Page 23 of The Valentine Agenda

His voice held a note of uncertainty. Before, that hint of vulnerability would have made her heart race. Now it just reminded her of how easily he'd used her own hopes against her.

She adjusted her teaching bag, the weight of her students' artwork solid and real against her hip. Their raw, messy paintings were worth more than all of James's carefully curated Instagram posts.

Hannah squared her shoulders, drew in a steady breath, and walked past him. She caught their reflection in the brass mail slots—he was half-turned toward her, the shape of him made imperfect by the angled surface. She looked smaller next to him, but somehow more solid. More real.

He opened his mouth again, probably preparing some practiced apology. But she was already pushing through the revolving door, emerging into the biting February air. Her breath clouded in front of her, each exhale carrying away the words she couldn't say to him.

Mrs. Chen and Mr. Thompson waved from their usual bench, bundled against the cold. She waved back. This was her world—not some fancy restaurant with its crystal glasses and judgment, but here, where people shared scarves and warned each other about icy patches and checked on neighbors. Where connections were real and actions meant something.

If her carefully constructed walls felt a little fragile—well, that was just temporary.

She wouldn't let herself be dazzled by beautiful, empty things again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

James

James hadn't meant to lurk in the community room doorway. He had a call in twenty minutes, three emails demanding immediate attention, and absolutely no reason to watch Hannah Miller unpack her folder of children's art.

And yet.

"Look what my student Sarah drew," Hannah was saying, carefully pinning a watercolor to the display board. "She painted about you missing your dance class, Mrs. Peterson. See how she used the empty space?"

Mrs. Peterson—who was no longer showing much interest in James beyond cold politeness—leaned forward in her walker, eyes brightening. "That dear girl. She remembered our conversation about the ballet?"

"She remembered everything." Hannah's voice held a warmth James had never bothered to notice before. "All the children did. They wanted to show you that your feelings matter. That someone sees you."

Something in James's chest tightened uncomfortably.

"Hannah, dear." Mr. Thompson appeared with a stack of chairs. "Let me help—"

Hannah was already moving to intercept him. "Let me do that. You should be sitting down."

"You sound just like my Caroline," Mr. Thompson grumbled, but his face softened with affection.

"Good. She was a nurse, wasn't she? Which means she'd want you to sit and tell me more about that garden you're planning while I set up."

James watched, unseen, as Hannah maneuvered the elderly man into a chair with such gentle efficiency that he was seated before he could protest.

More residents drifted past him, each one lighting up at the sight of her. She knew them all—not just their names, but their stories. Their pains. Their joys.

"Hannah!" Mrs. Chen appeared with a thermos. "I brought your favorite tea. You were up late again, I can tell."

"You didn't have to—"

"Shush. A heart that gives so much needs refilling sometimes."

James shifted, uncomfortable with the honest affection in Mrs. Chen's voice. These were the same residents he'd lived alongside for years, seeing them as background characters in his carefully curated life. But they weren't background characters to Hannah.

And, he was starting to realize, she wasn't a background character to them.

"You should have seen Tommy's face," Hannah was saying as she arranged chairs, "when he figured out how to draw feelings. It was like watching a light turn on."

“It’s been such a joy to speak with the children,” Mrs. Peterson told her. "The school board finally gave approval?"

Hannah ducked her head, but not before James caught her proud smile. "They’ve given the go-ahead, but they can’t contribute any funding. We'll make do with donated supplies. The children will work with seniors from the community to—"

James found himself stepping forward. "I can donate. Not supplies, but money,” he said.

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