Hannah is in her usual spot, stretched out on the chaise, book in one hand while the other rests a cup of coffee by her hip. I watch her from where I’ve paused halfway down the stairs, wishing I could walk right over and scoop her into my arms. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, just begging for my fingers to work it loose. Her mouth, currently pouting away at the book I bought her, belongs underneath mine. I feel that in my bones.
