The rest of the morning slipped past in pieces — a blur of lesson plans, meetings, and polite smiles. But underneath it all, Hannah felt that quiet hum that wouldn't go away.
It wasn't loud enough to disrupt her work, just persistent enough to remind her it was there.
Every time she lifted her coffee mug, she thought of the warmth of Emma's hand brushing hers. Every time she glanced out the window at the sunlight glinting off the harbor, she saw the same glow that had filled Emma's studio. It was ridiculous, she told herself. They'd just had coffee. People did that all the time.
But the truth was, it didn't feel like just coffee.
By the time school ended, she was tired — not from the day, but from holding herself so tightly together. She stayed late, grading papers at her desk long after most of the building had emptied, the low hum of the janitor's vacuum echoing down the hallway.
When she finally packed up, the sun was low and the classrooms glowed with that soft, golden light that made everything look gentler than it really was.
As she walked to her car, she caught sight of the cliffs in the distance, the same ones Emma had painted. The colors were shifting now — the water catching the pink edge of sunset, the wind brushing through the grass.
She stopped for a moment, leaning against the hood of her car, and just let herself feel it — the ache of wanting something she didn't quite understand, the fear of what it might mean, the strange relief of not being alone in it.
For years, she'd lived by rules she didn't write: what people expected, what was safe, what wouldn't cause talk. But now, with Emma back in town, those lines were blurring.
And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure she wanted them to stay clear.
Hannah slid into the driver's seat and started the car, but she didn't drive right away. Her hand hovered over the steering wheel as she thought about what Emma had said that morning: Maybe you should come by again.
She didn't know if she would. She didn't know if she should.
But the thought of saying no felt worse than the risk of saying yes.
Outside, the wind shifted. The last of the light caught the water, turning it the color of brushed copper — the same color as the paint that still clung faintly to her sleeve, from a touch she hadn't even noticed.
She smiled, small and private.
And this time, she didn't try to wash it away.