Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, painting slow-moving stripes across the room. The quiet was almost sacred — the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant song of birds outside, and the slow rhythm of breathing that matched the pulse of the morning.
Hannah stirred first. For a moment she didn't move, just listened — to the calm, to the small sounds that made up this new kind of peace. The air smelled faintly of coffee from last night and the lavender candle that had burned itself out sometime after midnight.
She turned her head. Emma was half-awake, eyes still heavy with sleep, hair falling messily across her face. There was a softness to her that Hannah hadn't seen before — not the confident muralist or the laughing friend, but something quieter. Real.
"Morning," Hannah whispered.
Emma smiled without opening her eyes. "Is it morning already?"
"Barely."
Emma reached out, fingertips brushing against Hannah's wrist — a lazy, familiar touch. "You always wake up first," she murmured.
"Someone has to make the coffee."
Emma's laugh was low, still thick with sleep. "You make it sound like a heroic act."
"Some days, it is."
They stayed like that for a while — the kind of stillness that didn't need to be filled. When Hannah finally slipped out of bed and padded toward the kitchen, Emma watched her go with a small, contented smile.
By the time the coffee was ready, sunlight had fully claimed the room. Steam curled above the mugs, and the world outside began to stir.
Hannah set a cup beside Emma on the couch. "Milk, no sugar. I remember."
Emma looked up, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You remember everything."
"Only the important parts."
They drank in silence for a few moments, the warmth of the coffee grounding them both. It wasn't grand or dramatic — it was something better. Real, simple, and steady.
Hannah looked toward the window, light spilling across the floorboards. "Feels like a beginning," she said quietly.
Emma nodded. "Maybe it is."