Rain still whispered through the night when Hannah finally locked up the classroom. The hallways were quiet, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. She could hear the echo of her own footsteps, steady but uncertain.
Emma waited by the door, her coat draped over one arm, damp from the weather. "Looks like it's letting up," she said, nodding toward the windows.
"Barely," Hannah replied. "You'll still get soaked walking home."
Emma shrugged, that familiar, easy grin ghosting across her lips. "I've been wetter."
Hannah laughed before she could stop herself, the sound startling in the empty hall. It lingered, softer now, a shared secret between them.
They stood there for a moment, neither moving. The hum of the lights, the scent of rain and paint, the faint warmth of the room — everything felt close.
"I keep thinking about what you said yesterday," Hannah murmured. "About not pretending."
Emma's voice was quiet. "And?"
Hannah hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of her desk. "I think I've spent most of my life pretending. That I was fine. That wanting something more was selfish."
Emma took a slow step closer. "You deserve more."
The space between them thinned until Hannah could see the flecks of color in Emma's eyes — gray and green, like sea glass. Her breath caught.
"Emma…"
Emma reached up, brushing a damp curl from Hannah's forehead. The touch was light, hesitant, almost reverent. "You don't have to say anything," she whispered.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Hannah felt it — that pull, sharp and undeniable — the air charged with everything they hadn't said. Her hand rose instinctively, hovering just shy of Emma's cheek.
And then, somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.
The sound shattered the moment like glass.
They both stepped back at once, eyes wide, breath unsteady. The thunder outside rolled low and long, filling the silence between them.
Emma's voice broke it first, soft and shaky. "I should go."
Hannah nodded, words caught somewhere in her throat.
Emma reached the door, hesitated, then looked back — a small, knowing look that said everything neither dared to speak. "Goodnight, Hannah."
When she was gone, Hannah leaned against the edge of the desk, closing her eyes. The air still smelled of rain and turpentine and something sweeter — the trace of what almost was.