instead. I caught it one-handed.
Her gaze snagged on my forearm and stayed there longer than necessary.
My phone buzzed.
Hannah: I like your hands.
I looked at her. She was staring very intently at the scoreboard.
Me: Just my hands?
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away from the board.
Hannah: Don't fish for compliments.
Me: Not fishing. Just clarifying.
She finally met my eyes. The heat in her expression made my pulse kick.
Hannah: Everything. I like everything.
As the afternoon stretched into evening, Hannah asked the question I'd been expecting.
We were sitting on a bench near the barn, away from the crowd. The sun hung low over the ranch, casting everything in amber.
"Why did you stay away all those years?" she asked.
I'd rehearsed this answer a hundred times in my head. Never found a version that didn't sound like an excuse.
"Everett told me once I was the only guy he trusted around you," I said. "I treated that like a promise."
Hannah turned to give me her full attention. "You decided for both of us."
"Yeah." I couldn’t argue. She was right.
"You could have asked me what I wanted," she said.
"I should have."
She was quiet for a beat. "You're going to have to get better at that."
"At what?"
"Asking. Instead of deciding."
"I know."
She studied my face for a long moment. Then she nodded, accepting it without forgiving it entirely. "Okay."
That was it. No argument. No extended negotiation. Just acknowledgment and forward motion. I respected the hell out of that.
When the wedding events finally wrapped for the evening, I walked Hannah to her car in the parking lot. She leaned against the driver's side door, keys dangling from her fingers.
"What now?" she asked.
"Come home with me."
Her brows arched. "Not the cabin?"
“No. I want to see you at my place."
Understanding flickered across her face. This wasn't a matter of convenience or proximity. This was me inviting her to come home with me.
"Okay," she said.
I drove, and Hannah followed in her car.
The route took us out of Broken Bend, past the water tower, past the turnoff for the cabin, into the stretch of open land where the houses spread farther apart.
My place sat at the end of a gravel drive. It was a small ranch-style cabin. Nothing fancy.
The barking started before we even parked.
Hannah climbed out of her car, laughing. "You have a dog?"
"His name's Hank."
The dog in question appeared in the window, his tail wagging hard enough to shake the curtains. He was a mutt. Part Lab, part something stockier. All enthusiasm.
I unlocked the door, and Hank bounded out, circling Hannah twice before shoving his head under her hand.
"He likes you," I said.
"Good." She scratched behind his ears. "That's important."
I watched her crouch down to Hank's level, her dress pooling around her knees, her smile easy and unguarded.
This. This was what I’d always wanted.
Inside, the house looked lived in but not decorated. I’d collected furniture that served its purpose and had a kitchen I actually used. Mama Mae's Christmas ornaments still hung in the front window because I hadn't gotten around to packing them away.
Hannah noticed them immediately. "Christmas was almost nine months ago," she said.
"I know."
She smiled and shook her head.
Through the back window, my workbench was visible in the detached garage. Tools hung on pegboard. A half-finished project — a chair I'd been restoring — sat clamped on the surface.
Hannah walked closer to the window, looking out.
"You fix furniture?"
"Sometimes."
She glanced back at me. "I didn't know that."
"There's a lot you don't know about me yet."
Her expression softened. "I want to know it all.”
I crossed the room and cupped her face in my hands. “Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes.” She held my gaze. “I want this. Now. Knowing everything."
That was all I needed.
I kissed her slowly this time. My hands slid down her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.
She made a soft sound and pressed closer.
I walked her backward toward the hallway. She went willingly, her hands fisted in my shirt.
We made it to the bedroom before her dress hit the floor. I paused, taking in the sight of her. Curves I'd spent years pretending not to notice. Skin I'd imagined touching more times than I'd ever admit.
"Grim—"
I kissed her again before she could finish the sentence.
My shirt came off next. Then my belt. Then everything else.
When I finally laid her back on the bed, I forced myself to slow down. This wasn't something to rush. Not after waiting this long.
I traced the line of her collarbone with my mouth. Kissed the hollow of her throat. Felt her pulse jump under my lips.
Her hands slid into my hair, tugging gently. "You're taking your time," she said, breathless.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because I want to remember this."
Her breath hitched.
My mouth trailed lower. Over her ribs. Across her waist. I stopped at the spot just beneath her navel where her breath caught.
She said my name. "Evan."
My hands stilled on her hips. "Say it again."
"Evan."
I put my mouth against her hipbone and stayed there until she moved under me. Then I let her.
Her hand found my shoulder. The tattoo that ran down my arm — the ink she'd looked at across a garage more times than she probably thought I'd noticed. She traced it with her fingertip.
I'd spent years not letting myself want this.
I let myself.
I came back up her body. Kissed the underside of her jaw. My beard caught against her skin, and she made a sound low in her throat that I was going to replay in my head for weeks.
"Grim."
"I know."
"I want?—"
"I know."
Her fingers tangled in my hair. When I finally moved over her, it was because she'd told me to. She met me halfway and stayed there.
I braced my forearms on either side of her head. Watched her face. Everything I'd been holding down for years and no reason left to hold it.
"I've got you," I said.
"I know."
We didn't say much after that.
Afterward, the room fell quiet.
Hannah’s leg sprawled across my stomach, her breathing evening out. Her hair tickled my jaw. One hand rested on my chest, her fingers spread over my heart.
I stared at the ceiling and let myself think about ordinary things like her toothbrush in my bathroom and her shoes by the door. Coffee for two every morning instead of one.
I wasn't imagining a wedding weekend. I was imagining Tuesday, then Wednesday. I wanted every normal day between now and whatever came next.
Hannah shifted slightly, her breath warm against my neck.
I thought about how much easier it would have been if I'd told her the truth the morning after she drunk-texted me. If I'd been honest instead of playing along.
I'd say more of it out loud. Soon.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just held her and let myself want something without hiding it.
For the first time in years, that felt like enough.