Chapter 13: What was it?
For a long minute, they just breathed. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek; her exhales warmed the skin over his sternum. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, found its way into her hair, fingers combing through the tangled blonde strands.
Then he moved.
In one fluid motion, Hardin sat up, wrapping his arms around her waist. Tessa, dazed and pliant, instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, locking her ankles. He stood, carrying her with an ease that still surprised her, and walked the short distance to the bathroom.
The cool tiles were a shock under her bare skin as he placed her gently on the countertop. The porcelain was cold, but he was right there, his body a wall of heat in front of her. He kissed her, a slow, deep melding of mouths that tasted of salt and them, as he pulled out of her slowly. It was a deliberate, careful retreat, his lips on hers a distracting anchor from any fleeting twinge of sensitivity. She sighed into his mouth, her hands coming up to cup his jaw.
He turned, disposing of the condom in the small wicker bin beside the toilet. The sound of the lid clicking shut was oddly final. Then he reached over and twisted the tap for the bathtub. Water roared out, loud in the quiet apartment. He tested the temperature with his fingers, adjusting it until steam began to rise in soft curls.
He walked back to her, his bare feet silent on the tile. He didn’t say a word. He just leaned in, his lips finding the curve of her shoulder. His kiss was soft, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the possessive hunger of minutes before. His stubble scraped gently, and she shivered.
“You’re cold,” he murmured against her skin, his voice roughened.
“A little,” she admitted. The adrenaline was seeping away, leaving her feeling stretched thin and deliciously weary.
He reached past her, opening the mirrored cabinet and pulling out a box of matches. From the shelf below, he retrieved a single, half-melted candle in a glass jar—vanilla and something smokier, like sandalwood. He struck a match, the sharp sulfur smell cutting through the steam, and lit the wick. The small flame guttered, then held, painting the room in wavering gold.
It was such a deliberate, domestic act. It felt more intimate than anything else they’d done.
He turned off the tap. The bath was full, a deep, inviting pool. The candlelight danced on the surface of the water.
“In you go,” he said, his hands coming to her hips to help her slide off the counter.
Her legs felt unsteady. She wobbled, and his grip tightened, holding her upright until she found her balance. She stepped into the water, hissing slightly at the heat before sinking into it with a groan of pure relief. The water lapped at her shoulders, immediate and soothing.
Hardin didn’t leave.
He sat on the edge of the tub, watching her. The candlelight caught the angles of his face. His eyes were unreadable.
“Aren’t you getting in?” she asked, her voice quiet in the steamy room.
He seemed to consider it, his gaze dropping to the water, then back to her. He shook his head once. “It’s your bath.”
She reached out a wet hand, droplets falling from her fingertips to the tile floor. She let her hand rest on his knee. “There’s room.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. He shifted, standing then he stepped in, lowering himself into the water facing her. His long legs framed hers in the confined space. The water level rose, threatening to spill over the edge, and Tessa laughed, a soft, breathy sound.
“Told you,” she said.
“Barely,” he grunted, but he was settling in, letting the heat sink into his muscles. He leaned his head back against the curved rim, closing his eyes. The tension in his shoulders, usually a permanent fixture, began to ease.
The hot water worked its own silent magic, leaching the rigidity from his muscles. He watched her through the steam, his eyes tracking a droplet as it slid from her temple down her neck.
“What?” she asked, a soft smile playing on her lips.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Just looking.”
She reached for the soap, a plain bar in a ceramic dish. She squeezed it in her hand, working up a lather between her palms. Then she leaned forward, her movements through the water slow and deliberate. She placed her soap-slick hands on his shoulders, rubbing the lather over the defined muscles and down the planes of his chest, massaging it in. Her thumbs traced the dark lines of the ship tattoo on his right shoulder.
He let out a low, unconscious sound, his head dipping forward. His eyes closed. Her fingers worked over the scars and ink, a gentle, thorough exploration he would never permit sober and in the light. She took her time, her touch firm and soothing, mapping the landscape of his defenses until they were literally washed away.
Once she was done, he told her to turn around. Her back facing him, he squeezed a small amount of soap into his own palm. He started at the base of her neck, his hands massaging the lather into her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots there. He worked down her shoulder blades, then slowly, meticulously, down the length of her spine.
His touch was different. Purposeful. Healing. It stole her breath. When he finished rinsing her back with cupped handfuls of water, he didn’t move away.
He drew a word on her wet skin, one letter at a time with his fingertip.
C… A… T
“Car,” she guessed, her voice barely above a whisper.
She felt the curve of his smile against her shoulder blade. “Cat,” he murmured.
She laughed, a light, genuine sound that echoed in the tiled room. “Give me another one,” she said.
He thought for a second, then slowly began tracing again. This one was longer. She concentrated, her brow furrowed as she tried to decipher the phantom letters on her skin.
B… O… A… T.
“Book?” she tried.
He chuckled, a warm puff of air against her spine. “Boat.”
“Okay, one more,” she said, shifting in the water to face him. “I promise I’ll get it.”
He looked at her, his blue eyes serious in the candlelight. The playful ease drained from his face, replaced by something more profound, more terrifying. He thought for a long moment, his gaze searching hers. Then he slowly turned her around again.
His finger touched her skin. I.
He traced the second letter. L.
Her breath hitched. She knew this word. She felt each stroke like a brand: O… V… E…
He finished the final letter. Y.
I LOVE YOU.
She froze. The steam, the water, the candle—it all blurred into a distant hum. Her mind scrambled, trying to reassemble the letters into something else, anything else. “Umm,” she said, thinking. She turned around to face him, the water sloshing gently. “I don’t know. What was it?”
She looked at him, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Her expression was pure, open confusion, and it shattered something in him.
He didn’t say it aloud. He just leaned in, his intent clear.
She grabbed his chin, stopping him an inch from her lips. She searched his eyes, finding no joke, no cruelty, only a raw and staggering truth he couldn’t voice. She kissed him.
When she pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling.
“The water’s getting cold,” he said finally, his voice rough.
He stood up, water cascading from his body, and reached for a towel. He held it open for her.
She stood, letting him wrap the thick cotton around her. He rubbed her arms through the fabric, a brisk, practical motion that felt like a retreat from the vulnerability of the bath. He bundled her into a second towel for her hair.
He stepped out, drying himself quickly with a rough, distracted energy. The moment was gone, folded away with the damp towels. But the word remained, etched into the air, invisible and immense.
He pulled his boxers on, He grabbed his t-shirt from the floor.
She walked past him, back toward the bedroom, the towels swaddling her.
He stood in the bathroom doorway, watching her go. He looked at the bathwater, now scummed with soap and cooling fast. He looked at the candle, still burning its heart out.
He whispered it to the empty, steamy room, a test. The word felt alien on his tongue. It felt true.
Then he blew out the flame.
A week later, the memory of the bath had settled into Tessa’s bones, a warm, private ember. Now, it was just a Tuesday evening. Rain pattered a lazy rhythm against the living room window. She was curled on the worn leather couch, a thick anthology of Romantic poetry open on her knees, a highlighter cap held between her teeth.
Hardin’s phone, abandoned on the coffee table, buzzed.
It skittered an inch on the wood. Tessa glanced up, then back at her book. It buzzed again. And again. A fourth time, rapid-fire.
She huffed, marking her place with a finger. The fifth buzz was longer, insistent. She set the book down, swung her legs off the couch, and padded over to the table.
The screen was lit up with a cascade of notifications. The name MOLLY glowed at the top. Tessa picked it up. The messages were previewed, one after the other.
MOLLY-
DID YOU TELL HER YET?
😬😬😬
MAYBE I WILL…
I MISS YOU ❤️
MEET US AT THE CAFE AT 9
The words didn’t compute at first. They were just shapes on a bright screen. Tell her. The emojis like a secret joke. I MISS YOU. The heart. A cold, slick feeling started in her stomach.
The bathroom door down the hall opened. Steam and the scent of his soap rolled out first, followed by Hardin. He was pulling a clean black t-shirt over his head, his hair damp and darker. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene: her standing rigid in the middle of the room, his phone glowing in her hand.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice casual as he moved closer.
She turned the screen toward him, then thrust the phone into his chest. He fumbled to catch it. “What’s all this about?” Her own voice sounded thin, stretched.
He looked down at the screen. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shut down. A curtain dropping. He shook his head slowly, scrolling with his thumb as if seeing it for the first time. “What?” he murmured.
“What didn’t you tell me?” The question ripped out of her.
“Nothing.” He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“You don’t know what she’s talking about.” Tessa repeated the words, each one a sharp stone. “What. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me.”
He finally met her gaze. His face was a careful blank. “Nothing,” he said, the word flat and final. He pocketed the phone. “I need to go.”
“What?” The single syllable was pure disbelief. “Now? Hardin, answer me.”
He was already walking toward the door, snatching his leather jacket from the hook. He shoved his arms into the sleeves.
“What’s going on?” She heard the plea in her own voice and hated it.
He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He turned around to look at her. The hallway light cut across his face, leaving half of it in shadow. His blue eyes were impossible to read. “Do you trust me?”
Her reply was almost instant, a reflex born from the bathwater and traced letters. “Of course I do.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Then what’s the problem?” he said quietly.
He opened the door. The sound of the rain grew louder. He stepped out into the damp evening and pulled the door closed behind him. The click of the latch was soft, definitive.
Tessa stood alone in the sudden silence of the apartment. The only sound was the rain and the frantic, echoey pounding of her own heart. The book of poetry lay forgotten on the couch, its pages slowly flattening closed.
The book of poetry lay forgotten on the couch, its pages slowly flattening closed. Tessa didn’t move. She listened to the empty apartment absorb his absence, the hum of the fridge suddenly oppressive. Rain blurred the window into a runny watercolor of streetlights and wet pavement.
She walked to the window, her arms crossed tight over her chest. The street below was dark and shiny. No sign of him.
An hour passed. The silence thickened. She paced from the living room to the kitchen, running her thumb over the cracked porcelain mug on the counter. Her mind replayed the messages. Did you tell her yet? The words were a splinter she couldn’t dig out.
She checked her phone. 9:20. No text. Nothing.
She looked out the window. Rain streaked down the glass, distorting the world into long, weeping lines. She typed a message. Where are you? She hit send.
The three dots didn’t appear. Ten minutes slid by, measured by the steady tick of the wall clock she’d never noticed before. She sent another. Hello?
Her phone buzzed in her hand. A sharp, electric jolt. She looked down, expecting Hardin’s name.
It was Zed. Meet me at Videodrome. I’ll tell you where Hardin is.
Her blood went cold then hot. Videodrome was the grimy, independent movie rental place two blocks over, all faded horror posters and sticky carpet. She didn’t question it. She pulled on her sneakers without socks, grabbed her jacket, and was out the door.
The rain was a cold mist on her face. She hugged herself, walking fast, her feet slapping on the wet sidewalk. The blue neon of Videodrome glowed ahead, hazy in the drizzle.
And there, parked crookedly in front of the store, was Hardin’s black car. Her steps faltered. The driver’s side window was down. As she approached, she saw Zed behind the wheel.
He grinned at her, a flash of white in the dark interior. “Get in.”
She opened the passenger door and slid onto the cold leather seat. The car smelled like Hardin—cigarettes, leather, that specific soap—but it was Zed’s hands on the steering wheel. “What’re you doing in Hardin’s car?” she asked, her voice tight.
Zed shrugged, his eyes scanning the empty street. “What, I can’t borrow his car?”
“Zed,” she said, frustration sharpening her tone. “Just tell me where he is.”
He looked at her then, his playful demeanor fading. He nodded across the street. “He’s at the cafe.”
Tessa followed his gaze. The Cafe Nero on the corner was all warm light and steamy windows. She could see silhouettes inside. Her throat tightened. She pushed the car door open.
“Tessa,” Zed called after her. She turned. His expression was unreadable. “Just… be ready, okay?”
She didn’t ask for clarification. She slammed the door and crossed the road, the rain needling her skin. Her heart was a frantic, hammering thing against her ribs. She pushed the cafe door open, a bell jangling overhead.
The warmth and smell of coffee wrapped around her. She stood there, dripping, scanning the room.
The heat from the café wrapped around her damp skin, cloying and thick with the scent of burnt espresso and steamed milk. Her eyes adjusted to the low light, scanning past students with laptops, a couple arguing in hushed tones, an old man reading a newspaper. Then she saw them.
In a corner booth, Molly’s auburn hair was a vivid splash against the dark leather. Noah sat opposite, his posture relaxed, and beside him was Ariana, her face animated in conversation. Tessa’s feet moved before her mind caught up, carrying her across the sticky floor.
“Oh my gosh, hey!” Ariana’s smile was wide and immediate as Tessa approached the table. She half-rose from her seat.
Molly’s eyes lifted. They weren’t friendly. They were a cool, assessing sweep from Tessa’s rain-damp hair to her untied sneakers. The stare was a physical touch, intrusive and sharp. Molly said nothing.
“Are you okay?” Ariana asked, her smile faltering as she registered Tessa’s pallor, the tight line of her mouth.
Tessa didn’t answer. She slid into the vacant seat beside Ariana, the vinyl squeaking under her. Her gaze remained locked on Molly, who finally looked away, picking at the label on her beer bottle.
“I haven’t seen you since you moved out of the dorms,” Ariana said, filling the heavy silence. She glanced between Tessa and Molly, sensing the current in the air. “Where are you living now?”
Tessa drew a slow breath. She looked directly at Molly as she spoke. “I’ve been living with Hardin. Off campus.”
The words landed like a stone in the center of the table. Ariana’s eyes flew wide. “Wait, you two are living together?”
“Yeah,” Tessa responded, her voice flat. She watched Molly’s fingers tighten around the bottle. The other girl’s gaze flicked to Noah, her face seething with a jealousy so pure it looked like it might crack her porcelain features. Noah simply raised his brows, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“I didn’t know you two were that serious,” Ariana breathed, a mixture of surprise and concern in her tone.
At that moment, Tessa saw him. Hardin emerged from the dim hallway that led to the bathrooms. He was wiping his hands on his dark jeans, his head down. He looked up, scanning the room for something—or someone—and his eyes found theirs. He stopped dead. All the casual, prepared nonchalance he’d left the apartment with evaporated. His spine straightened.
“How long has this been going on for?” Ariana asked, oblivious to his approach.
Hardin started moving toward them, his stride deliberate. The ambient noise of the cafe seemed to fade. He reached the table, his presence altering the atmosphere, making it denser, more volatile.
“Tessa.” He said her name like a command, a plea, and a warning all twisted into one strained syllable.
She didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on Ariana, on the sticky wood grain of the table, on anything but his face.
Molly looked up at Hardin, her expression transforming into something sweetly poisonous. “Hi, Hardin.”
He didn’t acknowledge her. He pulled out the remaining empty chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze drilling into the side of Tessa’s face.
“Tessa was just telling us the latest,” Molly said, her voice a sugary simper. She leaned forward, too, mirroring his posture, invading the table’s space. Hardin looked down at his hands.
Molly continued, her eyes glittering. “She’s been filling us in on all the details. You guys are so adorable.” The word ‘adorable’ dripped with venom. She turned her sickly-sweet smile fully on Hardin. “Is there anything you wanna tell Tessa?”
The question hung there, barbed and specific. Hardin’s head stayed bowed, his shoulders tensed as if under a physical weight. The silence stretched, filled only by the hiss of the coffee machine and the low thrum of music. Tessa finally turned her head to look at him. She saw the muscle working in his jaw, the storm in his blue eyes when he finally raised them to meet hers. He looked utterly trapped.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The secret, whatever it was, was a living thing in the space between them, choking the air.
Tessa waited. The whole table waited.
He said nothing.