Chapter 64 Handwritten notes
Timothy
I wake up to a stiff crick in my neck and a deep, aching numbness running down my arm.
For a few seconds, my mind is blank, floating somewhere between sleep and awareness, until I yawn and try to move, only to realize I can’t. My arm feels like dead weight, pins and needles prickling violently as sensation tries to crawl back.
I blink, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The movie theater.
The massive screen is dark now, the faint glow of early morning creeping in through the high windows. The couch beneath me is too familiar, too narrow for how I’m lying, and then I feel it, warmth pressed against my side.
Hannah.
She’s curled on her side, her head tucked just beneath my shoulder, her cheek resting against my chest like she belongs there. One arm is loosely draped across my torso, fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt. Her legs are bent, knees drawn up slightly, body molded to mine in sleep without a single ounce of self-consciousness.
My arm is numb because she’s been lying on it.
I swallow.
For a moment, too long of a moment, I simply watch her.
Her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks. Her lips are parted slightly as she breathes, slow and even. There’s a softness to her face in sleep that I don’t often get to see, something unguarded and vulnerable that makes my chest tighten inexplicably.
What the hell are you doing?
The thought snaps me back to myself.
I look away sharply, jaw tightening, forcing myself to focus on the practical problem at hand. I need to get her to bed. Properly. Before she wakes up like this and things get… complicated.
Slowly, carefully, I begin to detangle myself.
I shift my shoulder first, easing it out from beneath her head. She stirs immediately, letting out a soft, barely audible sound, something between a sigh and a murmur. Her brow furrows, and her fingers curl reflexively, clutching at my shirt like she’s searching for the warmth she’s losing.
My body goes rigid.
“It’s okay,” I murmur before I can stop myself, my voice low, instinctive.
She relaxes again, lips parting as she exhales, and I take advantage of the moment to slide my arm free inch by inch. The blood rushes back painfully, and I grit my teeth, holding back a hiss as pins and needles flare.
Once I’m free, I pause, watching to make sure she doesn’t wake.
She doesn’t.
I stand, rolling my shoulders carefully, then bend and scoop her up before I can overthink it.
She weighs less than I expect. Or maybe I’m just more aware of it now.
Her head falls naturally against my shoulder, hair brushing my jaw. She shifts slightly, nose wrinkling as she lets out a soft hum, but she stays asleep. One hand fists into the fabric of my shirt again, like she’s anchoring herself.
My grip tightens reflexively.
I carry her through the quiet house, every step deliberate. The halls are dim, lit only by the faint glow of early dawn filtering through tall windows. The silence feels intimate, almost sacred, like the house itself is holding its breath.
When I reach her room, I nudge the door open with my foot and step inside.
I lay her gently on the bed, easing her down as carefully as if she might shatter. She rolls onto her side instinctively, curling in on herself, still asleep. I pull the covers over her and tuck them around her shoulders.
She sighs.
I stand there longer than I should.
Something twists in my chest, an unfamiliar, uncomfortable pull and before I can stop myself, I reach out and brush a stray lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
My hand lingers.
That’s when I catch myself.
I straighten abruptly, stepping back as if burned.
Get it together.
I leave the room, but not before grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen and setting it on her bedside table. I add ibuprofen beside it, practical, necessary. An excuse to come back, maybe.
The movie theater needs tidying. I go back and collect the empty glasses, straighten the cushions, make a mental note for the staff to take care of the rest later.
Then I change.
Running clothes. Sneakers. No excuses.
I head outside as the sky begins to lighten, the first hints of dawn streaking the horizon. The cool air hits my lungs sharply as I start my run around the estate, my pace steady, rhythmic.
The physical exertion helps.
With every stride, I try to shake off the image of Hannah curled against me, the warmth of her body, the way she’d fit so easily there. My mind keeps circling back no matter how hard I push.
Staff members begin to appear as the estate wakes, and I nod in acknowledgment as I pass them. Everything looks the same as it always does, orderly and controlled.
Except I don’t feel controlled.
By the time I return, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, the sun is fully up. I shower, dress, and head down for breakfast.
Hannah doesn’t join me.
I glance toward the stairs once, twice, then force myself to look away. She’s still asleep. Good. She needs it.
I finish quickly, then pause as I rise.
Impulsively, I grab a pen and paper.
I hesitate, staring at the blank page longer than necessary before finally writing a short note. Nothing sentimental. Just information. Efficient.
Still, my handwriting looks tighter than usual.
I leave the note on her bedside table and head out, slipping back into my usual routine as the car pulls away from the estate.
The moment I arrive at the office, the calm of the morning evaporates.
My secretary greets me with a stack of files and a look I recognize instantly, we have a matter on our hands. Specifically one related to the one from yesterday.
She delivers the news quickly, efficiently, and it hits like a punch to the gut. There’s more to it.
Another deal gone sideways. A rival maneuvering aggressively. A loss that’s not catastrophic but significant enough to demand immediate attention.
“Get the executives in the boardroom,” I say sharply. “Cancel my ten o’clock. Push the lunch meeting. And I want a revised schedule on my desk in fifteen minutes.”
She nods, already moving.
The rest of the day blurs into meetings, arguments, strategy sessions. Voices overlap. Tension hangs thick in the boardroom as we dissect the situation from every angle.
I issue orders, make decisions, adjust projections.
And still, between one agenda item and the next, I find myself glancing at the clock.
I don’t know what I’m anticipating exactly. A message. A call. The idea of her waking up and reading the note I left.
It’s distracting.
By midday, I’m frustrated with myself more than anything else.
Focus.
I force my attention back to the numbers, the plans, the countermeasures we’ll need to put in place. This is what I’m good at. This is what I understand.
And yet, even as the hours tick by, the image of Hannah asleep in my arms lingers stubbornly in the back of my mind.