"Isabella Stewart Gardner's will specified nothing in the museum could be changed." I move beside him, our shoulders almost touching. "And, I think there's something powerful about acknowledging what's missing. Not trying to hide the loss or pretend it never existed."
His eyes find mine, understanding flickering in their depths. The intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch. "Like a reminder that something valuable once hung there?"
"Exactly." My voice softens, betraying more emotion than I intend. My fingers twist together, fighting the urge to reach for him. "And maybe... maybe there's hope they'll come home one day."
The weight of unspoken parallels hangs between us, heavy as the gilt frames on the walls. Fifteen years of empty frames in our own lives, spaces where something precious once hung.
"I used to imagine us," he says suddenly, his voice low and rough with emotion. His hands clench at his sides. "What our lives might have been if certain things didn't happen."
My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the distant sounds of other visitors.
"I know we can't go back." He turns to face me fully, and the raw honesty in his expression makes my chest ache. "But like I said before. Being here with you today, seeing everything through your eyes... it reminds me of who I was before I let them reshape me into their perfect heir."
"And who was that?" The question slips out before I can stop it, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Someone who knew what really mattered." His fingers brush mine, just the slightest touch, but it sends electricity arcing through my entire body. The contact echoes with memories—his hands guiding mine on piano keys, threading through my hair behind the garden maze, wiping away tears on days the memory of my parents made me emotional.
We drift through the remaining galleries, our conversation flowing easier now, weighted with honesty instead of accusations. The daylight shifts as we move, painting shadows and highlighting different angles of his face—each new view making my artist's fingers itch to capture the changes time has carved into his features.
As we complete our circuit of the museum, I glance at my watch and reality crashes back in. The bubble of our shared morning—this strange, suspended time where the past and present seem to blur—can't last forever.
"I should go." The words come out shaky, reluctant despite my better judgment. "I have a meeting with the gallery later."
"Red..." He catches my hand as I turn to leave, the contact sending another jolt through my system. "Thank you. For showing me your world today."
Something in his voice makes me look back. The vulnerability in his expression steals my breath. I should say something meaningful, something that matches the weight of this moment. Instead, I smirk, falling back on the playful banter that always felt safe between us.
"Well, you were surprisingly well-behaved. You didn't try to buy a single painting." I aim for lightness, needing to break the intensity between us. "I'm impressed, Sainty. Maybe you can be trained after all."
His laugh echoes off the marble walls, rich and genuine, transforming his entire face. For a moment, I see the boy he used to be, before the weight of the Saint legacy crushed the joy out of him. The sound wraps around me like a familiar embrace, warming places I thought had gone cold years ago.
"There she is," he says softly, eyes dancing. "The girl who used to give me hell."
"Someone had to." I squeeze his hand once before letting go, ignoring how my palm tingles from the contact. "See you around, Saint."
As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me, my skin burning under his gaze. Each step feels heavier than the last, like my body is fighting its own retreat. The light catches on the marble floors, creating patterns that blur as I move through them, my artist's eye noting how they shift and change—like everything else today.
I'm curled up on my window seat later, Evelyn's diary open in my lap, when my phone buzzes. Ares's name on the screen makes my heart skip, then race. My fingers tremble slightly as I answer.
"Hello?"
"I need to see you tomorrow." His voice is low, urgent. "There's something I need to show you."
I bite my lip, remembering how that worked out last time.
"I don't think that's a good idea. The paparazzi—"
"I'll come early. Seven AM."
"Seven—" I sputter, warmth replaced by indignation. "That's not a request, is it?"
"Nope." I can hear the smile in his voice, that familiar mix of Saint arrogance and boyish charm that always did dangerous things to my resolve. My stomach flips traitorously at the sound.
"You could just tell me now," I try, ignoring the way my pulse quickens at the thought of him in my space again. After today, after those moments in the museum where the air between us felt electric with possibility... "Phone calls are very efficient."
"Nice try, Red. But this needs to be face to face."
I close my eyes, remembering how his cologne lingered in the narrow gallery where we'd hidden, how his thumb had traced my cheek. My body apparently hasn't gotten the memo about maintaining appropriate boundaries with Ares Saint.
