The afternoon light faded into that golden hour that made everything look softer — the town, the trees, even the small apartment Hannah called home. She'd left the windows open, and the warm breeze carried the sound of laughter and far-off traffic through the room.
Emma was curled up on the couch, shoes off, hair falling loose from its tie. A basket from the market sat on the coffee table — flowers, a loaf of bread, a jar of local honey. It looked like a still life from a simpler time.
Hannah came in from the kitchen with two glasses of lemonade, setting one beside Emma before sinking down next to her. "You handled that really well," she said quietly.
Emma looked up. "Handled what?"
"Being… out there. With me."
Emma smiled, leaning her head against the back of the couch. "You make it sound like we crossed an ocean."
"Sometimes it feels that way."
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn't awkward — it was heavy with meaning, with the shared understanding of what that morning had meant.
Emma turned to her, eyes gentle. "You don't have to be afraid of being seen, Hannah. Not with me. Not anymore."
Hannah let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "I'm not afraid. Just… careful."
"That's fair," Emma said, reaching over to take her hand. "But you should also know — when I looked at you out there, I wasn't thinking about who saw us. I was just thinking, 'This feels right.'"
The words hung in the air, soft but steady.
Outside, the sky deepened to orange and rose, shadows stretching across the floor. Hannah squeezed her hand, thumb tracing idle patterns against her skin.
No more hiding. No pretending. Just two people, sitting close in the fading light, knowing exactly what they were choosing.