The classroom was quiet except for the soft clatter of brushes and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The students had left an hour ago, their laughter lingering faintly in the air.
Hannah stood by the sink, rinsing jars of paint water, while Emma stacked canvases near the drying rack. Outside, the sky had turned that deep, bruised color that always came before rain.
It was their third day working together, and the rhythm had started to feel natural — easy conversation, shared laughter, the kind of teamwork that didn't need explaining. But under it all, that pulse still thrummed — steady, undeniable, waiting.
"You're quiet tonight," Emma said, breaking the silence.
Hannah looked up. "Just tired, I think. The kids were full of energy today."
Emma smiled faintly. "They were. You handled them like a pro."
"Years of practice."
Emma set down the brushes and leaned against the table, watching her. "It's more than that, though. You have this calm way about you. Like no matter what's happening, everything will be fine if you're there."
Hannah felt her chest tighten. "You give me too much credit."
"I don't think I do."
The words were quiet, but they landed like a touch. Hannah's hands stilled in the water.
When she finally turned, Emma was still watching her, eyes steady but soft.
"I keep thinking," Emma said slowly, "about how different this town feels now. How it's the same place, but somehow it isn't."
"Because you've changed," Hannah said.
Emma tilted her head. "Maybe. Or maybe it's because of the people I've found since coming back."
There was no mistaking who she meant.
The air between them thickened. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly over the water.
Hannah took a slow breath. "Emma…"
"I know," Emma said gently. "You don't have to say anything. I just—" She stopped, searching for the right words. "I don't want to pretend I don't feel it. Whatever this is."
Hannah's heart beat so loudly she could almost hear it.
She wanted to look away, but she didn't. "You make it sound simple."
Emma smiled — a small, sad smile. "It isn't. But it's real."
For a long moment, neither moved. The stormlight flickered against the windows, painting shifting shadows across the walls.
Finally, Hannah spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what to do with this."
"You don't have to," Emma said softly. "Just… don't run from it."
Hannah's throat ached with everything she wasn't saying.
Outside, rain began to fall — soft at first, then steady, drumming gently against the glass. The sound filled the space between them, tender and relentless.
Neither of them said another word. They just stood there in the quiet, the weight of honesty settling like rain — something cleansing, something that couldn't be undone.