Page 26 of The Valentine Agenda

Hannah

Hannah lost track of time in the building's shared workspace, surrounded by piles of art. Her students' weather paintings were spread across the table—their assignment to capture how emotions felt like different kinds of storms.

The soft click of expensive shoes against marble made her hands still. She knew that sound, had memorized it during months of lobby encounters. Had tried to forget it after Valentine's Day.

James appeared in the doorway, suit jacket over his arm, tie loosened. He looked... rumpled. Human. Nothing like the polished man who'd left her sitting alone at Nero's.

Not that she was noticing.

"Hannah." Her name sounded different in the midnight quiet. Less practiced. "You're up late."

"I am," she agreed, deliberately turning back to her work.

He stepped into the room anyway, and Hannah tried to ignore him as she sorted through drawings. He'd rolled his sleeves to his elbows and his hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his fingers through it.

These weren't things she was supposed to notice anymore.

"May I?" He gestured to one of the paintings.

She felt him move closer, felt the shift in the air when he leaned over to study Zack's work. Could smell his cologne.

“It looks like regret," he said quietly. "And sadness."

Something in his voice made her look up. James Park—successful, polished, perfect James Park—was studying a child's painting with genuine attention. The overhead lights caught the shadows under his eyes, the slight softening of his usual sharp edges.

"Children see things differently," she said, and immediately regretted engaging. "Their honesty can be uncomfortable for adults."

His mouth quirked. "Must be nice—saying whatever you want without overthinking it."

"Must be even nicer saying whatever you want, whether it's true or not." The words slipped out before she could stop them, sharper than intended.

James stilled, and Hannah waited for him to retreat behind his usual smooth facade. Instead, he kept looking at the painting, his fingers hovering over the storm clouds without touching.

"I deserve that," he said finally.

"I wasn't—" But she had been. The late hour made everything feel more raw, more honest. "It's late. I should pack up."

She started gathering the paintings, too aware of him still standing there, of how the empty building seemed to shrink the space between them.

"Let me help—"

"I've got it." But James's was already there, leaning over her, straightening the pile of artwork.

He was so close, that is seemed natural to Hannah when he put his hand on her arm.

His hand was warm through her sleeve. Hannah took a deep breath, the smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of late nights and fading perfection.

"Hannah—"

"Don't." She shrugged off his hand and went back to gathering the papers with mechanical precision. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"This." She gestured between them. "The late-night vulnerability. The careful apologies. The whole redemption narrative you're trying to craft."

He ran a hand through his hair—exactly as she'd known he would—messing it up further. "That's not what this is."

"No?" She met his eyes finally, wielding her calm like armor. "Then what is it, Mr. Park?"

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