Wednesday morning dawned gray and windblown, the kind of coastal weather that made the flag outside the school snap and the windows hum softly in their frames. Hannah arrived early, hoping the extra quiet might help her focus — but her nerves had other plans.
By the time the first bell rang, she'd already rewritten the day's schedule twice and reorganized her desk so many times it looked staged.
At ten past nine, the office intercom crackled to life.
"Ms. Carter? Emma Lawson's here to see you."
Hannah swallowed. "Send her down, please."
She took a deep breath, but it didn't do much.
A minute later, the door opened. Emma stood there, hair tousled by the wind, a sketchpad tucked under her arm and a smile that looked effortlessly confident — but not unkind.
"Morning," she said. "I hope I'm not too early."
"Right on time," Hannah managed, gesturing toward the open space near the back of the room. "We can set up here. The kids will come in after lunch for the first session."
Emma walked the room slowly, taking it all in — the bulletin boards, the scattered art supplies, the faint hum of the overhead lights. "It's brighter than I remember," she said. "Or maybe that's you."
Hannah froze for a beat, not sure whether to laugh or blush. "The maintenance team replaced the bulbs last year," she said instead, a little too quickly.
Emma smiled. "Good to know."
They went over the logistics — which grades would participate, how many hours each session would run, what materials they'd need. On the surface, it was all business. But beneath the easy professionalism, something else stirred — that same pulse that had hummed between them since the studio, now wrapped neatly inside every exchange.
When Emma leaned over the desk to jot down a note, Hannah caught the faint scent of turpentine and cedar soap — a detail she shouldn't have noticed, but did. Her pulse skipped.
Emma glanced up, eyes catching hers for just a second too long. "You okay?"
Hannah nodded quickly. "Fine. Just… making sure we have everything in order."
Emma's lips curved slightly. "You always make sure everything's in order."
There was no judgment in the words. If anything, there was admiration — and something gentler behind it.
Before Hannah could respond, a group of students passed the open door, laughing loudly. The sound broke the moment like a dropped stone in water.
Emma straightened, setting her pencil down. "Looks like they're ready for us."
"Right," Hannah said, forcing her composure back into place. "Let's do this."
The session went smoothly — messy, loud, but joyful. Emma had an ease with the kids that amazed Hannah; she knelt beside them, guiding small hands through brushstrokes, making each child feel like their scribbles could be masterpieces.
Hannah watched from the side, caught between admiration and something more fragile — the ache of seeing someone who seemed to belong wherever she was.
When the last bell rang and the students filed out, Emma began cleaning up the brushes, sleeves rolled to her elbows. "You were great with them," Hannah said.
Emma looked over her shoulder. "You think so?"
"They adore you already. I can tell."
Emma paused, then said softly, "I think I just like watching them discover something they didn't know they could do."
Hannah smiled faintly. "You make it sound easy."
Emma met her gaze. "Nothing worth doing ever is."
The silence that followed was the kind that stretched — not uncomfortable, just charged. The kind that made the air feel heavier.
Finally, Emma broke it with a small grin. "Same time tomorrow?"
Hannah nodded. "Same time."
As Emma left, the classroom door swung shut behind her, leaving Hannah standing amid the quiet, the scent of paint lingering in the air.
For the rest of the day, she couldn't shake the thought that whatever this was between them — friendship, connection, something unnamed — it was no longer something she could ignore.