“She would have liked you,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She always said I needed someone who’d call me on my bullshit. Who wouldn’t let me manage everything into oblivion.” I looked at Hannah. “You do that.”
“Call you on your bullshit?”
“Make me slow down.” I gestured at the binder. “I’ve been avoiding this box for three years. You’ve been here a month and suddenly I’m ready to open it.”
Hannah’s hand found mine, lacing our fingers together. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did.” I squeezed her hand. “You just… you’re here.”
She leaned her head against my shoulder. We sat there for a long moment, the recipe binder open between us, Mom’s handwriting fading into mine.
“I think I want to cook Christmas dinner,” I said. “From her recipes. For us. For your family. Anyone who you want to invite.” I closed the binder carefully. “I haven’t cooked from these since she died. I think… I think it’s time.”
“Okay.” Hannah lifted her head. “Do you want help?”
“Yeah. I do.”
She smiled, soft and genuine, and something shifted in my chest.
But it wasn’t the grief weighing me down, or the tight fear or something going wrong. It felt like a door I’d been holding shut for three years finally swung open.
And when I saw the crinkle next to her eyes, the words tumbled out of my mouth: “I love you.”
They'd emerged before I’d fully formed the thought. Impulsive. Unplanned. Completely unlike me.
Hannah’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I love you.” I said it again, more certain this time. “I’m in love with you.”
She stared at me, her hand still in mine, her mouth slightly open like she couldn’t quite process my words.
“You don’t have to say it back,” I added quickly. “I just—I needed you to know. You’re sitting here with me and my mom’s recipes and … and I love you for that. I love you.”
“Connor.” Her voice broke on my name.
“I know this is fast. I know we said this was temporary—”
“It stopped being temporary weeks ago,” she interrupted. “Maybe from the beginning.”
My heart stuttered.
“I love you too.” She was crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks even as she smiled. “I love you. God, I love you so much and it terrifies me.”
I cupped her face, wiping away tears with my thumbs. “Why does it terrify you?”
“Because what if I screw it up? What if I’m not—”
I kissed her. Cut off whatever negative thing she was about to say with my mouth on hers, gentle and certain. She made a small sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then she was kissing me back, her hands coming up to grip my shirt.
When I pulled back, I kept my forehead pressed to hers. “Come to New York with me.” The words came out in a rush, like if I didn’t say them now I’d lose my nerve. “When I move back. Come with me.”
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes searching my face. “Connor, I don’t even know if I’ll get this job—”
“I don’t care.” I took her hands in mine. “Job or no job. CFO or bartender or whatever you want to do. I just want you there. I want us.”
