“Museums are mausoleums,” he continues. “Climate-controlled vaults where great works go to be entombed, admired from a distance by people obligated to appreciate them but rarely understand their meaning.”
I think of the endless gallery openings I’ve attended as Lorenzo, the wealthy patrons more concerned with being seen than with seeing, with proximity to importance rather than to beauty.
“Art deserves to be touched.” Ezra’s hand slides along my ribs to emphasize his point. “To be felt. To exist in spaces where they are truly loved.”
The philosophy strikes a chord within me, resonating with unspoken beliefs I’ve carried since watching my grandfather work. His reverence for the masters he copied wasn’t only technical appreciation. It was love, a conversation across centuries, an intimate dialogue between creator and recreator.
“That’s why I loved your grandfather’s forgeries.” Ezra’s hand moves down my stomach, and my legs part in an invitation he ignores for now. “They went beyond skill. They are audacious.”
I shake my head, struggling to keep track of the conversation while he teases my body. “What?”
His lips curl against my shoulder in a smile felt rather than seen. “He wasn’t just copying, he was adding to a conversation that should have died centuries ago, and making it new again.”
His understanding hits harder than the truth about his family. Ezra doesn’t just see my grandfather’s technicalbrilliance. He feels the heart of it, the longing to create meaningful artwork in a world that only values names, not vision.
“Maybe we’re not so different, you and I.” His palm flattens over my stomach. “We both believe beauty should be free. Should be alive. Should be touched.”
His hand slides lower again, teasing at the line where sheet meets skin, the whisper of contact sending heat spiraling through me.
“Your family moves art around the world.” I slowly piece together this new understanding. “To private collectors who appreciate it. Who live with it.”
“Art belongs with those who love it most,” Ezra confirms. “Not those who can pay the most at auction, but those who will wake up every morning and see it with fresh appreciation. Who will touch it when no one’s there to witness their awe. Who understand that ownership is just temporary stewardship.”
I think of the paintings I’ve stolen over the years, of the forgeries I’ve left in their place. Had I been following the same philosophy without naming it? Ensuring that beauty remained in circulation, that the world didn’t lose what my replacements preserved?
“You’re still a thief,” I say with ironic recognition.
“Takes one to know one.” His teeth graze my earlobe, the sensation sending shivers down my spine.
Ezra refills our glasses with the last of the whiskey, and we drink in silence, the liquor warming our bodies as the night deepens around us. The city beyond the windows has grown quieter, the hour late enough that even Skyhaven’s perpetual rhythm has slowed to a gentle pulse.
In this moment, I’m more alive than I’ve ever been while pretending to be someone else. And it’s all because of the man behind me.
Ezra sets his empty glass on the nightstand. The shift brings us closer together, his body flush with mine, and his arm around my waist tightens.
“Finish your drink.” He nuzzles my nape. “You’re staying the night.”
It’s not a question, nor quite a command, but a simple statement of fact. Any other time, from any other person, the presumption would cause my independence to bristle and rouse my need for escape routes and contingency plans.
But not tonight. Not with Ezra.
I drain my glass, and he takes it from me, setting it beside his. Then he kisses me, his mouth finding mine with unerring accuracy despite the awkward angle. He pinches my chin, drawing me further toward him, deepening the connection, tongues sliding and curling together until we’re both breathless.
I let him guide me back onto the sheets, let his body cover mine, let myself believe that maybe home isn’t a place to be found but a person to be chosen.
As Ezra’s hands map familiar territory with renewed hunger, as his mouth claims mine with possessive certainty, I surrender to the truth we’ve both always known.
Some forgeries are more authentic than their originals.
And some loves are worth the risk of exposure.
15
Light spears through my closed eyelids, dragging me from a deep sleep. A bitter, cottony taste fills my mouth, and my skull throbs with each beat of my heart.
The whiskey. Ezra’s expensive whiskey that I drank too much of while he stayed frustratingly sober.
I groan and shift, soft sheets rubbing over my bare skin, trying to escape both the light and the knowledge I’m still in his bed.
