Chapter 120 Rebuffed
Timothy
I don’t know how long I stand there.
It could be seconds. It could be minutes. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving properly. It feels thick, stretched, like everything in me is wound too tight to register anything clearly.
My hands are still at my sides, fingers slightly curled. My jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it.
The house is quiet now.
Too quiet.
Then I feel it.
A hand on my arm.
Soft. Careful.
“Hannah.”
My name in her voice pulls me back.
I blink, the tension in my chest snapping into focus all at once. I hadn’t even realized I’d drifted that far out.
I turn my head slightly.
She’s looking up at me, her brows drawn together, concern written plainly across her face.
“Are you okay?”
The question is simple. Gentle.
And I hate how hard it is to answer it.
“Yeah,” I say.
The word comes out tight. Flat. Unconvincing.
I don’t wait for her to question it.
I pull slightly away from her touch and turn toward the hallway.
“I think I’ll just turn in.”
I take a step.
“Hannah says softly behind me.
“You barely ate.”
Her fingers brush my arm again, lighter this time. Almost hesitant.
Something in me snaps.
“I said I’m not hungry.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. Louder.
Too loud.
I feel it the moment it leaves my mouth.
I turn back instinctively.
Her reaction hits me immediately.
She flinches.
It’s small. Subtle. But I see it.
Her eyes widen just a fraction, lips parting like she’s about to say something but doesn’t. There’s a tremble there. Faint, but unmistakable.
And then she steps back.
Just a little.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly.
The apology lands wrong.
So wrong.
Guilt hits me hard, settling heavy in my chest.
“No,” I start, running a hand through my hair. “Hannah, I didn’t mean to snap. I just”
I stop.
Because she’s already closing off.
I can see it happening in real time.
Her shoulders straighten. Her expression smooths out into something neutral. Controlled.
“It’s okay,” she says.
Her voice is even.
Too even.
“Goodnight, Timothy.”
She turns away from me before I can say anything else.
Walks back to the table.
Sits down.
And starts eating.
Like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t just snap at her.
Like I’m not still standing here feeling like I just did something I can’t take back.
“Hannah,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t even look up.
For a second, I think maybe she didn’t hear me.
“Hannah,” I try again.
Still nothing.
She lifts her fork, takes another bite, her focus entirely on her plate.
Deliberate.
Intentional.
I stand there, not knowing what to do.
I’m not used to this.
To being ignored.
To not knowing how to fix something immediately.
I take a step forward.
Then stop.
Because I already know.
If I push right now, she’ll shut down even more.
Or worse, she’ll say something polite and distant that puts even more space between us.
I exhale slowly.
This isn’t the time.
I turn.
And walk away.
Up the stairs.
Each step feels heavier than it should.
By the time I reach my room, my head is already starting to pound.
I shut the door behind me, the quiet pressing in again.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Then I move.
I shrug off my jacket, loosening my collar as I head straight for the bathroom.
The shower is scalding.
I let it be.
The heat should help. It usually does.
But tonight, it doesn’t.
My mind won’t stop.
Donald’s face keeps flashing through my head.
The way he walked in like he belonged here.
Like nothing had changed.
Like he could just insert himself back into this house, into this life, without warning.
And the things he said.
About Loretta.
My jaw tightens again.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He always does.
Donald never says anything by accident.
Which means his sudden appearance isn’t random.
It can’t be.
Too many things have been happening lately. Too many shifts, too many loose ends starting to move all at once.
And now him.
Showing up out of nowhere.
Talking like he’s been watching everything unfold.
I drag a hand down my face, letting the water run over it.
I need answers.
Which means I need to talk to my father.
The thought settles in my mind, heavy but certain.
He’ll know something.
He always does.
But not tonight.
I glance at the clock when I step out of the shower.
It’s late.
Too late for a conversation like that.
And even if I called, he wouldn’t say anything meaningful over the phone.
No.
This is something that needs to be handled properly.
In person.
Tomorrow.
Early.
I towel off, change into something comfortable, and sit on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, everything is quiet again.
And then, like it’s been waiting for an opening, another thought pushes its way in.
Hannah.
The way she flinched.
The way she stepped back.
The way she said it’s okay when it clearly wasn’t.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
I shouldn’t have snapped.
I know that.
She didn’t deserve that.
She was just trying to take care of me.
And I reacted like
I exhale sharply.
This is exactly what I didn’t want.
Distance.
Tension.
Creating something unnecessary between us.
I glance toward the door.
I could go to her.
Apologize properly.
Not just half say it and leave it hanging.
Explain.
But even as the thought forms, I already know how it’ll go.
She’ll lock the door.
Not physically.
But emotionally.
She’ll be polite. Distant. Controlled.
And I’ll end up standing there again, not knowing how to get through.
I lean back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling.
I should still try.
The thought lingers.
Then fades.
Because the truth is, I don’t trust myself not to make it worse tonight.
Not with everything else already running through my head.
I drag a hand over my face and lie down.
The room is dark, but my mind isn’t.
It keeps moving.
Donald.
My father.
The company.
Loretta.
Hannah.
Everything feels connected somehow, even if I can’t fully see how yet.
And that’s what bothers me the most.
Not knowing.
Not having control of the situation.
I turn onto my side.
Then onto my back.
Then onto the other side.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Minutes pass.
Then more.
My thoughts keep circling back to the same things, over and over, refusing to settle.
At some point, I close my eyes and try to force it.
It doesn’t work.
I shift again, the sheets tangling around my legs.
This is pointless.
I sit up halfway, then drop back down with a quiet exhale.
Tomorrow.
I’ll deal with everything tomorrow.
Talk to my father.
Figure out what Donald is playing at.
Fix things with Hannah.
The plan is there.
Clear.
Logical.
But it doesn’t quiet anything.
Eventually, exhaustion starts to creep in despite everything.
Slow.
Reluctant.
My thoughts begin to blur at the edges, losing their sharpness.
The tension in my body doesn’t fully release, but it dulls just enough.
And somewhere between one restless turn and the next, I finally slip under.
Not peacefully.
Not completely.
But enough.