Chapter 73
Sienna's POV
We returned to the house. The dining room smelled incredible—herb-roasted chicken with rosemary, roasted vegetables, mushroom soup, and fresh-baked whole wheat bread.
Cindy winked at me, her smile knowing.
I knew she must have imagined plenty about what might have happened last night.
Hayes and I sat facing each other. When he served me soup, the motion was automatic, natural, as if we'd done this countless times. I held the warm bowl, watching the delicate cream swirls, and couldn't help but smile.
This sense of "coming home to dinner" gave me a dangerous illusion—as if the six-year separation had been just a nightmare, and this moment was reality.
"How did things go with the client today?" Hayes asked while cutting his chicken.
"Very well. They were satisfied with the design direction. Reina's following up on the contract details." I took a sip of soup. "And your meeting?"
Hayes's jaw tightened briefly. "It was fine. Handled some necessary business."
There was something in his tone I couldn't quite read, but I didn't push. We ate in silence, the soft clink of silverware against plates amplified in the dining room.
This silence wasn't awkward—it had a strange comfort to it. As if we'd grown accustomed to each other's presence and didn't need to fill every second with conversation.
Then Hayes set down his knife and fork.
He looked up at me, his tone calm but with a hint of hesitation. "Sienna, I... I have to go on a business trip tomorrow. Two days."
My hand paused mid-cut. I looked up, trying to keep my voice natural. "A trip? Where?"
"Starport," Hayes said. "The company has an acquisition project on the East Coast that needs my attention. The board... he insists I go."
I caught the reluctance in his voice, and my heart clenched inexplicably. But I suppressed the urge to ask more, just nodded. "Oh... well, work is important."
The silence in the air grew heavy.
We both looked down and continued eating, but our movements had become stiff.
Inside, I was churning—It's just two days, he's coming back, what are you being dramatic about? But the dull ache of loss in my chest wouldn't go away. I thought about how I'd survived six years without him. Now he sat across from me, real and alive, and I was already afraid of "not seeing him for two days."
I kept my eyes down, concentrating on cutting the chicken on my plate, but the meat had been cut into tiny pieces—clearly a mechanical action to mask my emotions.
He cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. "But... tomorrow I'll have a gift delivered to you."
I looked up, confused. "A gift? What gift?"
A faint smile curved Hayes's lips, his eyes showing rare lightness. That hint of a smile reminded me of high school—the expression he'd get right before surprising me, that barely contained anticipation and satisfaction. "It's a secret for now. But I promise... you'll like it."
I wanted to press him, but seeing that mischievous glint in his eyes made my heart skip a beat. Finally, I just gave him a mock glare. "You're being mysterious on purpose."
Hayes chuckled softly, looking back down at his food, but the softness in his expression betrayed his good mood.
I hesitated for a moment, then couldn't help but speak. "When you're in Starport... be careful with your knee. It's a different season there, temperature swings are big—remember to bring your knee brace. If the meetings run long and you're sitting for a while, get up and move around every hour, otherwise..."
Halfway through, I suddenly realized I was being too concerned, and cut myself off abruptly.
Hayes stared at me, his gaze deepening, becoming intense. He set down his knife and fork and said seriously, "Okay. I'll do whatever you say."
His voice was quiet, but the sincerity made my heart pound. I quickly looked down, pretending to focus on my food, but my face felt like it was burning.
We didn't speak again after that, but the atmosphere in the dining room shifted from the bittersweet ache of parting to something sweeter—a tacit understanding. The kind that didn't need words, the kind where just sitting together quietly felt fulfilling.
---
I woke up at six-thirty, which was unusual. My eyes opened to the pale light filtering through the curtains, and for a few seconds, my brain refused to process anything.
Then it hit me—the silence.
It was too quiet.
I lay there, listening. No footsteps descending the stairs. No soft click of the front door signaling Hayes leaving for his morning run or heading to the training facility.
Nothing.
Just the distant chirping of birds outside and the almost imperceptible hum of the house settling.
My body knew before my mind fully caught up. Over the past week, I'd been unconsciously tracking Hayes's morning routine—those subtle sounds had become part of my waking pattern. Now those sounds were gone, and their absence felt like a missing piece of a puzzle I didn't realize I'd been assembling.
I stayed in bed for another five minutes, ears practically straining to catch any familiar noise.
He probably left early to avoid waking me. That was all.
But as I got out of bed, my movements felt slow, reluctant, like my body was still trying to adjust back to "solitary mode" after a week of shared space.
When I reached the staircase landing, I paused instinctively and looked down at the living room. Usually at this hour, if Hayes hadn't left yet, I'd see him on the couch tying his shoes or in the kitchen pouring water. Now the space was empty except for the floor lamp by the fireplace, still glowing.
I stood there for three seconds before continuing down the stairs.
In the kitchen, I moved mechanically toward the coffee maker, then stopped. On the counter sat a note written in Hayes's precise black pen:
Breakfast is in the warmer. Remember to eat. — H.S.
I opened the warmer to find a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich—the flavor I'd been eating most recently—and a small bowl of oatmeal. Another tiny note was stuck to the bowl: Careful, the bowl might be hot.
I picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It tasted exactly like always. But my chewing slowed, then stopped altogether as I found myself staring at the empty chair across from me—Hayes's usual spot. The chair was pushed neatly under the table. No one sitting there.
A strange hollowness settled in my chest.