"Whatever comes next," he says, "we face it together."
I nod, curling back into his arms. The telescope stands forgotten as we lay there, wrapped in starlight and possibility.
For this moment, at least, the world below feels distant, unimportant. I trace the compass tattoo on my skin, feeling grounded despite the vastness above us.
"Tell me something," Ares murmurs against my hair. "What's your dream? Not just for your art, but... for everything."
The question catches me off guard. It's been so long since I've shared this with anyone. "Promise not to laugh?"
He shifts so he can see my face. "Never."
I take a deep breath, drawing courage from the steadiness in his eyes. "I want to create a place for kids who are hurting. Where they can heal through art." The words tumble out faster now, like they've been waiting to escape. "Not just painting, any kind of creativity. Music, dance, writing. A safe space where they can pour out all those feelings they can't express any other way."
The silence stretches for a heartbeat, and suddenly I'm aware of how naive it might sound. How impossibly big this dream is. I start to pull away, cheeks burning. "God, listen to me. It's probably too—"
"Stop." His voice is gentle but firm as he pulls me back. "I remember watching you after. How you'd spend hours in the garden with your sketchbook, putting everything you couldn't say into those drawings. All that grief, that anger—you'd paint until you were exhausted, until you could finally sleep without nightmares." His thumb traces my cheek. "You're talking about giving that same lifeline to kids who are drowning. There's nothing naive about that."
My throat tightens at the memory. He's right—those endless nights in the Saint garden, my hands covered in charcoal and paint, art the only thing keeping me from shattering completely. "Yeah," I manage. "After my parents, art saved me. But not every kid has that outlet." My fingers clench in his shirt. "Some of them just... drown in it."
Ares is quiet for a moment, his hand running up and down my spine. But it's not the silence of dismissal, I can practically hear his mind working.
"It could be more than just a school," he says finally, and my heart skips at the 'could' instead of 'should'. Like he's already seeing it as real. "A community center maybe. Open to any kid who needs it, regardless of their background."
"You think that's possible?"
"Red." He cups my face, and the intensity in his eyes steals my breath. "You're talking about saving lives here. Giving kids a chance to be seen, to be heard. To turn their trauma into something beautiful, just like you did." His thumb brushes my cheek. "Of course it's possible."
"It would need funding," I start, but he's already nodding.
"And space, and teachers, and proper support staff." His voice takes on that focused tone I remember from when we were young and he'd get excited about an idea. "Art therapists maybe, counselors who understand trauma. We could partner with local schools, reach the kids who need it most."
My heart swells almost painfully. "We?"
"Try and stop me." He grins, fierce and beautiful. "You've got the vision, the understanding of what these kids need. I've got the business experience, the connections." His expression softens. "We'd make one hell of a team."
"Sainty..." I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry.
"I mean it, Red. Your idea is incredible. You're incredible." He pulls me closer, pressing his forehead to mine. "You took your pain and turned it into a way to help others. How could I not want to be part of that?"
A shooting star streaks across the sky, but I don't need to make a wish this time. Everything I want is right here, believing in my dreams like they're already reality.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips. "God, I love you so much."
His kiss tastes like promises and possibility, like futures we're only beginning to imagine. When we break apart, his eyes are shining with something that looks suspiciously like tears.
"We're going to make it happen," he says, and it sounds like an oath. "All of it. Together."
Under a sky full of ancient stars, we began dreaming of a new constellation—together. And for the first time in forever, I let myself believe in the kind of future that once seemed impossible.
24
Ares
Ten missed calls glare from my screen like accusations. Each one from the same number—my father—each a silent command disguised as family concern.
Theodore Saint's name flashes again, the eleventh call in three hours. My finger hovers over the screen, pulse quickening despite my resolve.
I've been dodging their calls since the gallery canceled Isabella's exhibition, since they systematically tried to dismantle everything she's worked for. Classic Saint family warfare—calculated, ruthless, designed to wound without leaving fingerprints. But Theodore Saint isn't a man who tolerates being ignored. Each missed call is a warning shot across my bow, each clipped voicemail a reminder that the Saint legacy is a collar I can't simply slip.
