By Thursday, the weather had turned clear and cool — the kind of early spring air that carried the promise of warmth but still bit at the edges. The week had passed in a blur of work, laughter, and stolen glances.
Hannah had fallen into a quiet rhythm. Mornings at the café, afternoons helping with invoices, evenings spent walking home under fading sunlight. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Emma — sketches left on the counter, quick visits between errands, a message or two when the day ran long.
It wasn't dramatic. It was steady. Real.
That afternoon, Emma showed up with paint on her hands again. She leaned against the doorway, smiling the way she always did when she was trying to downplay her excitement. "You should come by the mural later," she said. "It's almost done."
Hannah looked up from the espresso machine, eyes bright. "Really?"
Emma nodded. "Final brushstrokes. I wanted you to see it before the committee does."
"Let me close up early," Hannah said, already reaching for her keys.
They walked to the community center as the sun dipped low, the sky streaked in orange and violet. When they turned the corner, the mural came into view — now complete, bold, and full of color.
Hannah stopped short. The light caught the paint just right, making the center glow. It wasn't just the design — it was the feeling behind it. Hope. Renewal. Connection.
"You did this," she said quietly.
Emma shook her head. "We did this."
They stood there, shoulders touching, the last of the sunlight washing over them both. Around them, the town moved as usual — cars passing, voices in the distance — but in that small pocket of evening light, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
For the first time, Hannah didn't feel like they were hiding. She felt like they were part of something — and maybe that was the truest kind of love there was.