Sam did not budge for quite a while.
Hannah did not speak, did not stir except for the nearly invisible rock of a body entirely absorbed. The subtle wet slap of her thumb against the edge of the page. The slow lift and fall of her back as she inhaled. Her calves still forming a gentle curve in space, the way children read—unweighted, unthought—except she was not a child anymore, and the curve her body was tracing was something other.
He amazed himself at how long he could remain here, in this silence, before something snapped. His body was betraying him. Not with movement, not with action—he was perfectly still—but with thought. With knowledge. With awareness.
Her foot flexed, ever so lightly, as though stretching toward something ethereal in the air. Then it locked again, toe pointed down ever so slightly. That tiny movement echoed in his chest like a knocking on a barred door.
He envisioned her calling his name. Not sweetly—Hannah wasn't sweet, at least not in that way—but surely, factually. As if she knew exactly what he was doing. As if she had figured out the minute he walked in.
He tried reading his book. Words floated in front of his eyes, not connected to meaning. Something about the way the sentences were constructed irritated him—too tidy, too smart. He closed the book.
"You're not reading," she said, softly, eyes still on her own page.
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even a question. She just said it.
Sam's heart thumped. "No," he admitted.
"Mhm." She turned the page.
He searched her voice for a hint—of amusement, of suspicion, of anything—but it was clean. Like water over stone.
Her legs shifted again. One knee dropped a little, as if gravity had reminded it, and then rose back up. Her ankles uncrossed, slowly. Then recrossed in the other direction. Her feet flexed and released, curling inward slightly, her tights catching on the soft arch under her toes.
He stood there. Helpless.
Then her breath caught—only slightly—but enough. She froze. Her finger stayed at the edge of the new page but did not turn it. Not yet.
Sam tensed.
She made no movement. The light shifted around the space, trickling like a slow drips through the hours.
"Did you want something?" she said at last.
His mouth was dry. "No."
Hannah nodded slowly, as if that was all. The page turned. Her ankles uncrossed again.
But she did not lift them.
Instead, she let her feet rest upon the sofa cushion behind her, her legs outstretched and relaxed. No longer dangling, no longer childlike. Just. settled. Finished.
And in the single easy motion, Sam could feel the air change.
A line was drawn. A mood reset. Her legs no longer suspended ethereally in the air. Now they were anchored. Intense. Her back straighter. Her breathing more controlled.
She knew.
He didn't know what she knew, exactly—only that she did.
And he begrudged how much he liked it.