Intimate Strangers
The Golden Nugget Pancake House.

He'd gotten directions off of Mapquest, locating the address while still on the plane in between fitful naps. He hadn't even been back to the hotel yet, wanted too much to find the greasy spoon that first text had come from so he could be sure he wasn't insane. He was torn somewhere between hope and fear, the last few days a blur. He didn't even know what time it was, his watch was packed away in his luggage.

Oliver had watched the last of the customers trickle out of the establishment, bidding each other good night as they departed, and he lit one cigarette off of another as he watched the last set of tail lights disappear. He'd taken a cab from O'Hare, then waited in the parking lot until everyone else was gone. If this was some kind of sick joke, he didn't want to reveal himself as a fool to a bunch of strangers. He was almost pacing, his white shirt standing out in sharp relief against his black suit jacket, shoes crunching over tiny pieces of gravel. He had never trusted the universe to be kind to him, had never had any reason to, but if this was real...if this was real he might have to re-think that a little.

Fuck it, he was going in. His eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep, and he rubbed at them as he closed the distance between himself and the door. One hand closed around the handle, and he tugged it open to step inside. The lights were bright compared to the dimness outside, and the spellcaster hovered near the entrance uncertainly. The cigarette smoldered between his lips.

He was trying to trust.


This time of night represented the relative quiet between two working shifts. The peace was broken by a racket in the kitchen, the recognizable sound of a baking sheet landing on the kitchen tiles and rattling in its place. "Eww, sick!" a feminine voice shrieked. A twenty-something waitress burst through the door, yanking her apron off so fast, the double-knotted strings got caught around her neck. She made an overdramatic choking noise and freed herself from it, then shook it out. Tiny food particles flew everywhere; they represented the dinner remnants that got caught in a drain cover after washing dishes, one of Hannah's greatest icks.

Judging from her laughter, and how her neck and cheeks turned pink, whatever transpired was a prank. "That's revolting and you're gonna pay!"

The dishwasher said, "Yeah, yeah, talk is cheap."

"You don't know me." After a full-body shiver and a 'bleh' sound, Hannah ducked beneath the counter and rooted in the cubby for her backpack. She didn't notice anybody at the door until she righted herself and pulled the straps on her shoulders. Then, just a silhouette. Hannah found that making eye contact with a customer meant you were obliged to help them, and it was Amy's turn.

"I'd take your order," she said, freeing her hair from the straps. "But I'm about to blow this popsicle stand."


"I'm not hungry."

His stomach quavered, knotted into one hard ball with such intensity that he felt like he might throw up, and he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket so that his knuckles distended the fabric. The cigarette in his mouth was almost down to the filter, and he looked around for an ashtray as he took a tiny step further into the diner. He watched the blonde hair lift away from the back of the waitress' neck, then fall back into place after she'd removed her apron. The corners of his mouth were fighting it out with the weirdness on the inside, trying to smile.

The way he was hovering there caught the dishwasher's attention, and the guy elbowed the other waitress. Both of them looked him over, his clothes and his expression, and the female of the two murmured something under her breath to her companion. They snickered, and Oliver gave them a blisteringly cold look. Fuck off, peasants. He pulled his shoulders back a little, his hands still in his pockets. He took three steps towards the counter, into closer earshot of the blonde who'd come flying out of the kitchen.

"Hello, love."

Though a woman, Hannah had an honesty of expression only matched by children. When she looked up, her face became an unusual thing as it flitted amongst emotions, each as clear as a bell; joy and surprise and then, for the tiniest increment of time, hurt, before she could cover it up. Which she stubbornly did, a second later. "Oliver!" Hannah felt her mouth hanging open and recognized the muscular sensation of gawking at someone. She snapped it shut and stopped her hand just in time from covering her mouth. It drifted off purposelessly.

The gathered coworkers shared a moment where no one spoke, but the impending gossip carried a charge, and undoubtedly they wondered the same thing: how did their 'Carrie' know a man like that? Unless maybe he was an old customer.

Hannah knew she shouldn't be surprised. He said he was coming, but either she thought it would take a while or would never really happen. She looked down at her clothes. This wasn't how Oliver had gotten used to seeing her. Spirits wore whatever they wanted. They had light, flowing dresses, skin that was a bit too luminescent to be natural. Nothing like a waitress wore. Nothing so ordinary. She felt the gap between their classes painfully.

Don't be ashamed of yourself!

She walked around the counter and stood in the shadow Oliver seemed to cast. Their relationship had been full of contrasts. He, the living one, so dark in comparison to Hannah's light. Now, even more so. As a spirit, Hannah showed him kindness and peace; as a human, she wasn't like that all the time. When in a mood, she was a ninety-pound ball of energy hurtling at life. What would he think of her?

She looked way up. Oliver was a whole foot taller. "I'm sorry about your grandmother." She met him for the first time in a graveyard, and now he was coming from it again.

"It was a beautiful service. I think you would have liked it." He'd been the only relative there, the other attendants Amelia's longtime doctor and some of the people she'd gotten to know at Willow's Grove. Whether his mother knew the old woman had passed on was anyone's guess, although Corrinne often had spies in place where they'd least be expected. His grandmother had been interred next to her husband, their son occupying the third space in the plot on Nathe's other side. There were instructions to erect marble cherubs close to the larger angel. He would have to go back to Maine when they'd been installed so he could see that that gravesite was being cared for properly.

He felt rumpled and slovenly in comparison to her, as if he'd been sleeping in the suit without showering for a few days. "She'd always been observant as long as she could attend church, and when she couldn't anymore she got a minister to come out and talk with her. He said...he said some very nice things about her. I made sure to tell him how much I appreciated it."

There was a small plastic ashtray on the countertop, and he ashed the cigarette in it, extinguishing the ember and watching the thin trail of smoke flutter out of existence. He should have prepared better for this, he realized that now. Texting back and forth was one thing, but now, in the presence of the real woman, the real Hannah, he felt as awkward as a schoolboy. They'd never spoken before, not like this, not while they were both living and breathing. How did she view him now? He probably looked pretty wasted.

"I haven't slept," he said as if in explanation, answering an unasked question. "Can we..." He looked towards the other waitstaff, who studiously avoided his gaze. "Can we find someplace to talk? Please?"

"Yeah, sure." Hannah chewed her lip, which tasted like the honeysuckle lip balm in her zippered bag. Still uncomfortably aware of her outfit, and unaware of anything slovenly on him, she circled around Oliver and headed outside, hoping she didn't smell of maple syrup. Out on the sidewalk, the wind was cool and damp, and the old pavement spotted with puddles.

"I walk here," she said. The door smacked shut behind them; there was no going back. "My apartment's only two blocks away, but it's..." Hannah tucked a white tennis shoe behind her ankle. Thoughts of his posh hotel room and his art danced in mean circles around her head. "It's crappy. I mean..." Back in Searchlight, Hannah's pride and joy was that trailer full of flea market junk, and now all she could think was, would Oliver snort at her 'unofficial' leg lamp? At a loss for words, she shrugged and headed in the proper direction, peeling a strand out of hair out of her eyes. "It's okay, come on."

She kept her thumbs in her backpack straps. On the way across the parking lot, she kept cutting looks at his profile. A strange sensation in her chest felt like a hook in her heart, still attached to a line. It kept tugging. How come she never noticed before how intimidating he was?

Oliver turned his face up into the breeze, let it push his hair away from his brow and freshen him a little. "How did you get out of it?" he asked once they were far enough away from the restaurant. He'd sensed the presence of a glamour about her while they were inside, nothing so obvious that he could see it, but a hint of one just the same. "I can't imagine they'd just let you leave."

How did she perceive him now? Still as some lost soul who'd needed affection so badly that he'd fallen in love with a dead girl? As a rich boy who was bored and cynical, needing a new toy? As both? As neither? Because the truth was, he was still lost in some ways, bereft now without his final touchstone. The urge to cling was on him so hard that he could feel it closing around his insides like an icy glove, and she'd been so kind to him that he couldn't forsake her even once he'd discovered she was technically beyond him. But could she see him as he was and not become either horrified or disgusted? He'd tried that once before, with Jill.

But Hannah was not Jill. Hannah was someone different. And now she was something different.

"How does it feel to be back on this side of things?"

Hannah stepped off the street curb. "It feels great," she said. "There were speedbumps." She winced. "Speed foothills. I should tell you the whole story." The dotted yellow line in the center of the road had been painted recently, and poorly. Paint globs stretched between each rectangle. "I found an escape clause. It said if somebody wanted to trade places with me, I could come back. Original human body and all," she said, gesturing down at herself, palms patting her thighs in a little drumbeat, like a punchline of a joke. "Anyway, I thought, no way anybody would do that, they'd have to be a fruitcake. But then I came across a potential suicide case. This girl name Carrie lost her little girl in a car wreck and wanted to off herself, so I kind-of... you know... took over her life. Willingly!"

A single finger raised up. "Some might say that's taking advantage, but I'm going to tell you a detail Carrie regretted to inform me when we shook on it, which removed all lingering guilt. Full-time waitress, part-time hooker. So. You know. After the fourth or fifth time I got propositioned, I made my peace with it." Having wound herself up in the story, Hannah forgot about feeling awkward for a moment and tugged his elbow. "This way."

His eyebrows had begun to climb towards his hairline, and then they slowly returned to their normal position. The inside of the establishment hadn't been that shabby, but he supposed food service might not always help make ends meet. "Sorry about that," he said to Hannah, smothering a chuckle with a cough, then going into his pocket for his smokes. "Guess everything's got it's drawbacks."

He studied the facade of the apartment building as they got closer to it, lighting up with his free hand. He snuck a look over his shoulder back at the blonde's place of employment. "That's why they were staring, wasn't it?"

Hannah looked back, too. If the entire night crew of the Nugget had been in the parking lot, watching them, she would not be surprised. But they weren't. "Yeee-up," she said. "They're thinking, he looks like he can afford to pay by the hour." It was a miracle she didn't turn beet red, but this was Oliver, after all. Oliver, who had already seen all there was to see of Hannah. Fictional dollars didn't change much. She turned up the paved footpath of her building. It had walk-ups on each level, which lent it an old, motel-ish feel. "I'm on the second floor." She pointed at a window with a lamp.

They climbed the steps, Hannah slightly ahead of him. "I like your suit." He always dressed so nicely, but nobody noticed, they got so preoccupied with how sullen he was. As they rounded the landing, she swung the backpack off her shoulders. A key ring fattened the front pocket. She took it out and sorted through the jangling pieces. The door had two locks. She unfastened both and let him inside, where the air smelled like eucalyptus leaves she kept in a jar. It was a tiny apartment, really a one bedroom masquerading as a two bedroom, because of its small study. Most of the furniture belonged to Hannah now; she removed Carrie's and put it in storage, just in case. The most anybody could call it was eclectic; it's unifying theme was 'hey! this random item is cool!' Like the fire hydrant cookie jar. She had a love for kitsch.

He was bemused by the idea that they thought he was buying favors, but other than that he didn't care very much. One corner of his mouth quirked as smoke rose from the tip of his cigarette, and he climbed the stairs in silence alongside her. He felt exhausted, wrung out as if he'd just stepped out of a war zone. But Hannah's presence next to him was comforting. He wondered what she'd say if she saw the state of his arms, the new burns he'd put there as Amelia drew closer to death's door.

He had to duck his head to enter the apartment, and he looked around at the apparent random way it had been decorated. Hands still in his pockets, he trailed over to the couch and gradually lowered his weight down onto it, grunting with the relief of it. Maybe she had some coffee, because he felt like he could go to sleep right there. The back of his head came to rest on the cushion, and he looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

"I meant to be in touch more often. I became afraid to leave her."


Hannah stared at him for a few seconds. Then she nodded. "Oh." Her keys made quite a racket on the table, the bookbag plunking softly under that. "Hang on a second, I need to change." The driving urge for a wardrobe switch came from wanting to get out of the room, quickly, before she had a stupid response. She speed-walked past Oliver. Back in her bedroom, Hannah pulled drawers in and out blindly, as if the contents were a mystery. Eventually she found old, comfortable jeans and a B-52s tshirt. It was too bad ski masks weren't in fashion, she thought. They came in handy when hiding facial reactions.

On her way back out, Hannah tapped a hairbrush in her palm, determined not to say anything personal. But there Oliver was, at odds with his surroundings, reminding her of the normal circumstances under which they spent time, so utterly different than this. When Hannah wanted to say something, her mouth became like a boiling-over pot. Try as she might to hold it in, it didn't work. She wanted to be supportive, to nod serenely and pat his hand and be grateful he was there at all. However, she found herself unable to put on a casual face.

"I have a question," she said. Hannah pressed the sharp bristles into her skin. She looked at his knees. "When your grandmother got sick... I mean, when we knew she was going to die... I came first thing. Whenever you hurt, I always came first thing. Even if it might get me in trouble." She shifted onto one foot, the toes of the other tapping lightly into the carpet. She didn't look angry, exactly. She looked crestfallen. "Oliver, why didn't you call me?"

He focused more of his attention on her when she spoke, since he'd been looking around at various things while she was changing clothes, and underneath how tired he was a peculiar sense of chagrin lifted its head. He knew he'd been negligent of her, or if not negligent then at least badly amiss in keeping her informed as to the progression of Amelia's illness. He sat forward on the sofa, resting his forearms on his long legs as he looked at the hairbrush the diminutive waitress was holding. To tell the truth was to make himself look bad in front of her, but he'd never lied to her about anything before.

"Because she was mine." Focusing on the hairbrush, watching the bristles bend under the weight of Hannah's slender hand. "I know you don't understand how it can happen, but she was the only one who ever tried to reach me. Saul was weak, and I was always more of a chess piece between Nathe and Corrinne, who hated one another. They took me in after Dad died, but it was just as much to spite her as it was for my benefit. I had an attack of selfishness, I guess, wanted as much time alone with her as I could get before the end."

He bowed his head, fingers lacing together, and he felt genuine guilt over it. He knew what hurt looked like, had sported that expression too many times himself over the years not to, and for the first time in a while he experienced discomfort over being cavalier with someone else's feelings. He swallowed past the sudden small lump in his throat, risked a look at her face. "Not very admirable, I know."

Just as cautiously as Oliver looked up, Hannah directed her eyes at the floor. She saw her toes on the carpet and felt small. Was she needy? Had she misunderstood what she meant to Oliver? After a while, she told herself that she played a particular role in Oliver's life, and once the role ended, he didn't need or love her anymore. It was funny, but while they were together, Hannah thought asking Oliver to love her as a ghost was too much. But then maybe that part was easy, and the reality of a living girl was too much. Living girls came with strings.

"I wouldn't have intruded," she said. "I grew up with my grandma, too. When she died, we were all alone, which was scary but okay, because I wanted to say private things." The brush bristles scraped across her palm. "When you didn't call, I thought you maybe... didn't want me to be alive."

Oliver immediately shook his head, unruly hair obscuring his eyes before he pushed it out of the way with an impatient hand. "No! No, that was never what I..." He exhaled a breath through his nose, knuckled one eye. "That was never what I wanted," he said in a calmer voice. "I'm glad you're alive. You don't know how much."

His feet shuffled in place on the thin carpeting, and his fingers plucked at the fabric of his pants. "It took me a while to convince myself it might not be some sick joke. Even showing up tonight was hard, and I did it because I wanted to believe. I never wanted you to stay stuck between worlds, not when you seemed so...alive, even when you weren't."


Hannah nodded. Now she couldn't figure out why she held a hairbrush. It was just something to pick up that preoccupied her hands, but at this rate, it might as well be a pet rock. "Maybe a text was a bad idea. I just thought a phone call would give you a heart attack. Like... oh hey, this is Hannah, how's it going? Guess what? And you wouldn't have time to think and stuff."

She hitched her shoulders. Then she tilted her head. "Um. You want some coffee or a Coke or something?" When all else failed, switch into waitress mode. Hope he didn't question her collectible Alvin and the Chipmunks glasses, which she bought off a guy in the Grant Park area, who sold a garage full of his great-aunt's things. Hannah didn't know what the money was for, but she guessed pot, judging from his bleary-eyed look and stale scent.

"Coffee would be fine, thank you," the spellcaster replied, easing back onto the couch. "They had some on the flight, but it was lousy." He looked around at the somewhat cramped confines of the living room, the various furnishings Hannah had acquired. "And I kind of like the look of the place, it suits you." He offered her a tired smile, rubbed his unshaven jaw.

"Hope I'm not keeping you up too late. You must have spent all day on your feet. If you get tired enough and need to go to bed, I can take a cab back to the hotel."

"No, it's okay!" she blurted. "I only worked a half-shift." Hannah hoped she didn't sound too anxious, but even if Oliver left, sleep was unlikely. At the Mr. Coffee, Hannah tucked a filter into the basket and added international coffee grounds, which supposedly tasted like hazelnut. The water spilled a bit when she poured it into the tank. She placed white mugs with thin, blue trim side by side on the counter.

Abandoning the hairbrush by the sink, she returned to the living room and sat on the couch, alongside Oliver. "I haven't entertained a guest since... You know. Before." Hannah scrambled to think up how she did it, when Mallory or Julie came for a visit. Gossip, lots of gossip. Discussion about the latest town happenings.

She sneaked a look at Oliver. "Are you staying in Chicago?"

"I've been keeping a suite at the Fairmont," he replied with a nod. "Jessica's been staying there since I've been gone. I told you about Jessica, didn't I? I figured, the place was paid for, she might as well make use of it. You should meet her later."

He felt a little self-conscious sitting next to her, as if this was a blind date of sorts. "So what have you been doing besides waiting tables and dodging the unwelcome advances of too-familiar customers?"

Facing forward, Hannah stared at the blank television screen. Her hands held onto her knees. She looked like a bus passenger. "That's about it," she said. Suddenly she wondered if she should've gotten active in other stuff, like joined a bowling league or a society. Young Dog Walkers of Chicago. "Oh!" Hannah looked at him, wide-eyed. "I got a job offer. This guy named Toby wants me to be a manager in his new coffee shop. We met online. I could quit the pancake house and have people under me."

Hannah's expression faltered. "Figuratively."

She went back to staring at the screen. It wasn't that Hannah had nothing to say. She wasn't sure what was appropriate to say. She picked at her t-shirt. "Oliver... Am I what you expected?"

"I...I don't know." He was looking at his hand where it rested on the dark fabric of his pants, so close to hers. "I didn't really prepare for this in advance, I just came straight from the airport because I had to see you. I had to know. Now that I do, I'll have a clearer impression of what I imagined, if I imagined anything."

He also looked at the gray screen of the television, collecting his somewhat scattered thoughts. "I'd like it if you could make time for me," he began. "If I could see you later, I mean. It doesn't have to be a date, just...I don't know, we could have dinner or something. I think I want to get to know you better."


"Really?" Hannah's eyes lit up. She didn't know what to make of his invitation, meaning-wise, if meaning existed. Did Oliver want to get to know her better because they felt like strangers? Or simply because they could, on whatever time-line they wanted? Was he trying to decide if she was a weirdo? The coffeemaker percolated in the kitchen, its gurgles and sighs interrupting her inner ramblings. "I'd like that a lot." Testing the waters, she nudged his hand, their little fingers touching. "We could hang out. I have time. I make acquaintances pretty easy, but it's hard to make friends and all. When people get to know me, there's too much to explain."

A small-town girl at heart, Hannah often felt lost in Chicago, especially without owning her true identity anymore. Carving out a spot seemed daunting. She worried a lot about getting caught in a lie.

He tentatively interlocked his pinky with hers, noticing how very small her hands were in comparison to his. So strange to think that they'd been lovers already and yet in so many ways they barely knew each other. Would she love the man he was on a day-to-day basis? Would she even like him? His hand inched over hers, brushing the knuckles.

"I'd like it too. Maybe whatever I expected was wrong. Am I what you expected?"


Hannah's shoulders relaxed a little bit and she smiled. "Of course you are," she said gently. "You're still Oliver. I'm the zombie, remember?" Wanting to feel his touch in her open palm, she flipped up her hand. Now the lines across it made no sense, no longer told a natural story about her. "I'm only scared because I know I'm different. It's..." She bit into her lip with a sharp tooth, hesitating at the words. "When you're dead, you don't have the same anything. Worries, awkward or spastic things you say. Even hormones. I felt..." She looked at the ceiling. "Like I had a purpose, and I felt peaceful, especially with you. Now I'm back, and I'm not exactly the same because I can't erase what I know?" The sentenced tipped up at the end.

Hannah shrugged. "But the rest of me... One time, I told you that if we met when I was alive, you wouldn't have spoken to me. That I was common. And you're so smart and--" She stopped talking before it got any weirder. The money didn't worry Hannah the most, and neither did his talent, or his class. It was how serious Oliver was. Would he think of her as ridiculous? Annoying?

He looked down at where their hands touched, and the tip of his index finger traced the lifeline on her palm. A lifeline that was no longer hers. "It was a particular circumstance when we met," he agreed, remembering the idiotic smile of the angel beaming down on them from his grandfather's grave. "I don't think anyone else would have approached me, living or dead."

Taking a chance, he encircled her wrist with his fingers, lifted her hand to his mouth. A careful kiss was pressed to the back of it, and then he place it back on the couch cushion. "I find you quite uncommon, Hannah Flynn. I am not an easy man to know, and whatever might have changed about you between one side of this mortal coil and the other I don't believe you've changed that much. If it had, you wouldn't have agreed to talk to me."

He heard the coffeemaker stop its gurgling noise, and that was a reminder of how tired he was. "Do you want me to get the cups?" he asked the blonde. "Do you take regular milk with yours?"

"Okay. I mean yes. And sugar." She watched him get up, so tall and dark. It was tough to put her finger on Oliver's energy. Even when he said nothing, he walked into a room and sucked all the air out of it, which put off some people, because they saw him as cold, arrogant. But Hannah wasn't sure Oliver's effect was a bad thing. It was like being in the presence of somebody who was larger than life, and yet utterly defeated by it at the same time. He had magnetism, or maybe gravity was a better descriptor, but you weren't sure what he was pulling you in for. Whether or not it would hurt.

Hannah was used to overwhelming others. To be taken aback was exhilarating.

She watched him over the back of the couch. "Have you been painting?"

"Some. I painted some landscapes of the grounds of the hospice, and one portrait of Amelia before she got too sick to sit for long periods of time. You can see that one if you like, I brought it back with me." The spoon rattled against the inside of one cup, then the other as Oliver fixed the coffee, and he watched the swirls die down as the liquid evened out again. He couldn't find a tray, so he carried the cups in on their own, then handed one to the blonde before reclaiming his seat.

"Is it all right if I smoke in here?" He'd found a plain saucer in the drying rack and set it aside to be used as an ashtray. "I know not everybody can stand the smell. Is it okay to light up?"

Hannah nodded. "It's okay. I got used to it in Searchlight," she said, "People like to smoke when they're drinking coffee. Well... obviously." The cup warmed her hands. Over in the kitchen, the pot clicked. Careful not to spill, she pulled her feet up and tucked them between the cushions. "I would like to see." She remembered posing for Oliver. It was a special memory, and it made her feel beautiful. A terribly off-color joke popped into her mind, and Hannah's cheeks grew pink while she wondered if it was inappropriate-lighthearted or inappropriate-awful. At a loss for anything else to say, she blurted out, "I guess you painted her with clothes on..."

She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for him to verbally flagellate her.

Oliver's dark eyebrows scrunched together, and he regarded Hannah over the rim of his coffee cup, steam rising into his face. "Yes, dear," he said after a minute, deciding to take it as humor because there was something weirdly adorable about Hannah attempting ribaldry, and he doubted she meant any real offense by it. "Grandmother would have been scandalized if I had suggested otherwise, for one thing. I have no idea where my father got his bohemian tendencies from, but they certainly didn't come from her."

He sipped at the coffee, and it did actually taste like hazelnut. It might have been better with a shot of scotch in it, but he was too tired for drinking right now. "You can come by the suite at some point and see the painting as soon as I'm settled in again. I'm going to be checking with realtors in the area soon, maybe invest in a condo. It looks like I'm going to be here for a while."

He had made the decision on the flight out of Maine, that he would acquire a permanent residence in Chicago. He had no idea what Jessica intended to do, would have to discuss it with her. He wouldn't mind her continuing to share space with him, as he found her easier to get along with than he had expected. But the ultimate decision was hers.

'For one thing'? Hannah's nose wrinkled. "Would you have suggested otherwise?" The coffee hovered beneath her chin, still undrunk. As much as she loved her grandma and believed that beauty was timeless and blah blah, that idea was really... icky. She finally sipped the hot brew and silently approved of the mixture; he hadn't gone chintzy on the sugar. Good man. One day soon, if the job with Toby panned out, she could have all the high-sugar, caffeinated beverages she wanted. Surrounded by coffee junkies, no one would judge her.

After a bigger sip, which fanned warmth into her stomach, she set the cup aside. "Nevermind. If you say yes, my opinion of you might be changed forever." Hannah pressed her palms together and slipped them between her knees. "I'm glad you're going to stay here."

Oliver had been getting a cigarette going while Hannah talked, and he paused with the white cylinder hanging out of his mouth as one eyebrow lifted. He took the unlit smoke from between his lips and put it in the saucer, the lighter finding a resting spot on the veneer of the table. He braced his weight on the palm of his right hand, leaning towards her until the tips of their noses were touching. An Eskimo kiss. His hair brushed against her cheek.

"You were the last woman I saw naked." He said it very quietly, eyes heavy with tiredness as he continued to prop himself up. "I haven't forgotten."

He didn't truly realize how intimate the gesture was until he was right there in her space, and then he realized it might have been a mistake. Right now, he barely knew what he was doing, only that there had always been safety in this woman's presence. But things were different now, weren't they? With her heartbeat returned to her, she was back in the world, even if it was in the guise of another. Bastard that he was, he didn't want to promise her anything he might not be able to deliver on. He could smell the light scent of her perfume, Her eyes were very brown. He retreated to his end of the sofa, bracing his spine against the arm of it. Reclaimed his smoke, got it lit, watched the ember smolder. Felt embarrassed.

"Sorry."

"It's..." Hannah blinked and looked at the plain couch cushion between them. She experienced a wave of relief that her coffee was safely on the table, not spilled in her lap. Although the heat spreading all over her lower body could've fooled her. Was it okay? Not long ago, she would've shouted 'yes!' from the rooftops, but she knew Oliver wasn't sure what to make of Hannah yet, and Hannah wasn't sure what to make of his months of silence, until his grandmother died and left him alone.

Was Oliver only there because of loneliness? She understood that, more personally than anybody realized. Was it taking advantage to wish for more? Did she? All the hours spent together seemed like time caught in a bottle. A blonde angel and her dark prince inside a bubble nothing else touched.

"It's okay," she said firmly. "In fact... Hmm."

Hannah pursed her lips. Then she lunged across the sofa, jostling the cushions all over the place, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry," she whispered, "I know what's going on. It doesn't have to count. I just wanted to kiss you one time when it's for real."

He touched her face fleetingly, fingers brushing her soft cheek before he tucked his hand back into his lap. He drew a circle in the air with the end of his cigarette, tiny puffs of smoke disappearing after a few moments. Sitting still, making himself think. He snuck a look to the side, caught her in profile.

"It was always real for me." He touched the place where she'd kissed him, covering the spot as if to maintain the memory of it long past the brief contact. "One of the reasons I couldn't let go, not even after imagining I was some actor on a TV show. You hooked right through me. Even if I don't know what's happening now, or what's going to happen, I know that much."

If she had asked, he would have admitted that he was lonely, but he didn't want her to misunderstand anything. Better to be an honest asshole than to tell her some pretty lies. They could start this particular thread as friends, see where it led from there.

"I'm so glad you're alive."

"Me, too."

Hannah picked up her mug and wedged it between her knees, which she brought up to her chin. The denim was threadbare and her skin was visible in places. Happiness filled her up like a ball of sunlight. Oliver was here. A dear piece of Nevada making her feel connected again. She sipped her coffee. No matter what happened, she'd be a satisfied person if she could call him her friend again.