He turns toward me. "Is that what you're doing now? Escaping?"
"I—"
"Oh my God. I'm right. That's Ares Saint?" A woman's excited whisper carries through the air. "The one from the news?"
My heart jumps into my throat. Across the courtyard, I spot two women—one with her phone already raised, the other gesturing excitedly in our direction. They're trying to make their way toward us, but a tour group has stopped to admire the fountain, creating an unintentional barrier between us.
I glance at Ares and catch the flash of dread that crosses his face—the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible tensing of his shoulders. It's a look I recognize from years ago, when he'd hear his father's car in the driveway, cutting our time together short.
The women are negotiating their way around the tour group now, determination in their movements. We have seconds, maybe less.
Without thinking, I spring into action.
"Quick." I grab his hand, my fingers tingling at the contact. His palm is warm against mine, callused in places I don't remember—small changes that somehow make this feel more real. I pull him through a narrow doorway into one of the smaller galleries, my heart thundering so loudly I'm sure he must hear it. The space is tight, forcing us close together. My back presses against a tapestry-covered wall, the rough texture catching on my sweater, while Ares's broad frame shields me from view.
"Just like old times," he whispers, amusement dancing in his eyes even as his breath hitches when I shift against him. "You always did know the best hiding spots."
"Shh." But I'm fighting a smile, memories flooding back with startling clarity—ducking behind rose bushes in his mother's garden, hiding in the library's alcoves, stolen moments in shadowed corners. My skin burns where his body presses against mine, every point of contact sending sparks of awareness through my system.
Voices drift closer. "The magazine said he's staying in Boston..."
"After that awful interview his ex gave? Poor thing looked devastated... "
Ares tenses against me, his jaw clenching. The muscle there ticks—a tell I remember from our youth, one that always betrayed his carefully controlled facade. Without thinking, I squeeze his hand, still clasped in mine. The simple gesture feels both foreign and achingly familiar. His eyes find mine in the dim light, surprise flickering across his features before something deeper, more dangerous takes its place.
The footsteps pass our hiding spot, voices fading into whispers, then silence. We remain frozen in our sanctuary of shadows and light, the world beyond this small space ceasing to exist. I find him studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin flush, and I realize I'm doing the same—cataloging the changes time has wrought, searching for the boy I knew in the man before me.
A shaft of sunlight cuts through the doorway, catching his face at an angle that transforms him. It highlights those impossible cheekbones, now sharper than I remember, and illuminates the scruff along his jaw that wasn't there in our youth. The stubble suits him—adds a ruggedness to his polished features that makes something low in my stomach tighten. My fingers tingle with the urge to feel its texture, to trace the new angles of his face, to map the changes fifteen years have carved into his features.
"They're gone," I whisper, but make no move to step away. The tapestry behind me depicts some ancient love story—lovers separated by circumstance, reaching across time. I can feel the threads pressing patterns into my back, weaving their story into mine, marking me just as his presence is marking this moment into memory.
"Are they?" His voice has dropped to a rumble that I feel more than hear. His free hand comes up, hesitating for a heartbeat before brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch sends electricity shooting down my spine, and I have to bite back a gasp. His fingers linger near my cheek, trembling slightly. "You know none of what they're saying in the media is true, right? About Jessica, about us..."
"I know." And I do, with a certainty that surprises me. The Ares I've spent the morning with isn't the calculating playboy the media portrays. He's... familiar. Real. His thumb starts to trace my cheekbone, feather-light, and it reminds me of another time, another hidden corner, when we thought love could conquer anything—even his family's expectations.
"Being here with you... it's the first time I've felt like myself in years."
"Ares..." His name comes out breathless.
"Tell me to stop." His eyes search mine, dark with something that makes my pulse race. "Tell me this is crazy, that we're just reopening old wounds."
I should. God, I should. Instead, I lean into his touch, drawn by the gravity that's always existed between us.
The world narrows to this: his warmth, his scent, the way his eyes drop to my lips. The gallery's cool air prickles against my heated skin, creating a dizzying contrast to the heat radiating from his body.
"Red..." My body recognizes the tone before my mind does, responding with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool air.
A loud crash from somewhere in the museum shatters the moment. We jump apart like guilty teenagers, reality crashing back in. The sudden loss of his warmth sends a shiver through me, my body already betraying its desire to lean back into him.
“We should..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, my face burning. My legs feel unsteady, like they've forgotten how to work properly without his support.
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled. The sight sends a jolt of recognition through me—it's the same nervous gesture from our youth, when he'd try to compose himself after our stolen moments. "Probably safer to keep moving."
But as we step back into the sunlit gallery, his hand finds the small of my back—protective, possessive, sending warmth spreading through my body like wildfire. The simple touch feels both dangerous and inevitable, like everything about us.
We arrive into the Dutch Room, where light streams through leaded glass windows, casting prismatic patterns across the floor. The empty frames from the infamous heist hang like ghosts on the walls, and something about their hollow presence resonates deep in my chest.
"Those frames," Ares says, stepping closer to one. His voice carries the same quiet reverence I feel in this space. "Why do they keep them up even though the paintings are gone?"
