The afternoon light slanted through the windows of the old Lawson cottage, turning the dust in the air to gold. Emma had turned the front room into a makeshift studio — canvases leaned against the walls, brushes cluttered in jars, and the faint smell of turpentine and sea air lingered everywhere.
She stood back from her easel, studying the painting in progress. It was the view from the cliffs — gray water, darker sky — but there was warmth in it too, a subtle glimmer beneath the surface she couldn't quite explain.
She realized what it was only when she heard the knock at the door.
Hannah.
She'd mentioned stopping by to drop off some forms from the community center, but Emma suspected that wasn't the whole reason.
When she opened the door, Hannah was there with a manila folder in hand and an apologetic smile. "Official business," she said, holding it up. "Or at least that's what I'm telling myself."
Emma grinned. "You can tell yourself anything you want, as long as you come in."
Hannah hesitated, then stepped inside. Her eyes swept the room — the paintings, the color, the chaos. "I can't believe you've done all this since you came back."
"I don't sleep much," Emma said lightly. "Or clean, apparently."
Hannah laughed softly, moving closer to one of the canvases. "They're beautiful. You've always been able to see what other people miss."
Emma watched her, the way she tilted her head, her hands folded loosely in front of her. "You really think so?"
"I do." Hannah paused before one painting — a portrait, unfinished. The background was still rough, but the subject's face was rendered with striking precision. She turned to Emma. "Who is she?"
Emma hesitated. "No one. Yet."
"Yet?"
"I think she's someone I haven't met all the way," Emma said, her tone careful but soft. "Someone who's still figuring out who she wants to be."
Hannah studied the painting again. The woman on the canvas looked strong, but there was something uncertain in her eyes. Something searching.
"She looks… brave," Hannah said finally.
Emma smiled faintly. "Funny. You said that like you're describing yourself."
Hannah turned, startled. "I'm not—"
"You are," Emma said, stepping closer. "Even when you don't believe it."
The words hung in the air. The sunlight shifted, sliding across the wooden floor between them. For a heartbeat, everything felt still — the kind of stillness that hummed with what might come next.
Hannah exhaled slowly. "You have a way of making people feel seen."
"Maybe that's just because you let yourself be seen," Emma said.
They stood there, close enough that Hannah could smell the faint mix of paint and coffee on Emma's skin. It wasn't a moment of touch — it didn't need to be. It was something quieter. A spark that didn't flare, but glowed.
Finally, Hannah looked down, collecting herself. "You should show these," she said. "At the gallery. People should see them."
"Maybe," Emma said. "If you'll come to the opening."
Hannah looked up, meeting her eyes again. "You'd really want me there?"
"I don't think I'd want to do it without you."
Hannah smiled — small, unsure, but real. "Then I'll come."
As she turned to leave, she brushed her hand against the edge of the easel — a light, almost accidental touch that left a faint streak of blue paint on her skin. She didn't notice until she reached for the doorknob.
Emma did. And she didn't say a word.