Chapter 56 Thanksgiving

Chapter 56 Thanksgiving
The apartment belonged to Seth's friends, Mike and Sarah, a spacious flat in the 5th arrondissement that smelled of roasting turkey and cinnamon and the particular warmth of a home preparing to welcome guests. Hallie paused on the threshold, suddenly aware of the noise spilling through the open door—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses, the comfortable chaos of people who had known each other long enough to stop pretending.
Seth's hand found the small of her back, steady and warm.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Perfect. Let's go."
He guided her inside before she could change her mind, and the crowd swallowed them whole.

The first thing Hallie noticed was that everyone was smiling.
Not the polite, measured smiles of professional events, but real smiles—the kind that reached eyes and crinkled corners and made strangers feel like friends. A man with a beard and an apron—Mike, she assumed—emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel, his face lighting up when he saw Seth.
"Sanders! You made it!" He pulled Seth into a back-slapping hug, then turned to Hallie with an expression of genuine welcome. "And you brought the famous Hallie. Finally. I was starting to think he'd made you up."
"I've been busy," Hallie managed, accepting a glass of wine that appeared in her hand from somewhere.
"So we've heard." Mike's smile was kind, teasing. "The mysterious fashion designer who's been taking up all his free time. Sarah owes me ten euros—she said you'd be taller."
"She said I'd be taller?"
"Inside joke. Don't worry about it." Mike steered them toward the living room, where clusters of people stood talking and laughing and stealing appetizers from passing trays. "Come on. Let me introduce you around before dinner."
The introductions were a blur of names and faces and warm handshakes—fellow students, friends, partners, a few children who raced between adult legs like tiny missiles. Hallie nodded and smiled and tried to remember who was who, but her brain was too overwhelmed by the sheer volume of social interaction to keep track.
Through it all, Seth stayed close. His hand found hers when the crowd pressed in. His shoulder brushed hers when she started to drift. He caught her eye across the room and smiled, small and private, a reminder that she wasn't alone.
She could do this. She could be normal. She could be the woman who belonged at his side, in his world, in this life he was building.
She just had to survive the appetizers first.

Clara found her by the window, watching the city lights blink on across the Seine. The city already dressed up for Christmas, with golden lights reflecting on the dark water.
"Hallie, right?"
Hallie turned, her heart rate spiking despite herself. The brunette from the university stood before her, a glass of white wine in hand, her expression open and curious and utterly without guile.
"That's me."
"I'm Clara. Seth's mentioned you about a thousand times." She leaned against the windowsill, casual, comfortable. "I was starting to think you were a mythological creature. The woman who could make Seth Sanders actually smile."
"He smiles."
"Not before you." Clara's voice was matter-of-fact. "When he started at the university, he was... quiet. Aloof. Polite, but distant. Like he was going through the motions without actually being present." She glanced across the room at Seth, who was deep in conversation with Mike. "That changed when you came back. He doesn't talk about it—what happened, why you were apart. But whatever it was, it's like you woke something up in him."
Hallie didn't know what to say. The shadows stirred, uncomfortable with the attention, with the vulnerability, with the raw truth of Clara's words.
"I'm glad he had friends here," she managed. "When I couldn't be."
Clara's smile was warm. "We're glad he had you. Even when you weren't here."

Dinner started, and the chaos began.
The table stretched across the living room, a patchwork of mismatched chairs and borrowed benches, loaded with dishes that had been passed down through families and cultures. Turkey, of course, but also mashed potatoes and gravy and cranberry sauce and a dozen other things Hallie had never seen at her family’s table, but which looked positively interesting.
She sat between Seth and a woman named Elise, who asked about her work with the enthusiasm of someone genuinely interested. Hallie found herself talking about the collection, about Madame Leclerc, about the terror and exhilaration of creating something from nothing. Elise asked questions that were thoughtful, engaged, and Hallie forgot to be nervous.
Seth kept her wine glass filled.
She didn't notice at first—was too caught up in the conversation, the laughter, the strange, wonderful feeling of belonging. The wine was good, light and fruity, and it went down easily. One glass became two. Two became three. Three became a number she lost track of somewhere between the turkey and the pie.
The shadows hummed, amused, but she was too warm and happy to push them back.
"You're glowing," Seth murmured in her ear, sometime after dessert.
"Glowing?"
"Your cheeks are pink. Your eyes are bright. You laugh at things that aren't that funny." He smiled, soft and fond. "You're drunk, Hallie."
"I am not drunk. I am... enhanced."
"Enhanced."
"Socially enhanced."
Seth laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and Hallie felt something loosen in her chest. This was what she had been missing. Not just Seth, but this—the ease, the connection, the simple pleasure of being among people who liked her for who she was.
Or maybe that was the wine talking.
Probably the wine.

The evening wound down slowly, the way good evenings always did.
People drifted toward the door, exchanging hugs and promises to do this again. Hallie shook hands and smiled and tried not to wobble in her powerful boots. The wine had definitely been a mistake—she could feel it now, a pleasant haze that made the world feel slightly unreal, slightly softer at the edges.
Seth's arm slid around her waist, steadying her.
"Time to go," he murmured.
"Where?"
"My place. Yours is too far, and the subway's stopped running." He guided her toward the door, pausing to thank Mike and Sarah, to say goodbye to the remaining guests. "You can barely stand."
"I can stand perfectly well. I'm a queen. Queens are excellent at standing."
Seth's laugh was warm against her hair. "Sure you are."

The walk to his apartment was short, which was fortunate, because Hallie's coordination was not at its peak.
She leaned into Seth's side, her boots clicking on the cobblestones, her head spinning pleasantly with wine and happiness and the strange, unexpected joy of the evening. The city was quiet at this hour, the streets nearly empty, the only sound the distant wail of a siren and the soft murmur of their footsteps.
"I like your friends," she said. "Even Clara."
"Even Clara?"
"She's nice. And she was right." Hallie tilted her head, looking up at him. "You were different before. Before you found me again."
Seth was quiet for a moment. Then: "I was lost. For five years, I was just... going through the motions. Training, fighting, surviving. But I wasn't living. Not really."
"And now?"
He stopped, turning to face her. The streetlight caught his features, throwing half his face into shadow, leaving the other half golden and warm.
"Now I'm living." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "Because of you. Because you came back. Because you gave me a second chance I didn't deserve."
Hallie's eyes burned with sudden tears. "You deserve it."
"I'm trying to believe that."
"Believe it." She stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him through their coats. "You're not the person who left. You're not the person who stayed away. You're someone new. Someone I'm still getting to know." She touched his chest, over his heart. "Someone I'm starting to fall in love with all over again."
Seth's breath caught. "Hallie—"
"Don't." She shook her head, suddenly shy. "Not now. Not when I'm drunk and emotional and likely to say something I'll regret."
His smile was soft, almost sad. "Okay. Not now."
He took her hand and led her the rest of the way home.

His apartment was small and neat, the kind of place that spoke of careful attention to detail—minimalist furniture, a few personal items, nothing that hinted at the chaos of his past. Hallie looked around, trying to reconcile this space with the boy she had known, the golden athlete who had lived in the center of everyone's attention.
"You've changed," she said.
"I've tried." He helped her out of her coat, hung it on a hook by the door. "You want something to drink? Water? Tea?"
"Water." Hallie sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "And maybe some aspirin for tomorrow. I have a feeling I'm going to need it."
Seth returned with a glass of water and two white pills, which he set on the coffee table within easy reach. Then he sat beside her, close but not too close.
"You should sleep," he said. "The bedroom's through there. I'll take the couch."
Hallie looked at the couch—comfortable, but short, clearly not designed for someone Seth's size. She looked at the closed door to the bedroom, then back at him.
"Stay with me," she said.
Seth's eyes widened. "Hallie—"
"I don't mean—" She felt heat flood her cheeks. "I just mean sleep. Together. Not—" She gestured vaguely, helplessly. "I don't want to be alone. And the couch looks uncomfortable."
He studied her for a long moment, searching for something—hesitation, uncertainty, the edge of a promise she wasn't ready to make. Whatever he found must have been enough, because he nodded slowly.
"Okay. We'll sleep."

His bed was soft, the sheets smelling of laundry detergent and something underneath that was purely Seth. Hallie curled onto her side, facing the window, watching the city lights blur through the blinds.
The mattress shifted as Seth climbed in beside her. He kept his distance at first, polite and respectful, but when Hallie reached back and found his arm, he moved closer. His arm slid around her waist. His chest pressed against her back. His breath was warm against her neck.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Okay."
The shadows hummed, content. Hallie closed her eyes and let the darkness take her, not as a weapon or a burden, but as a comfort.
She was not alone.
She had not been alone for a long time.
She just hadn't let herself notice until now.