Chapter 47 Unsettling proximities
Timothy
We walked toward the sushi restaurant with Hannah half a step ahead of me, and I told myself firmly, repeatedly that there was nothing inappropriate about noticing the way she moved.
That didn’t stop my eyes.
Her dress skimmed her hips, light fabric shifting with each step, an unthinking sway that caught my attention far more effectively than it should have. I forced my gaze upward, cataloging architectural details of the complex with a seriousness I did not feel.
Glass railings. Soft recessed lighting. Polished stone floors.
Anything but her.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Is that the place?”
I snapped my attention forward. “Yes,” I said, a beat too quickly. “That’s it.”
She smiled, satisfied, and turned back around, utterly unaware of the internal lecture I was giving myself.
Get it together.
The hostess greeted us warmly and led us through the restaurant, past low murmurs and clinking glasses, into a semi-private alcove screened by pale wood slats. It was intimate without being claustrophobic with warm light, a small table, two chairs facing each other.
Hannah slid into her seat and immediately picked up the menu, brow furrowing as if she’d been handed a philosophical problem rather than a list of food.
I sat across from her, opened my own menu, and tried to focus.
“This is too many options,” she muttered. “Why is there always too many options?”
“You could close your eyes and point,” I suggested.
“That’s how people end up eating things they regret,” she said seriously. “Like uni.”
“Not a fan?”
She grimaced. “It tastes like the ocean gave up.”
I snorted before I could stop myself.
Her eyes lifted. “Was that a laugh?”
“No,” I said, too quickly. “That was…a breath.”
She narrowed her eyes, then smiled. “Liar.”
I cleared my throat and pretended to study the menu again.
A moment later, she said, “Okay. Game.”
I looked up. “What game?”
“Guess what I’m going to order.”
I scanned the menu again, then glanced at her face. She was chewing on her bottom lip, eyes darting between sections, clearly torn.
“You’ll order something familiar,” I said slowly, “but with one adventurous element so you can pretend you’re bold.”
Her eyes widened. “Rude. But continue.”
“Salmon-based,” I added. “Not raw. Something seared. With a citrus glaze.”
She stared at me for a long second, then pouted. “That’s…uncomfortably close.”
I allowed myself a small, smug nod. “I pay attention.”
“Well,” she said, lifting her chin, “I was going to order the seared salmon roll with yuzu sauce, but now I feel exposed.”
“Still counts,” I said.
“Barely.”
She tilted her head. “Alright. My turn. You’re going to order the most bitter, sour, emotionally unavailable thing on the menu.”
I scowled. “That’s not…”
“Something that pairs well with black coffee and regret,” she continued cheerfully.
“I do not drink black coffee,” I said flatly.
“Right….”
The waiter appeared before I could retaliate, and we placed our orders, hers, as predicted; mine, decidedly not as bleak as she’d assumed.
When the waiter left, Hannah leaned back and looked around, eyes taking in the soft glow, the minimalist decor, the quiet hum of conversation.
“This place is nice,” she said. “Feels…calm.”
“It’s discreet,” I replied. “People come here to be left alone.”
She glanced at me. “Do you?”
The question caught me off guard.
“Yes,” I said honestly. Then, after a pause, “Usually.”
She hummed thoughtfully and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“Want to play another game?”
I hesitated. “That depends.”
She pointed subtly toward a man at the bar. “We pick someone. Give them a name. A whole backstory. Based entirely on vibes.”
I stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
Against my better judgment, I nodded. “Fine.”
Her face lit up. “Okay. Him.” She nodded toward the man. “That’s…Marcus. Mid-forties. Divorced. Pretends he’s fine with it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Already bleak.”
“He’s a consultant,” she continued. “Travels too much. Owns a dog he barely sees. His ex-wife got the house.”
I glanced again. “He looks like a software engineer.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s the tragedy.”
I shook my head. “Wrong. That’s Daniel. Never married. Lives alone by choice. He enjoys expensive whiskey and hates social media.”
She frowned. “He definitely looks like someone who would ghost people.”
“Selective,” I corrected.
She laughed. “Your turn.”
I scanned the room and pointed subtly toward a woman laughing softly with her friends. “Her. Name’s Elise. She’s a pediatric nurse. Overworked. Kind. Has a terrible dating history.”
Hannah softened. “Oh. I like her.”
“She deserves better,” I added.
She smiled at me. “You’re good at this.”
The food arrived, interrupting us. Plates were set down, steam curling faintly into the air.
Hannah’s eyes lit up. “That smells incredible.”
We ate, conversation flowing easily about nothing and everything. The game continued between bites, our voices low, conspiratorial. I found myself watching her more than my food: the way she gestured, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed, the way she forgot herself entirely.
At some point, I realized time had slipped away from us.
When I paid the bill and we stood to leave, it felt…too soon.
The car ride back was quiet, comfortable. Hannah sighed softly, content, watching the city lights blur past the windows.
I pulled out my phone, intending to answer messages, but my attention drifted. When the car stopped, the guard announced we’d arrived.
I looked over.
Hannah was asleep.
Her head had tipped forward, lashes resting against her cheeks, mouth slightly parted. Something in my chest tightened.
“I’ll handle it,” I said quietly when the guard moved to open her door.
I stepped out, went around, and carefully lifted her into my arms. She stirred, then settled, curling instinctively against me.
My heart kicked hard.
I steadied myself and carried her inside, the weight of her, far too warm and real than it should have been.
And far more dangerous.