Chapter 69 Late night cereal
Timothy
By the time the car pulled into the driveway, the night had settled into that deep, velvety quiet that only exists after long events and longer conversations. The driver stepped out to open the door, but Hannah was already halfway out before I could even say thank you.
The front door closed behind us with a soft click.
And then she groaned.
Not delicately. Not subtly. A full, dramatic, soul-deep groan.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, leaning against the wall as she bent down to yank off her heels. “If I ever say yes to another event like that, remind me of tonight.”
The heels hit the floor with two sharp clacks. She straightened slowly, flexing her toes against the cool marble like she’d just escaped captivity.
“I think I’ve lost circulation in three different places,” she added, wiggling her feet.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“You handled yourself well for someone on the brink of collapse.”
She shot me a mock glare. “You try smiling at people who insult you in designer gowns.”
“You did more than smile.”
“I was gracious,” she corrected primly, already padding toward the stairs barefoot. “Very different.”
I shook my head, following her. “Your dramatics are unmatched.”
She tossed a look over her shoulder. “And yet you tolerate me.”
“Barely.”
That earned me a soft snort.
Lisa appeared from the hallway, her expression warm but curious. “Would you like me to prepare something light? A late dinner?”
Hannah didn’t even hesitate. “No, Lisa. If I eat now, I might pass out mid-chew.”
I added, “We’ll head straight to bed. Thank you.”
Lisa smiled fondly. “Very well. Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood.”
Hannah froze mid-step.
I cleared my throat.
Lisa, blissfully unaware of the tension she’d just dropped between us, disappeared down the corridor.
Hannah turned slowly toward me, one brow raised.
“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood,” she repeated.
I lifted my hands in surrender. “She’s old-fashioned.”
“She’s very committed to the bit.”
A pause.
Then, simultaneously, we both said, “Goodnight,” and leaned in for a brief hug.
It was quick. Light. Friendly.
Too friendly.
We stepped apart almost immediately, an unspoken agreement not to linger.
She disappeared into her room.
I walked into mine.
The door clicked shut behind me, and the quiet rushed in.
I stripped out of my suit, the fabric sliding to the floor in a neat pile. The award ceremony still clung to me, the applause, flashing cameras, forced smiles. I pulled on sweatpants and ran a hand through my hair before grabbing my laptop from the desk.
If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least be productive.
Emails first.
A quick check-in with legal.
Two messages to finance.
A short, precise response to a board member who was already fishing for leverage after tonight’s announcement.
I kept it efficient. Controlled.
But even as I typed, my mind kept drifting.
Rowan.
His expression during my speech.
The glare Hannah had mentioned.
The call earlier in the day.
The name Nina flashing across his screen.
He’d snapped at me. Rowan never snapped. Not at me.
I shut the laptop slowly.
He’d assured me everything was fine.
But it wasn’t just tonight. It had been weeks; small things. Delays. Distractions. That tightness around his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
Was it my place to push?
He was my best friend.
He was also fiercely private.
I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.
The corporate battle resurfaced next. The rival’s sudden strategic advantage. The rumored partnership with that Hollywood director. The timing of it all.
Too neat.
Too calculated.
I turned onto my side.
Then my back.
Then the other side.
My mind refused to quiet.
After what felt like hours, I checked the time.
1:47 a.m.
My stomach chose that exact moment to betray me with a low, irritated grumble.
I exhaled sharply.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered to the empty room.
Fine.
If sleep wouldn’t come willingly, I’d negotiate with cereal.
The hallway was dim when I stepped out, lit only by soft recessed lighting along the baseboards. The house had that deep-night stillness, the kind that made every footstep sound louder than it was.
As I rounded the corner toward the kitchen, I stopped.
Hannah was already there.
She stood at the island in an oversized T-shirt that slipped slightly off one shoulder, her hair twisted into a messy bun that looked seconds away from collapsing. Bare feet against the tile. A bowl of cereal in her hands.
She looked up mid-bite.
We stared at each other.
Then she burst into laughter.
“You too?” she said around a spoonful of cereal.
I stepped fully into the kitchen, shaking my head. “I should’ve known.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“No.”
She lifted her bowl slightly. “Desperation snack.”
I opened the cabinet and grabbed another bowl. “I see we share coping mechanisms.”
“Only the sophisticated ones.”
I poured cereal, added milk, and joined her on the stool across from hers.
For a few minutes, we ate in silence.
Not awkward silence.
Comfortable silence.
The kind that settles easily between two people who’ve shared enough words for one night.
She crunched thoughtfully, then sighed. “My feet are still mad at me.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I expect compensation.”
“For what?”
“Emotional resilience.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I took another bite.
The kitchen clock ticked softly behind us. Outside, the wind rustled faintly against the windows. It felt oddly peaceful, more intimate than the grand event we’d just attended.
When we finished, I stood first, collecting both bowls before she could protest.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know.”
I rinsed them, washed them properly, set them neatly on the rack.
Domestic. Simple.
Strangely grounding.
We walked upstairs together, steps slow and unhurried.
At her door, she paused.
Turned.
And smiled.
Not the public smile.
Not the defiant one she’d given those women earlier.
A softer one.
She leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice as if we were conspiring.
“Goodnight,” she whispered dramatically.
I snorted despite myself.
“Goodnight,” I whispered back.
She slipped into her room, closing the door quietly behind her.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I walked into mine.
This time, when I lay down, my thoughts didn’t spiral as wildly. They still flickered of Rowan, the company, the battles ahead but they were quieter.
Muted.
And somewhere between the memory of her laughter in the kitchen and the image of her barefoot on cold tile, sleep finally found me.