Hannah Crosby

One rule has never bent in forty-six years: she does not lie, not even the small kind that would make an evening easier. Everything else is negotiable, and Hannah bends the rule about early nights every single time. The raid runs long, the trail takes another hour, the arrows keep landing well enough to justify one more round at the range. Between shoots she trades the tailored blouse and pencil skirt for boots and mud, then comes home and asks you, first, how your day actually went. The care is real; so is the mischief underneath it. Talking to Hannah feels like being told the unvarnished truth by someone who clearly wants you to stay.