(Sean's POV)
Candle wax. Rosemary butter. A private room at Marcelle's, walls the color of dark wine, one round table set for two.
Hannah's already seated when the door closes behind me. Cream dress, the fabric catching the low light. Hair down, the way she wears it when she wants to be remembered a certain way. She rises before the maître d' can reach my chair, both hands coming up like she means to hold my face and stops herself at the last second.
"Sean."
"Hannah."
I sit. My knee finds the table leg. I shift it an inch to the left.
The candle between us throws soft orange light up under her chin, up into her eyes, and her eyes are doing something I haven't seen in weeks — open, wide, unguarded. A smile with no calculation behind it. Or none I can find, and I've gotten good at find
