The last light of evening slipped below the rooftops, leaving the porch wrapped in dusky blue. The crickets had begun their steady chorus, and the air hummed with warmth.
Emma and Hannah still sat side by side on the swing, their lemonade glasses half-empty, the quiet between them deep and comfortable. Every so often, the swing creaked — a soft rhythm that matched the slow pull of their thoughts.
Emma turned slightly, studying Hannah's face in the fading light. "You always look calmer at night," she said.
"Maybe because the world finally stops asking for things," Hannah murmured.
Emma smiled. "You're not easy to forget, you know."
Hannah tilted her head, half teasing. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
"Maybe both."
The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was thick with something unsaid. The distance between them felt fragile, electric. Hannah reached out without thinking, brushing her fingers against Emma's wrist. Emma didn't pull away.
The soft touch lingered, a question and an answer all at once.
Emma's breath caught — not from surprise, but from recognition. That shared heartbeat, the unspoken understanding that had been building for weeks, now fully alive between them.
Neither spoke. Instead, Emma leaned closer, and Hannah met her halfway. The space between them disappeared, and for a long, quiet moment, the world was just that — breath, warmth, closeness, and light.
When they finally pulled back, the swing still rocked gently beneath them, as though it, too, had felt the change.
Hannah smiled — small, knowing, a little shy. "We're really doing this, aren't we?"
Emma nodded, her voice a whisper. "I think we already are."
They stayed like that until the stars came out, saying nothing more — just listening to the slow rhythm of the night, the sound of belonging settling deep into their bones.