Chapter 21: Matt finds Hannah's secret diary and reads her most intimate thoughts about their future together, realizing how deeply she's been struggling with the pregnancy emotionally. Their lovemaking that follows is both tender and primal, a physical reassurance of their bond.
The stir-fry was forgotten. The steam from the shower still clung to the air in the kitchen, but it was Hannah, standing there in that sheer black slip, who made the room feel impossibly close, thick with a new kind of heat.
Matt’s slow smile was an answer in itself. He didn’t move from where he leaned against the table, just let his eyes travel over her again, a leisurely, appreciative journey that made her skin prickle.
“So,” he said again, the word rich with meaning. “Preview of dessert, is that?”
She gave a little shrug, the movement causing the chiffon to whisper against her skin. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got hot in the shower.”
“Uh-huh.” He pushed off the table and took two slow steps toward her. The distance between them hummed. “Seems like a pretty specific outfit for just being hot.”
“It’s comfortable,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur as he stopped just inches away. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his gaze like a physical warmth trailing over her collarbone, the visible curve of her breast, the dip of her waist.
“It’s a lot of things,” he said softly. He finally raised a hand, not to her body, but to push a damp strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips brushed her temple, cool against her flushed skin. “Comfortable ain’t the first word that comes to mind.”
The food on the table sent up its last wisp of aroma, a ghost of a reminder of a normal evening. It was ignored. Hannah reached out and hooked a finger through a belt loop on his jeans, tugging him the final fraction closer. “The food’s getting cold.”
“It’ll reheat.” His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs strocing the bare skin just above the line of her panties. The sheer fabric of the nightgown might as well not have been there. “You, though… you’re just getting started.”
He kissed her then, deep and unhurried, a tasting kiss that spoke of a long, lazy night ahead. The spice from the stir-fry was on his lips, an earthy contrast to the clean mint of her toothpaste. She melted into it, into him, her arms winding around his neck.
When they broke apart, both were breathing a little harder. Matt’s eyes were dark, the playful glint replaced by something more intense, more focused.
“Living room,” he said, his voice rough.
He didn’t lead her so much as guide her, walking her backward with his body until the backs of her knees hit the worn arm of the sofa. The large, square throw pillow was shoved to one end. With a gentle pressure, he turned her around, facing the back of the couch.
His hands smoothed over her shoulders, down her spine. He gathered the filmy material of the nightgown in one hand, drawing it up slowly, over her thighs, her hips, until it was bunched around her waist. The air was cool on her exposed skin. He kissed the nape of her neck, a soft, damp press that made her shiver.
One of his hands came around her front, palm flat and warm against her lower belly, holding her steady against him. The other hand trailed down, over the curve of her backside, before sliding between her legs from behind. She gasped, her fingers gripping the coarse fabric of the couch cushion. He explored her with a knowing, deliberate touch, finding her already slick and ready.
“See?” he murmured into her hair, his breath hot against her ear. “Told you you were getting started.”
He took his time, his fingers working a slow, maddening rhythm that had her pushing back against his hand, seeking more pressure. She was trembling, anchored only by the solid heat of his body behind her and his hand splayed across her stomach.
“Matt,” she breathed, a plea and a statement.
He withdrew his hand. She heard the rustle of his jeans, the clink of his belt buckle. Then he was there, pressing against her, not entering yet, just letting her feel the full, heavy length of him. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back into him, and she arched, offering herself.
He pushed inside slowly, a seamless, burning fill that stole her breath. A low groan escaped him, a sound of pure feeling. He held himself there, buried deep, both of them perfectly still for a long, suspended moment. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint traffic noise from the street below.
Then he began to move. A slow, rolling withdrawal followed by a deep, purposeful thrust. The angle was different, intense, hitting a place that made her cry out, a sharp, surprised sound she muffled into the cushion. His pace remained deliberate, each movement a deep, thorough possession. The world narrowed to the feeling of him moving within her, the scratch of the couch fabric against her cheek, the tight grip of his arm across her middle.
His free hand came up, tangling in her damp hair, not pulling, just holding. His thrusts grew more urgent, his breathing fracturing against her neck. “God, Hannah,” he gritted out. The words were punched from him, ragged and real.
It was the sound of her name in his voice, strained and wanting, that unraveled her. The climax built from that deep, friction-touched place and crashed through her in waves, clenching tight around him. Her cry was muffled by the pillow, her body bowing back against his.
The feel of her pulsing around him was his undoing. With a final, deep thrust, he went still, his own release shuddering through him. He slumped over her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his body heavy and spent against hers.
They stayed like that, connected, recovering, for long minutes. His weight was a comfort. The room slowly came back into focus—the dim light from the kitchen, the muted TV screen, the forgotten plates of food.
He finally stirred, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder before gently pulling away. He helped her turn, her legs wobbly. The chiffon nightgown fell back into place, wrinkled and damp in spots. He looked utterly debauched, jeans and boxers around his thighs, his shirt rumpled, his eyes heavy-lidded.
A slow, satiated smile spread across her face. “So,” she said, echoing his earlier word. “Appetizer.”
He laughed, a rough, happy sound, and leaned in to kiss her swollen lips. “Just the first course.”
They righted their clothes. He walked, with a slight stiffness, to the kitchen and wordlessly put the plates into the microwave. The hum of it filled the silence. She curled onto the couch, pulling the large throw pillow into her lap, watching him.
They ate the reheated stir-fry on the couch, legs tangled together, not talking much. The silence was easy, charged now with a different kind of energy—a contented, buzzing hum. After a few bites, she set her fork down and shifted, climbing into his lap, straddling him. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, a deep, searching kiss that tasted of soy sauce and possibility.
“My turn,” she whispered against his mouth.
It was past midnight. The shower was off, steam-clouded mirrors slowly clearing. They stood damp and spent, wrapped in towels, brushing their teeth side-by-side at the sink. Their eyes met in the reflection, sharing a silent, exhausted laugh. Every surface in the bathroom felt slick. Every muscle in Hannah’s body felt pleasantly liquid.
They fell into bed, the cool sheets a shock against their warm skin. She curled into his side, her head on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart gradually slow from its earlier gallop. His arm was heavy around her, his fingers drawing absent, lazy circles on her bare shoulder.
The deep quiet of the apartment settled around them. The fridge kicked on with a low thrum. A car passed outside, its headlights painting a slow stripe across the ceiling.
“Matt?” she whispered into the dark.
“Hmm?”
“We should… we should maybe put a lock on the bedroom door. Or one of those little wedge things under it.” She traced a pattern on his chest. “You know. For… privacy. Just in case.”
He was quiet for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. His hand stilled on her shoulder.
“A lock,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s fine. It’s not like we have people over much. But still.”
He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling under her cheek. “A lock’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “For now.”
The for now hung in the dark air. It was a tiny hook, catching on the edge of her drowsy mind.
“What do you mean?” she asked, sleepiness making her voice soft.
He shifted, turning onto his side to face her. In the faint blue light from the window, she could see the serious set of his mouth. “I mean… a lock fixes the door. It doesn’t fix the fact that this place is… small. The walls are thin. The water pressure sucks.” He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone. “You deserve better than just a lock on a crappy door.”
She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him. “I like our crappy apartment.”
“I know you do.” He smiled, a faint, tender thing. “But I’ve been thinking… I’ve been looking at places. Just looking. Online.”
The admission hovered between them. The real estate tabs on his laptop, the secret browsing. It wasn’t about a grocery list.
“What kind of places?” she asked cautiously.
“Houses. Small ones. With a yard, maybe. A real kitchen. A bedroom that isn’t ten feet from the front door.” His gaze was steady on hers. “A place with a foundation. Not just a lease.”
Her heart began a slow, heavy thump. “Matt… that’s a huge step. That’s money. A mortgage.”
“I know what it is.” He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve been saving. For a while. Before you, even. Just… for someday.” He paused, choosing his words. “Someday feels like it’s taking shape.”
She lay back down, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder again. The concept was enormous, a shadowy mountain on the horizon. A house. Theirs. Not a landlord’s. A place to paint walls and plant things and not worry about the downstairs neighbors complaining.
“When?” was all she could manage.
He let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know the exact day. But… before you’re due. A month before, at least.”
The words landed softly, but their meaning was a seismic shift. Before you’re due. He wasn’t just talking about a house. He was talking about a timeline, a future mapped around a fact they hadn’t even spoken aloud yet. A fact that was, right now, only a secret hope held in the quiet of her own heart, a skipped pill she hadn’t mentioned, a late period that could still be stress.
She hadn’t told him. She hadn’t been sure herself. But he was already building a world for it.
Tears, sudden and hot, pricked at the corners of her eyes. She squeezed them shut, pressing her face harder into his skin.
He felt the change in her breathing. “Hey,” he murmured, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. “It’s just an idea. We don’t have to talk about it now.”
But it was out there now. A house. A baby. A life. Not just someday. A month before you’re due.
She couldn’t speak. The weight of his hope, his quiet planning, was a breathtaking, terrifying gift. She just shook her head against his chest, not in negation, but in overwhelmed awe.
He held her, seeming to understand her silence. He just stroked her hair, his own mind clearly racing down paths she couldn’t yet see. The apartment, with its thin walls and its temporary feel, seemed to shrink around them, already becoming a memory.
Finally, her voice a ragged whisper in the dark, she found one thing to say.
“Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
She opened her eyes, looking at the sharp line of his jaw. “Promise me the new house has better water pressure.”
A soft chuckle vibrated through his chest. He kissed the top of her head. “That,” he said, “is a non-negotiable condition.”
She smiled in the darkness, the tears finally spilling over. They were talking about water pressure. They were talking about everything. Tomorrow, she would take a test. Tomorrow, the world might change. But tonight, in their too-small bed in their cluttered apartment, with his arms around her and a future stretching out in the dark like undiscovered country, she let the massive, beautiful fear settle over her like a second skin. She listened to his breathing even out into sleep, and she stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, wide awake, mapping the invisible lines of a life they hadn’t even officially begun.