Chapter 79 In Love or Not ?
Hannah
The next few days feel like I’m suspended between two skies.
Some mornings I wake up light feeling weightless, replaying the orchard, the dancing, the cereal at midnight. Other moments I’m seized by this sharp, grounding awareness: he’s my stepfather. This is complicated. This is dangerous.
Cloud nine.
Then free fall.
And back again.
But whatever we are, whatever this almost-thing is, we’re back on good terms. Better than good. There’s an ease between us that wasn’t there before. Less guarded. Less brittle.
It’s… nice.
Too nice.
One morning, I come downstairs expecting to grab coffee alone before heading to the shelter, only to find Timothy standing near the foyer with his car keys in hand.
“You’re not driving yourself today,” he says casually.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m heading in that direction anyway.”
“That’s not true.”
“It can be.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you waiting for me?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Because I can.”
I try not to smile.
Fail. “Bossy asshole.”
The drive to the shelter is quiet but comfortable. The city hums around us, morning traffic, pedestrians rushing along sidewalks, sunlight bouncing off glass buildings.
When he pulls up outside the shelter, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t immediately reach for the door.
“Text me when you’re done,” he says.
“Why?”
“So I know you didn’t get kidnapped by a three-legged mafia dog.”
I laugh. “Captain would never.”
“Selective loyalty,” he reminds me.
I shake my head, pushing the door open. “Have a good day.”
“You too, Hannah.”
I step out, then glance back.
He’s watching me again.
That look.
Soft.
Warm.
It follows me all the way to the door.
Inside, the familiar chaos of the shelter greets me, full of barking, phones ringing, volunteers weaving through kennels.
And Sienna.
She’s standing by the front desk, arms crossed, watching me.
Not subtly.
“What?” I ask, shrugging off my bag.
She says nothing. Just raises one perfectly groomed brow.
“I don’t know what that look means.”
“It means,” she says slowly, “you look suspiciously radiant for a Wednesday.”
“I always look radiant.”
“Sure.”
Before I can retort, one of the volunteers rushes up to us.
“Sienna, the delivery’s wrong again. They sent the wrong size crates.”
Sienna groans. “Of course they did.”
She grabs my wrist. “Crisis mode.”
And just like that, we’re thrown into problem-solving, busy calling suppliers, rearranging storage, calming a nervous adopter whose paperwork got mixed up.
By the time we look at the clock again, it’s nearly lunchtime.
“That flew by,” I say, stretching my arms overhead.
“Let’s eat before another emergency decides to be dramatic,” Sienna replies.
We usually go to a little café two streets down, but today she hooks her arm through mine and steers me in the opposite direction.
“New spot,” she announces. “Discovered it yesterday.”
“A secret from me?”
“I was waiting for the right moment.”
We walk a few blocks down to a small corner restaurant I’ve never noticed before. The windows are framed with potted herbs, and handwritten chalkboards advertise daily specials.
Inside, it’s warm and homey with wooden tables, mismatched chairs, soft yellow lighting. There’s a shelf lined with old books and tiny ceramic figurines.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I love it already.”
“Right?” Sienna gushes. “It feels like someone’s grandmother decided to open a restaurant.”
We slide into a booth near the window and immediately start whispering excitedly about the decor like we’re reviewing an art exhibit.
A bald, friendly waitress with kind eyes approaches, notepad in hand.
“First time here?” she asks.
“Is it that obvious?” I laugh.
“Only because you’re looking at the walls like they’re about to talk back.” We share a laugh.
We place our orders; grilled paninis, tomato soup, and fresh lemonade.
When she leaves, Sienna doesn’t even wait ten seconds.
“Spill.”
I blink. “Spill what?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Hannah. I know you. You are bursting at the seams.”
I try to look innocent.
It doesn’t work.
A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.
“Oh no,” she says, leaning back. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“It’s not worse,” I protest, though I’m already beaming. “It’s just…things have been… nice.”
“Define nice.”
So I do.
I tell her about the painting. About him trying so hard not to paint outside the lines. About dancing in the studio like idiots. About falling asleep under the peach tree and waking up nearly at night.
Her brows climb higher with every sentence.
“And then,” I finish, lowering my voice, “we both went downstairs at midnight for cereal.”
She stares at me.
“You what?”
“It was innocent!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” she replies slowly. “I’m just processing.”
“And he waited for me this morning. Drove me here.”
Her lips twitch.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand.
“You’re in love with him.”
I scoff immediately. “I am not.”
She doesn’t blink.
“I’m not,” I repeat, more firmly.
“Hannah.”
“No.”
She holds up a hand. “You denied it like this the last time I said you were catching feelings.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. That was… a crush.”
“And this?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
She softens slightly. “It’s so obvious.”
“It hasn’t gotten to that level,” I insist. “And it won’t.”
“Won’t?”
“I won’t let it.”
She studies me carefully.
“Because you can control that?”
“Yes.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I’m lying to myself.
“I just…” I exhale. “It’s complicated.”
“I know.”
“And we’re on good terms again. That’s all.”
“Is it?”
I hesitate.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
“Just be careful,” she says quietly.
I nod.
“And if he hurts you,” she adds, her tone sharpening playfully, “I will personally skin him alive.”
I laugh. “That escalated.”
“I mean it.”
Right on cue, the waitress returns balancing our plates.
“Everything alright over here?” she asks cheerfully.
“Perfect,” Sienna replies sweetly.
The waitress sets the food down. “Good. Because if someone needs skinning, I left my apron in the back.”
There’s a beat.
Then Sienna and I burst into laughter.
“Morbid humor,” the waitress shrugs with a cheeky smile. “Comes free with the soup.”
We thank her, still giggling, and dig into our food.
For a while, the conversation shifts to lighter things, shelter gossip, upcoming adoption events, the ridiculous price of organic dog treats.
But even as I laugh, as I dip my sandwich into soup and wipe crumbs from my fingers…
Sienna’s words linger.
You’re in love with him.
I shake the thought away.
It’s too big.
Too dangerous.
Too real.
And yet… as I picture him this morning, leaning against his car, waiting for me with that soft look in his eyes…
My heart does something that feels suspiciously like an answer.