The late sun slanted through Hannah's kitchen window, laying a gold stripe across the counter and catching in the steam from the kettle. Emma leaned against the doorway, her hair still wind-tossed from their walk, a soft smile on her face.
Hannah moved easily around her small kitchen, barefoot, humming under her breath. There was something domestic about it — simple, unhurried — that made Emma's chest ache in the best way.
"Tea or coffee?" Hannah asked.
"Surprise me."
"Dangerous words." Hannah's smile flickered, teasing but tender.
When she turned back with two mugs, their hands met over the table — a pause, a spark, and then a quiet understanding passing between them. The kind that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
They sat on the couch, knees touching, the soft murmur of rain starting up again outside. The air smelled faintly of cedar and mint.
Emma let out a slow breath. "This feels strange," she said finally. "In a good way. Like I've been waiting to exhale for weeks."
Hannah looked at her over the rim of her mug. "You don't have to hold your breath here."
Something about the way she said it — steady, sure — settled deep. Emma reached out, her thumb brushing Hannah's hand, tracing the line of her knuckles.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. The quiet wasn't empty; it was full of warmth, of understanding, of all the things they didn't have to hide anymore.
By the time the tea went cold, the rain had stopped. Outside, the last light of the evening glowed through the trees, and inside, the world felt small and safe — just the two of them, their laughter soft, their hearts at ease.