I clear my throat, putting space between us. "It's Titian. See how he uses light to draw your eye to—" I reach up to point out a detail, and Ares leans in to follow my gesture. His breath whispers against my ear.
"To what?" His voice is low, intimate in the quiet gallery.
"To, um..." God, I've seen this painting a hundred times. Why can't I remember a single detail right now? My brain feels wrapped in cotton, every thought slowed by his proximity. The painting before me—a masterpiece I've studied for years—suddenly might as well be a blank canvas.
"You still do that thing," he whispers.
"What thing?"
"Bite your lip when you're nervous." His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart thunders against my ribs.
I didn't even realize I was doing it. The same unconscious habit from when we were teenagers, when he'd catch me staring at him across the library table. Some primal part of me remembers him, responds to him, even when my mind screams caution.
"Some things don't change."
"Some things do." But even I don't believe my words, not with the way my body is humming with awareness of him. Our eyes lock, and for a suspended moment, the gallery, the painting, the entire world beyond the space between us disappears. There's only the electric current running between us, the unspoken history, the dangerous possibility.
He takes a step back, and I feel the loss of his warmth immediately. "Show me more?"
We move through the galleries, and I relax despite my best intentions. It's easy, too easy, to fall into conversation with him. He asks intelligent questions about the art, remembers details I mention, and somehow makes me laugh with his observations.
I'm explaining the importance of the brush technique in a painting when I notice him watching me instead of the wall.
"What?"
"You light up when you talk about art." His voice is soft. "Your whole face changes. It's..."
"It's what?" I ask.
"Beautiful."
The single word crashes through my carefully constructed defenses. My pulse skips, heat blooming across my skin as his gaze lingers, searching my face for something I'm afraid he might find.
I turn away, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. "There's a Rembrandt in the next room that—"
"Red." His hand catches mine as I try to move past him. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, awakening nerve endings I thought had long since died. "Look at me."
I do, against my better judgment. His expression is open, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before—not even when we were teenagers stealing moments in the garden.
"I miss this," he says quietly. "Miss how easy it was to talk to you. Miss watching you get excited about things you love."
"Ares..." His name comes out like a warning, or maybe a plea.
"I know." His thumb traces circles on my palm, and my brain short-circuits. "I know we can't go back. But being here with you, seeing all this through your eyes... it reminds me of who I used to be. Who we used to be."
The weight of fifteen years hangs between us, heavy with what-ifs and might-have-beens. I pull my hand from his, retreating into safer territory. "The courtyard is beautiful this time of day. The light makes the fountain look like liquid gold."
I turn away, moving through the gallery toward the open air. I feel him follow me, his presence a physical weight against my back as we walk. Neither of us speaks, but the silence says everything our words cannot.
When we arrive back at the courtyard, it is transformed by mid-morning light. Sunbeams dance across the fountain's spray, turning water droplets into floating diamonds. The sweet scent of blooming jasmine mingles with ancient stone and history.
"It's like stepping into another world," Ares murmurs, his shoulder brushing mine as we stand at the railing overlooking the space. "I get why you love it here."
"Sometimes I come and just sit for hours." The words slip out before I can catch them. "When I need to think, or..."
"Or escape?" His voice is gentle, knowing.
"Yeah." I trace my fingers along the cool marble railing, hyperaware of how close he's standing. "It's peaceful. No one expects anything from you here. You can just... be."
