They left the mural just as the last bit of sunlight slipped behind the hills. The paint still shimmered faintly, as if it had captured the sunset and refused to let go.
Emma walked beside Hannah in silence, their steps matching without effort. The streets were quiet — a few porch lights on, the sound of a dog barking in the distance, the smell of rain still lingering from the morning.
When they reached Hannah's place, she hesitated at the door, keys in hand. "Do you want to come in?" she asked softly.
Emma didn't answer right away. She just looked at Hannah — really looked at her — the way someone does when they're trying to memorize every detail before it fades.
"I'd like that," she said finally.
Inside, the small apartment felt different than usual. Warmer. Quieter. The kind of quiet that hummed with unspoken things. Hannah set her bag down, turned on the small lamp near the couch, and the soft gold light wrapped around them both.
They didn't speak much — they didn't need to. It was all there in the way Hannah brushed a strand of hair behind Emma's ear, in the way Emma's hand lingered just a moment too long on hers.
Their closeness was gentle at first — uncertain, like a question neither had yet dared to ask out loud. But when their eyes met again, something settled between them.
Hannah took a breath. "Emma…"
Emma stepped closer, until the air between them seemed to vanish.
"I know," she whispered.
The words weren't permission so much as understanding. They leaned into each other, the tension breaking into warmth — the kind that flooded through every part of the room.
Outside, the town carried on — the hum of the streetlights, the distant roll of a passing car — but inside, time felt like it had folded in on itself.
Later, they sat together by the window, the night breeze spilling in through the open glass. No words. Just the steady rhythm of breathing, the quiet comfort of being seen and known completely.