Chapter 12: Claiming
The smell of clean linen and lemon polish lingered in Matt’s apartment, a quiet testament to her afternoon’s work. Hannah leaned against the kitchen counter, a dull ache radiating from the small of her back. She pressed a fist into it. The fatigue was a physical weight, but beneath it hummed a nervous, productive energy. After Chloe’s, after being “Aunt Hannah,” she’d wanted to do this. To give, not just receive.
She’d started with the laundry—a basket of his worn t-shirts and gym clothes that had been sitting by the washer. She’d folded them with care, stacking the neat rectangles on his dresser. She’d wiped down the counters, emptied the dishwasher, even cleaned the smudges off his television screen. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A tangible proof of care.
Now, the final touch simmered on the stove: a simple marinara sauce from a jar, yes, but she’d doctored it with garlic, a pinch of sugar, and fresh basil she’d picked up. Water boiled for pasta. The kitchen window was steamy. It felt domestic in a way that didn’t scare her. It felt like a choice.
She heard his key in the lock, the heavy tread of his work boots in the hallway. She took a breath, smoothed her hands over the soft, oversized sweater she’d borrowed from his closet. It smelled like him.
Matt stopped in the doorway, his gaze taking in the clean living room, the set table, the steam from the kitchen. His grocery bag dangled from his hand. “Who are you and what have you done with Hannah?” he asked, but his smile was wide, surprised.
“Very funny.” She gestured with the wooden spoon. “I got bored. Put your stuff down.”
He did, coming into the kitchen. He peered into the pot, then at her. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know I didn’t have to.” She turned back to the sauce, giving it a stir. “I wanted to. You’re always… doing. Let me do, for once.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then his hands settled on her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tense muscles at the base of her neck. She couldn’t suppress a small, grateful groan. “How’s the back?” he asked, his voice close to her ear.
“Present. Complaining. Ignore it.”
His massage was firm, practiced. “Can’t ignore it.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “This is really nice. Thank you.”
They ate at the small table, knees touching. The food was simple, hot, and good. He told her about his errand—a frustrating trip to the auto parts store. She listened, adding a comment here and there, but mostly she watched him. The way his hands moved, the easy line of his shoulders in his shirt. The anchored feeling Chloe had mentioned. She felt it, too. A dangerous, wonderful calm.
After, he tried to clean up. She swatted him with a dish towel. “Go sit. Seriously. You’re messing up my system.”
He retreated to the couch, but she could feel his eyes on her as she moved between the sink and the counter, wiping, rinsing, putting away. The domesticity of it was a language she was slowly learning to speak.
When she was done, she joined him. The living room was dark except for the soft glow from a floor lamp. She didn’t sit beside him. Instead, she stood in front of where he sat. “Okay,” she said. “Shirt off.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re all tense from work and running around. I’m repaying the favor from last week.” When he’d rubbed her feet until she’d nearly wept with relief.
A slow smile spread across his face. “You don’t owe me favors.”
“It’s not a transaction, Matt. It’s just… turn around.”
He studied her for a beat, then shrugged, pulling his shirt over his head. He turned, presenting his broad back to her. She climbed onto the couch behind him, kneeling. His skin was warm under her palms.
She started at his shoulders, pressing her thumbs into the hard knots of muscle she found there. He let out a long, slow breath. “Christ, Hannah.”
“Too much?”
“No. It’s perfect. Don’t stop.”
She worked in silence, her small hands moving over the landscape of his back, learning the ridges of his spine, the defined planes of his shoulder blades. The intimacy of it was staggering. This was different from him caring for her in her vulnerability. This was her choosing to learn him, to offer strength from her own depleted reserves. She poured focus into her hands, into the rhythm of pressure and release. The only sounds were their breathing and the faint, wet slide of skin on skin.
After a while, his head lolled forward. His whole body seemed to soften, to surrender to her touch. This was what she’d wanted. To see him unwound. To be the cause of it.
Her hands eventually slowed, the massage becoming more of a caress. She traced the line of his spine with her fingertips, then let her palms rest flat against the warm skin between his shoulder blades. She felt the strong, steady beat of his heart through her hands.
He shifted suddenly, turning to face her. His eyes were dark, unreadable in the low light. He caught one of her wrists, his grip gentle but firm. “Hannah.”
The way he said her name was a question and an answer all at once. There was no mistaking the look on his face now. It was raw, stripped of its usual friendly guard. It was want, plain and simple, and it mirrored the heat that had been building low in her own belly all evening.
“Yeah?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned in, his free hand coming up to cradle her jaw. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. The world narrowed to this point of contact: his calloused thumb on her skin, his eyes holding hers. The air between them crackled, heavy with everything they hadn’t said.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t like the first time, which had been a spark in a moment of shared weakness. This was slow, deliberate. A confirmation. His lips were soft but insistent, and she melted into it, a small sound escaping her throat. She kissed him back, pouring all the unspoken gratitude, the fierce, protective affection, the sheer physical want into the movement of her mouth against his.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. His forehead rested against hers. Her hands had come up to grip his bare shoulders.
“Okay?” he murmured.
She nodded, her nose brushing his. “More than okay.”
He searched her face. “This is real, right? You folding my shirts and making me pasta and… this. It’s real.”
She thought of Chloe’s wounded bird. She thought of the baby turning somersaults inside her. She thought of the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of having nothing left to lose, and choosing this anyway.
“It’s the most real thing I’ve got,” she said.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she felt the decision solidify in the space between them. It was no longer about comfort offered or received. It was a new equation, being written in the dark, one trembling touch at a time.
It was a new equation, being written in the dark, one trembling touch at a time. His hand slid from her jaw into her hair, a slow, consuming movement that tilted her head back. She followed the pressure, yielding, a shiver tracing her spine as his mouth explored the line of her throat.
“You sure?” he whispered against her skin, his breath hot.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” The words felt dangerous and absolutely true. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, pulling him closer. “Just don’t… treat me like I’m breakable.”
A low chuckle vibrated through him. “You? Breakable?” He kissed the hollow of her collarbone, his lips soft through the wool of his borrowed sweater. “You’re the toughest person I know.” His hands found the hem of the sweater, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of her stomach. She flinched, then sighed, a wave of heat following the initial surprise.
He felt it. He paused. “Okay?”
“More than.” She guided his hands back, pressing his palms flat against her. “The baby’s moving. It’s just… weird feeling from the outside.”
He went very still. His hands were warm and heavy on her. A second later, a distinct, rolling flutter pushed against his palm. He exhaled, a sharp, wonder-filled sound. “Whoa.”
“See?”
“Yeah.” He left his hand there, a reverent anchor, as he looked up at her. The lamp light caught the gold in his eyes. “That’s incredible.”
For a moment, they just stayed like that, connected by this third, unseen life. Then the moment shifted, the wonder folding back into the heat between them. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her sternum. She carded her fingers through his short, tight curls.
“Matt.”
“Hannah.”
He lifted her then, easily, as if she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. He carried her the short distance down the hallway to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them with a soft thud.
The room was cooler, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the blinds. He laid her on the navy comforter, the fabric cool against her back. He stood beside the bed, looking down at her, his chest rising and falling. She propped herself up on her elbows, suddenly feeling exposed. The sweater was too big, the pants she wore were old yoga pants. She wasn’t prepared for this.
“I look like a lumpy burrito,” she said, the self-deprecation a flimsy shield.
He smiled, a slow, genuine curve of his mouth. “You look like Hannah. Which is the point.” He knelt on the bed, one knee on either side of her hips, caging her in without weight. “Can I?”
She nodded, wordless.
He peeled the sweater off her, his movements deliberate. The air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze traveled over her, taking in the new, gentle swell of her belly, the changed landscape of her body. There was no pity in his look. Only a focused, appreciative hunger that made her breath catch.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the statement simple and devoid of poetry. It was a fact.
He leaned down and kissed her again, deeper now, his body coming down to hover over hers. The full, warm length of him pressed against her, and she arched into it, a soft sound escaping her. One of his hands slid up her ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. She gasped into his mouth.
He pulled back just an inch. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Just you.” She fumbled for the waistband of his pants. “This is… unbalanced.”
He laughed, a quick, breathy sound, and helped her, shucking his pants and boxers in one efficient move. Then he was back, skin to skin, and the reality of him, the solid, warm reality, drove every coherent thought from her head. This wasn’t a dream or a desperate fantasy. This was his hipbone against hers, the coarse hair of his legs tangling with hers, the unmistakable evidence of his want pressing against her thigh.
He supported his weight on one elbow, his other hand drifting down her side, over the curve of her hip. His touch was questioning, learning. She moved against him, a silent plea.
“Condom,” he muttered, starting to pull away.
She stopped him, her hand on his arm. “I’m already pregnant. And I’m clean. I got tested after… everything.” She took a shaky breath. “Your call.”
He searched her eyes, weighing it. Then he nodded, a single decisive dip of his chin. “I’m clean too. Last tested six months ago. Nothing since.”
The last barrier dissolved. He kissed her, and she felt his hand slide between them, his fingers finding her, testing her readiness. She was more than ready. She cried out, a short, sharp sound muffled by his shoulder.
“Good?” he murmured.
“Don’t stop.”
HE TOUCHES HER. Not with hesitation, but with a confident, gentle certainty that unraveled her. His fingers worked a slow, devastating rhythm, his mouth on hers swallowing her escalating sounds. The coil inside her, wound tight from weeks of loneliness and want and stress, began to fray at the edges.
“Matt, I’m…” The warning was a thin thread of air.
“I know.” He didn’t stop. He watched her face, his own intensity a mirror reflecting her fall. It crashed over her, a wave that pulled her under, her body bowing off the bed as she clutched at him, a silent scream locked in her throat.
The pulses went on and on, leaving her trembling and boneless. Before she could even float back to herself, he was moving, positioning himself. He entered her in one smooth, slow push that made her eyes fly open.
The fullness was a shock, a breathtaking reclamation. She wrapped her legs high around his back, pulling him deeper. He groaned, a raw, shattered sound, and dropped his head to her shoulder.
“Okay?” he managed, his voice strained.
She answered by rolling her hips, taking him in further. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about frenzy and more about consumption. Each stroke dragged a new sensation from her, the aftershocks of her climax mingling with the building promise of another.
She clung to him, her fingers digging into the sweat-slick muscles of his back. His pace increased, driven by a need he could no longer leash. His breathing fractured into rough gasps by her ear. The bedframe tapped a soft, persistent rhythm against the wall.
“Look at me,” she breathed.
He lifted his head, his eyes black, his features taut with pleasure. Seeing him like this, so utterly lost in her, undid her completely.
“Hannah,” he choked out, a plea and a prayer.
It was her name on his lips that sent her over again, a second, sharper climax seizing her. Her contraction around him tipped him over the edge. He thrust once, twice more, then stilled, buried deep inside her as he came with a ragged, shuddering groan.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their labored breathing in the dark room. The scent of sex and clean laundry hung in the air. He collapsed carefully beside her, gathering her against him so her back was to his chest, his arm a heavy band across her ribs. His skin was fever-hot against hers.
She stared at the stripes of light on the wall, her mind a blank, humming static. The dull ache in her back was gone, replaced by a profound, liquid heaviness in her limbs. His even breaths ruffled her hair.
“So,” he finally said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. “My laundry’s never gonna smell the same.”
A surprised laugh hiccupped out of her. She elbowed him gently. “Shut up.”
He nuzzled her neck, his arm tightening. “Just saying. It’s a logistical observation.”
She smiled into the darkness, her hand settling over his where it rested on her stomach. The equation had been rewritten, the ink still wet. It was terrifying. It was everything.