Chapter 78 The visitor
Hannah
Morning feels almost suspiciously normal.
Like the orchard nap and the midnight cereal were some shared dream we both quietly agreed not to dissect.
Sunlight spills through the dining room windows when I walk in, and Timothy is already seated at the table, scrolling through something on his phone with a cup of coffee steaming near his elbow.
He looks up when he hears me.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” I echo, sliding into the seat across from him.
Lisa has laid out breakfast, scrambled eggs, toast, sliced avocado, grilled tomatoes, and a bowl of fresh fruit. There’s orange juice in a glass pitcher and a pot of coffee between us.
Domestic.
Again.
I reach for toast. “Sleep okay?”
He nods once. “You?”
“Like a rock.” I pause. “After the cereal, obviously.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Obviously.”
We eat easily, conversation light.
“What’s on your schedule today?” I ask, cutting into my eggs.
“Meetings until noon. Conference call with Singapore. Then a site review.”
“Thrilling.”
“Riveting, actually.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a liar.”
“And you?”
I shrug. “I’m not needed at the shelter today. They’re doing inventory and vaccinations. I’d just get in the way.”
“You don’t get in the way.”
I glance up at him.
There’s no teasing in his voice. Just a simple statement.
I clear my throat and look back down at my plate. “I’ll probably finish the painting we abandoned yesterday.”
“Ah.” He nods. “The masterpiece.”
“You’re one to talk.”
He smirks but doesn’t argue.
After breakfast, he grabs his jacket. I follow him toward the foyer without really thinking about it.
“Have a good day,” I say as he adjusts his cufflinks.
“You too.”
There’s a brief pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to notice.
Then he gives me a small smile and heads out.
I stand there for a second after the door closes.
Why does it feel like I’m watching something leave?
Shaking off the thought, I head upstairs to the painting room.
The canvas greets me exactly as I left it, still half-finished, colors still blending softly into one another. Timothy’s attempt sits beside it, paint slightly uneven but surprisingly earnest.
I smile.
He tried.
I slip on my apron and pick up my brush, losing myself in the rhythm of strokes and color. Music hums low in the background. For a while, it’s just me and the canvas.
Until I hear a voice at the door.
“Well, well.”
I turn.
Rowan leans against the doorframe like he owns the place, sunglasses perched on his head, smile firmly in place.
“Rowan?” I blink. “Hi.”
He pushes off the frame and steps inside. “Miss me?”
“Debatable.” I skip over and hug him and he leans down to pat my back before I take a step back.
He places a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Cruel.”
I look him over quickly, instinctively searching for… something.
But whatever strange tension I’d felt at the awards night isn’t there. He looks the same as always, so easy grin, relaxed posture, faint air of mischief.
Maybe I really did imagine it.
“You okay?” I ask anyway.
“Never better,” he says cheerfully.
I glance behind him. “Where’s Timothy?”
“Oh, I came alone,” he replies. “He asked me to dig up a specific file from the archives and pull some data. I delivered like the loyal best friend I am.”
“You didn’t try to snoop?”
“I always try to snoop.”
I laugh despite myself. “Of course you do.”
He gestures toward the empty space beside me. “Mind if I join?”
I hesitate for half a second.
Then nod. “Sure.”
He drags a stool closer and sits, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“So,” I say, dipping my brush into paint, “what have you been up to?”
He wiggles his brows. “You really want to know?”
“Why do I feel like that’s a trap?”
“It’s not a trap. It’s a lifestyle.”
I groan softly. “Rowan.”
“What? I had a very eventful weekend.”
“Please don’t.”
“There was this woman…”
“Stop.”
“She was very flexible…”
“ROWAN.”
He bursts out laughing at my horrified expression.
“You’re disgusting.”
“I prefer adventurous.”
I point my brush at him threateningly. “One more detail and I’m throwing paint at you.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll spare you.”
“Thank you.”
“But for the record…”
“ROWAN.”
He laughs again, leaning back in his chair. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun. Just not in whatever dimension you live in.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing playfully. “You’ve been spending too much time with Timothy.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does. You’ve got this responsible aura creeping in.”
I scoff.
His gaze drifts to the second canvas beside mine.
He squints.
“Hold on.”
Before I can stop him, he leans forward and fully uncovers Timothy’s painting.
Silence.
Then…
He explodes.
“Oh my God.”
He doubles over laughing.
Actually laughing.
Hands on his knees, head thrown back, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“It’s not that bad!” I protest.
He tries to speak but only manages wheezing sounds.
“Rowan!”
He straightens just enough to pull out his phone. “I need evidence.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Too late.
He snaps a picture, still laughing uncontrollably.
“You’re evil.”
“Hannah,” he gasps, clutching his stomach, “he painted outside the lines.”
“It’s abstract!”
“It’s a crime scene.”
I swat his arm lightly. “Stop it.”
He finally begins to calm down, wiping at his eyes. “I cannot believe he picked up a brush.”
“He wanted to learn.”
“Oh, I know he didn’t.”
“He did.”
Rowan studies me now, laughter fading into something more knowing.
“Oh, Hannah,” he says softly, still grinning. “The things you make that man do.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“I don’t make him do anything.”
He arches a brow. “I doubt that.”
I turn back to my canvas quickly, focusing very hard on blending two shades of green.
Don’t read into that.
Don’t.
He’s just teasing.
He’s always teasing.
But my mind betrays me instantly.
The orchard.
The dancing.
The picnic.
Midnight cereal.
The way Timothy had looked at me when the sunlight hit.
The way he’d stayed asleep beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m not forcing him,” I mutter.
Rowan hums thoughtfully. “Didn’t say you were.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to steady myself.
This is ridiculous.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t mean anything.
And yet…
I steal a glance at Timothy’s unfinished painting again.
Messy. Uneven. Completely outside his world.
And he did it anyway.
For me.
I swallow.
Rowan leans back on the stool, watching me with quiet amusement.
I face forward again, pretending to be entirely focused on my art.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop replaying his words in my head.
The things you make that man do.
And the worst part?
I’m not sure I’m the only one being changed.