The Alcove and The Afterglow

The Alcove and The Afterglow

Chapter 1

"Searching For Something"

Her

She's been awake for a while, lying still beneath the weight of unfamiliar blankets in a room that smells like lavender soap, vanilla candles and someone else's memories. The silence is too complete and it takes a moment for her to realise that this means it's still too early for the owners to have emerged from their private area of the B&B. Converted from an old farmhouse, it's small, with just two rooms for guests in the main house and an old outbuilding converted into a chalet that doubled as a self-catering unit for those visitors who preferred it.

She'd considered that of course. But eventually the luxury of not having to think about cooking or cleaning for a while, and the fact that it really was too big for just one person made her decide against it. And so far, she wasn't regretting her decision. The creaking floors, the 'handed down through the generations' mishmash of decor, the owners bickering in that way that only people who have been married for decades and are still madly in love can. It's charming in the kind of way that makes her feel like a character in someone else's story.

And she doesn't quite know what to do with that.

The holiday was her idea. Her own credit card. Her own plan. "A reset," she'd told herself. Some quiet town somewhere between the middle of nothing and the back end of beyond, far from the noise and the people who still look at her like she might break if they speak too loudly. Civilised enough to have a tiny mall complete with movie theatre, backwards enough that it was more tourist destination and a place to 'get away from it all' than anything else.

No one here knows her name. Conversations are of the small talk variety. She likes that. Mostly.

Now that she's been here a few days though... already done the trail ride and canoeing around the dam and the whole day hike thing... the days are starting to feel long and loose around the edges. The mornings are the worst--empty hours stretched out like blank canvas, waiting for her to decide how she wants to fill them.

And today, she doesn't know.

She drags herself out of bed, running a hand through the tangled mess of her curls as she pulls on a pair of low-rise jeans and the rib-knit top she left hanging over the back of a chair last night. She usually tied it up when she went to bed, but she'd been leaving it loose since she'd arrived here. It meant her days started with the battle of brush vs knots of the restless tossing and turning variety, but a change was as good as a holiday they claimed.

And if you make a change while on an actual holiday, then that's like doubling down right? Double the holiday, half the price? She snorts as she moves toward the dresser and her hairbrush. The mirror above it is old and slightly warped, but it still does what it's meant to. Reveals that while she might feel like her and ghosts have a lot in common at the moment -- she's still here. Still her. More or less.

She pauses for a moment, staring unseeingly into her own eyes, thumb rubbing absently at a chip in the lacquered wood handle of the brush in her hand. The silence presses gently against her, not quite heavy, not quite light. Just... expectant maybe? Waiting. For what, she doesn't know. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she gets to work on her hair. She's here for two weeks. She's got time to figure it out.

Downstairs, the kitchen is still shrouded in darkness. She finds the light switch and sets about making herself some coffee from the supplies left out for guests. She stands at the sink staring out at the stables just starting to appear out of the gloom of night. Maybe she'd go riding again today. Try a different trail from the one she'd done before. Did she really feel like all that outdoors today though?

She grabs an old newspaper off a pile by the door as she heads back up to her room and settles into the window seat that is arguably her favourite spot in the whole house. Only half reading as she sips her coffee, far more interested in watching the sun nudge the world outside the window awake.

A headline tucked in a corner catches her eye though, and she shifts her full attention to the paper.

"Ten Overlooked Treasures for the Curious Wanderer"

She skims the article, smirking a little at the wording. Clickbait for the ink-stained generation. It lists all the usual sort of things for this type of destination. Horse riding, hiking trails, fishing. But one entry looks intriguing and she pauses to take it in.

The House of Echoes and Unwanted Things

She reads the blurb twice. An eccentric family museum on the edge of town. Founded by a long dead local woman as an excuse to indulge her personal passion for personal obsessions and private mythologies. It had grown over the years, becoming a collection of things that told stories about invisible lives: heirloom letters, anonymous portraits, love tokens, forgotten art, household oddities. The latest generation had no interest in the place, but they'd hired a new curator to try to bring it back to life.

It wouldn't usually interest her. But with a day full of nothing to do stretching out in front of her, it seemed like a good way to while away at least a few hours. She'll head over about mid-morning. Have breakfast, help Mr. Botha with the horses, have a shower, let Mrs. Botha know she would be having lunch in town somewhere. Maybe at the mall. She could leave her car there and walk over to the museum if it was close enough.

Yes, she thinks. That's what I'll do. Something different for a change. Triple the holiday for just a few bucks more!! Smiling at herself, pleased that she can still make jokes (who cares that it was corny enough to make her dad jealous), to have a plan -- she settles herself more comfortably on the window seat and waits, only a little impatiently, for everyone else to wake up so her day can finally get started

A place for unwanted things, she muses as she sips her coffee, might be just the place to find whatever it is she hasn't figured out she's looking for.

You

You throw down your pen and lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. You stretch your arms overhead -- fingers interlaced; palms turned outward. Trying to ease the tension climbing your neck toward a full-blown headache.

The movement pulls something tight in your lower back and you breathe through it, rolling your shoulders a little to help your muscles unclench a little faster. You hold the stretch a moment longer, then let it go with another sigh.

It's not even lunchtime. And already you feel like you've been here for days.

The desk in front of you is a scattered graveyard of yellowed inventory sheets, faded purchase records, and the mess of notes and plans for the new exhibition you're slowly, slowly, bringing to life. It had been weeks of reorganising and cataloguing, trying to bring some sort of order to the chaos masquerading as an archive while identifying the pieces that would fit with the vision in your head. But it was all starting to come together now. Finally.

It had all started with a small cigar box tucked away at the back of a steel cabinet you'd had to break into because the keys had long ago disappeared, buried in the corner of a storeroom that probably hadn't been catalogued ever. Inside the cigar box were dozens of letters, one woman writing to another. The types of letters that would have idiot historians classifying them as 'great friends' but that anyone with half a brain would immediately recognise for what they were.

Longing wrapped in domestic updates. Tenderness folded into weather reports and travel plans. Intimacies dressed in the mundane fabric of living a life you're pretending is more than just quiet despair.

Careful words. Coded truths.

You haven't been able to find out anything about who the two women were, despite your best efforts. There's nothing unique about these letters, you'd found others almost exactly like them as you'd dug through the archives. And some had even been a lot more blatant and obvious about what the writers were feeling, wishing for, fantasising about. So, you don't know why these particular letters struck you the way they did--but they did. You've read them all. More than once.

Maybe it had been the photograph tucked between the carefully opened envelopes. Casual at first glance -- just two women mid-laughter at what looks like a party. But their bodies are too close, their eyes too aware of each other. It looks like the camera caught them seconds after pulling apart from an embrace neither wanted to break.

You don't know why it matters so much. But it does.

The museum has never done an explicitly queer exhibit before, though it's always been about the invisible and the forgotten. This story fits. Whether the family likes it or not. They can mutter in the group chat all they want. You've been tasked with reviving the museum and this is exactly the type of exhibit that would get people talking. So, you're not asking for permission.

You glance at the bank of monitors lining the wall--half out of habit, half as an excuse to let your eyes rest. A moment of rest before returning to drowning in the paper tide.

That's when you see her.

Standing in what you've dubbed the west gallery is a woman in jeans and a ribbed top. Hair loose and curling down her back, the strands catching the light from the high windows in a way that makes you pause. She's still. Not just not moving -- but entirely, completely still. Like the moment has folded itself around her, freezing her in time like the subjects in the photos she's looking at.

Of all the displays and collections in the museum, this one is your favourite. You remember the first time you saw the collection: sensual, gritty, and too beautiful to be comfortable. A fine art style series of photographs featuring sex workers. Framed in shadow and neon, back against a wall with one leg propped to reveal a flash of thigh, leaning through the window of an obviously expensive car, scantily clad and hip cocked, cigarette dangling from fingers and in the background the blurred figures of a man and woman clearly striking a deal. And the final image: a woman seated alone on a curb, elbows propped on knees and high heels dangling from her fingertips, her head bowed into her arms and a curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her face. Anonymous, painful, stark reality by the soft glow of a streetlamp.

Your personal touch was the addition of a poem you'd seen years before on Tumblr, now handwritten by the poet on raw cotton paper and framed for all to see. If the photos themselves didn't drive home the message that this was never a life that anyone wanted then the poem would.

The woman on the monitor is reading it now. You can tell by the way her weight has shifted forward slightly, arms folded loose across her stomach, head tilted just enough to expose the line of her neck.

There's something about the way she's holding herself--like if she moved too quickly the moment would crack.

You glance toward the time stamp in the corner of the screen. Nearly lunch. You've still got so much to do, both for the new exhibition and simple day to day admin. Your hand moves to the mouse, zooming in on the display. The monitor shows her from the side, what you can see of her expression showing that she gets it -- she's feeling everything you did when you first encountered the photos. More even.

You find yourself leaning in. Wanting to be closer.

She tilts her head again, one hand moving to push her curls back over her shoulder where they tumble like spilled ink. Your eyes follow the arc of it, trace the exposed line of her throat. Her arms are crossed loosely over her stomach, not in defence but in some tender instinct -- like she's trying to hold something in.

You've watched plenty of visitors on these monitors. School groups. Couples. Retirees wandering in for something to do. You've seen people cry. You've seen them laugh too loud, roll their eyes, scroll their phones. But this is different. She's different.

There's a stillness in her that draws you in. A kind of brittle gravity carefully contained by a shell of manufactured calm.

You wonder what brought her here.

You wonder what she sees in those photographs that makes her lean forward instead of away.

You wonder how long she'll stay.

Something flickers in your chest. Sharp and warm, you let it curl, low and slow, somewhere beneath your ribs.

On the monitor, she turns slightly, revealing more of her profile. Her lips are moving and you suspect she's mouthing the words of the poem to herself. Your pulse shifts as you watch her, like her silent words have cast a spell aimed directly at you, the pen suddenly in your hand tapping against the desk in time with thoughts that bristle uncomfortably.

She's probably just passing through, the typical curious tourist, like so many others.

She'll see what there is to see and never come back.

Still, your eyes stay on the screen even after she finally steps out of frame and the small office feels suddenly, shockingly quiet.

You glance back at the notes scattered across your desk. Try to remember what you were doing before she appeared. Before something inside you shifted. You pick up the pen again, but this time it's not to make a list or circle a line of inventory code. You write one word in the corner of the page, almost absently.

"Letters."

You're not thinking of the ones in the cigar box. Not anymore. It's just the shape of the word, as if writing it out was a spell that might call her back into view.

You stare at it a moment longer, then set the pen down carefully and reach for the folder closest to you. There's still a full afternoon ahead. Still so much to do.

But all you can think about is the woman in the west gallery. And how still she was. A musing smile plays across your lips as you wonder what she'd look like if something... someone... managed to break through that shell of hers and release whatever it was holding in check.

Her

She's not sure how long she's been standing there. Frozen in place by feelings that are both too much and not enough all at once.

The ache behind her ribs is delicate and precise, like a bruise blooming slowly with her heart at the centre. The photographs had hit her hard, all synthetic glamour bottled like cheap perfume and reckless bravado disguising the mourning for a life never lived but desperately wanted.

It's the poem that lingers though, taking root somewhere deep. Each verse unfurling a silent tendril of something that cuts as it wraps around her bones, tightening with each breath.

She exhales, long and low, and lets her eyes trace the words one more time -- softly, like a hand brushed soothingly over bruised skin.

Tousled Angels

Midnight drapes itself along a back road

That knows not to ask what broken

Dreams led you here

And uncaring of the faults in the

Stardust of our souls,

A street light flickers a halo on the heads

Of nobodies whose choice would be

Anything but this

Had they been given it instead of the

Wounds that trademark them

As warriors

But they were born on the

Wrong side of lucks draw for that

And so here they are

Jaded eyes and cherry lips

Renting happiness by the hour

Practising the artistry of the ending

And laughing away the idea of perfection

Looking anything like them

Concrete angels

Who just wanted somebody to die for

Back when the hearts on their sleeves still

Believed in forever

Before they knew anything about

The business of saving us

From the loneliness of ourselves

Who have never seen how the neon

Fantasies of a thousand men

Gild their tousled wings

In forgotten hope

She hadn't expected this.

She hadn't expected any of it if she was honest. The wind had been moody as she walked, strong enough that it had kept blowing her curls across her face. But she hadn't minded. Just wrapped the ends around one hand, enjoying the way the town had slowly unravelled before her.

Quiet streets and uneven sidewalks, pale succulents blooming along the fences, stubborn old trees whose roots cracked the surrounding pavement in quiet rebellion, sun half-hidden behind a scrim of cloud. The buildings had become older as she followed the map on her phone toward her destination. Quieter. The sort that slouched into their own shadows.

The house itself was stunning. High stone walls almost completely overgrown with ivy, a brass plaque with the name etched in slanted cursive beside a gate that had sighed softly when she'd pushed it open. Like it still remembered almost rusting shut with how long it had stood unused and was glad to be serving its intended purpose again. Tall windows that looked out over small flower beds surrounding the building, and a massive medieval looking wooden door complete with weathered ironwork standing invitingly open.

Inside was something else entirely.

Room after room unfolding like a whisper. Or a memory. Or both. Each one told a different kind of story, all strung together without any kind of logic. A series of confessions arranged not by era or value, but by some feeling they'd invoked in whoever had put each display together. A home for all the types of things leftover from an estate sale. Things that didn't quite fit anywhere else. The misnamed. The misremembered. The misplaced.

Anonymous family photo albums next to a row of discontinued perfumes that had long since lost their scent. A collection of matchbooks from clubs and bars, open to reveal the phone number scrawled on the inner flap and a room with nothing but shoes of all shapes and sizes, all worn and beautifully ruined.

A hallway practically wallpapered with the childish art that had once decorated fridge doors and classroom walls leading to a space overflowing with paperbacks given as gifts, sometimes multiples of the same copy, complete with a message from the giver scrawled on the first page.

A pile of recipe books, battered and outdated, on a table beside a shoe box of ticket stubs. A packed suitcase found in a train station locker and never claimed. Another room crammed with every instrument you could imagine, all broken and damaged beyond repair.

A wall of Polaroid portraits -- all featuring homeless people, migrants, sex workers, runaways and each with a short written or recorded response to the question 'How did you end up here?' Sometimes one sentence, sometimes a whole story.

There might not be any logic to any of it, but she could feel what it was all trying to say. That even though each item might once have been deliberately concealed, erased, coded, overlooked, or just forgotten -- someone had loved them so much that they'd given each one a new home where they could live forever in the light.

She continues her slow wandering, eventually ending up back near the entrance lobby. She pauses, eyes catching on a small sign tacked beside an old banister.

Café Upstairs - Fresh Bakes Daily. Please Mind the Step.

She smiles to herself. Might as well. She's here, and though she'd told Mrs. Botha she'd grab something from one of the places in the mall, she didn't think she felt up to all that bustling after the quiet of the museum.

She starts up the stairs, her fingers brushing lightly over the rail as she climbs. The light is warmer up here, more golden, touched with the scent of coffee and something sweet.

She hears music when she reaches the landing, something low and familiar. Spots the glass counter and the row of delicate pastries on display. And there -- tucked between the scones and tartlets -- are the unmistakable shapes of chocolate eclairs.

She lets out a soft, delighted sound and steps forward. The brunette behind the counter glances up with a smile.

"Something catch your eye, did it?"

"You have chocolate eclairs!" she crouches down to get a closer look. "And they're the cream kind!"

The woman leans on the counter, eyes bright with mischief. "The only real kind. Always."

She can't help the answering grin that spreads across her face or the laugh that bubbles up her throat. This day is getting better and better.

Chapter 2

"How the Light Found Her"

You

Climbing the stairs that rise up through the floor to the coffee shop, you hear her laugh before you see her.

Soft and sun-warmed, it makes you think of hot buttered toast and you pause -- listening. Dripping with light honey, your mind adds. The mental picture expands as she speaks.

Being shared between lovers wearing little more than yesterday's wrinkled shirt as they laugh softly together. Small touches drawing them closer to each other. A hand on an arm. A twining of fingers. Your shoulder leaning into hers. Cups steaming in the early morning air, the light of rising sun only just reaching their small balcony. Locking eyes, the space between their lips disappearing into a coffee flavoured kiss.

You blink the image away, realising you've been doing a pretty good impression of a statue for the last few minutes. An accent you can't quite place rounds her words, softening them slightly.

"The custard ones are okay when there's nothing else, but I'm not a fan to be honest."

The excitement in her voice teases a smile from your lips and you continue up the stairs, eager to get a closer look at the voice's owner.

Your first glimpse is that tumble of curls you noticed before, the ends just brushing the top of a black belt looped through jeans stretched taut by her haunched position in front of the display counter.

"And what's going on here?"

Your voice startles her and she spins as she tries to stand. She overcorrects and starts to topple over instead, arms shooting out and a startled "Oh" slipping out as she tries to catch her balance.

You're already moving. One step, maybe two, and your hand is closing around hers, holding her steady.

"Shit, sorry--"

She looks up at the unexpected contact -- and the world tilts when the full force of her aquamarine eyes meets yours.

There's a glint of intelligence and a dance of laughter. A hint of shadows and a softness that speaks of choices made in the wake of them. Flustered embarrassment stretching them impossibly wide as you pull her to her feet.

"Uh, thanks. Sorry I didn't mean to--"

She's lighter than you're expecting, and you use a little more effort than you need to help her up. Her hands move instinctively, bracing themselves on your hips. Your hand settles just as instinctively at the small of her back. Her "Oh" is softer this time, a little breathless.

She's close.

So close that her warmth seeps through your clothes, moulding to your skin as though every inch of her body is pressed against you.

Her head tilts back and you feel, more than see, her swallow. Her eyes flick to your mouth and you'd swear that she sways closer. Just barely. Imperceptibly. And now you're wondering if she'll close the distance between you.

Hoping she will.

Your hand is still curled against the base of her spine, and an image -- the soft cupid's bow of her lips finding yours -- flickers through you like a spark in dry tinder. The sound of someone speaking barely registers, muffled and far away.

"Hmmm?"

Your head turns slightly, but your gaze doesn't leave hers.

The sound of your voice seems to startle her out of her reverie and her eyes fly guiltily to yours. She seems shell-shocked as she steps back, head ducked to obscure her blush behind a swing of hair. Hands smoothing the jeans clinging to the soft flare of her hips as though she's trying to distract them from something else they'd rather be doing.

You let your hand linger as she turns, unable to resist stroking your thumb over the dimples at the base of her spine before you draw it away.

The way her body responds -- the tiny jolt of muscles as she stiffens, the quiet hiss of breath -- turns the spark from earlier into a raging inferno of something that is equal parts curiosity and want.

The sudden absence of her warmth is immediate. Like losing something vital and important. You take a breath, slow and deliberate, before turning your attention to the source of the earlier interruption.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

The brunette behind the counter is watching you with open amusement, one eyebrow arched in silent commentary. You answer it with a slight curl of your lips and a barely-there shrug.

"I was just trying to introduce you to the lady here," she says, all innocence, "as the reason for the chocolate eclairs she was telling me are her absolute favourite."

You roll your eyes in exasperation, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrays you.

"With cream. Not custard," the brunette adds helpfully, grinning. "Apparently, that's non-negotiable."

You glance toward the woman beside you. She's rifling through her bag now, face still hidden behind her hair, clearly still trying to recover her equilibrium. You shake your head slightly, more amused than chastising. Your eyes linger for a moment longer.

You wouldn't deny that teasing her had been fun, but any more and you might push her over the edge and out the door forever. Which was the exact opposite of what you wanted.

She glances up briefly as she straightens, brushing her hair behind her ear. Those aquamarine eyes flash again, just for a heartbeat. And you know, without a doubt, that she felt it too. The fire.

You smile, quiet and unreadable, as you turn toward the counter. There's still a whole afternoon ahead. And now that you've seen her up close, you know you'll be spending part of it deciding when -- and how -- you want her to see you again.

Her

She draws in a silent breath, gathering her scattered thoughts before lifting her head.

This was... not what she expected.

She'd come upstairs chasing the scent of something warm and sweet -- hoping for a good coffee and time to recalibrate, maybe shake off a few of the memories that clung to her. Memories that weren't hers but had twined with her own into a jumbled mess of emotions and frozen moments.

Maybe a seat near a window with some sun, a meal that she could eat slowly, killing another hour or so before heading back to the guest house. Calm and peaceful and quiet. Just what she needed.

Not this. Not...

You.

Not a woman with emerald eyes and a voice made for crooning heartbreak in smoky bars that pulled her off the floor with one hand and short-circuited her entire nervous system with the other.

Images flash behind her eyes as she digs through her bag for... what is she looking for?

Soft hands. Strong fingers. Velvet, not silk. Hands that did the hard work when needed. Long legs she'd got a brief but unforgettable view of from her otherwise unfortunate position on the floor. Eyes that burned through her like sunlight through frost, seeming to peel back every layer until she stood naked beneath their heat. Pink lips glossed by a smile that felt like a secret.

She drags herself back to the present with effort, not quite able to stop her eyes from flicking in your direction as she lifts her head -- wallet in hand. The woman behind the counter is watching her with an amused little grin, like she's seen this kind of fluster before and knows how it ends.

"The reason...?" she manages instead of the dammit that crowds her thoughts, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the brunette.

The woman nods toward you.

"She used sweet promises and blatant trickery to convince me to take over here. Full control of my own kitchen. Freedom to do whatever I want with the menu. A share of the profits as well as a salary for when those profits are lower than a very decent amount."

"Sounds like you got quite the deal," she says, dragging a smile to her lips.

"One caveat," the brunette adds with a shake of her head and a raised finger. "I had to have chocolate eclairs on the menu." A sidelong glance in your direction. "With cream. Not custard. Because they're her one indulgence, her... absolute favourite."

She's proud of how she manages to ignore the game the woman is having far too much fun playing, pinning the smile in place with the unconscious ease of years of practice.

"I see she thinks she's the one who scored," she says lightly, steadying a little. With years in the hospitality industry behind her, she can handle teasing innuendo and sidelong glances. Even give it back a little. "But chocolate eclairs are my one guilty pleasure and if I had a way to make sure I had them, freshly made, every day?"

She laughs, and reaches out without thinking--fingers brushing your arm. "I'd probably give you anything you asked for." She realises her mistake when the contact arrows through her, wreaking havoc on the mask she'd only just managed to pull into place. The words hang for a moment longer than they should.

"Freshly made eclairs in exchange for... anything," you repeat, your voice low, the pause between words weighted and deliberate.

The snappy comeback dies in her throat. The brunette she can handle. There's nothing there to throw her off. But you... well... there's everything to throw her off there. Especially that tendril of burnt copper that's curled itself against the corner of the smile you're directing down at her.

Her body is humming, fingers aching with the desire to reach out, brush it oh so gently off your cheek and tuck it back behind your ear. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans instead.

And immediately regrets it as the denim tugs against the sensitive ache she's doing her best to ignore. Thirty seconds of innocent contact, one possibly heated look, and one definitely loaded comment, she thinks, and I'm a complete disaster. She's grateful for the years she spent waitressing -- smiling politely through chaos, staying functional even when her brain was pure static. She leans into that old muscle memory now.

"Custard eclairs are a sacrilege," she says, grinning. Grateful that it feels genuine and a little delighted even. "So, the equivalent of your own restaurant with a bonus safety net in return for nothing but the pure unadulterated real thing seems like a fair exchange to me."

Your laugh beside her is throaty and warm, like a bonfire cracking through chill air. It wraps around her like the memory of a night she never got to live.

"You have a beautiful laugh," the words are out before she can think better of them. She lifts a shoulder, sheepish. Well. That happened. One of these days she was going to do something about the filter between her brain and mouth. Replace it with one that didn't glitch out at the most inconvenient moments.

"Well thank you," you say, lips curving slowly. "For validating my eclair demands. And the compliment."

Your smile is considering, but she's too preoccupied with how your voice thrills across her senses -- like a slow drag across velvet -- to wonder what it might mean.

"So do you."

Her head tilts slightly, still trying to process what your voice is doing to her and unsure for a moment what you're referring to.

"Have a beautiful laugh," you murmur. "I heard it coming up the stairs."

She goes still. You're looking at her again. Like you did when you first helped her up. Like your mouth is saying one thing and your mind is thinking something else entirely.

Your eyes trail over her and she's suddenly very aware of what she's wearing. Old jeans softened by years of regular wear with a small tear in the knee, tucked into equally well-worn cowboy boots, the T-shirt that reads 'Friends are forever, boys are whatever' under a denim jacket that skims her waist.

She looks like a teenager. Someone in their early twenties maybe. Not a full-grown woman who had recently waved goodbye to her mid-thirties. She rakes her fingers self-consciously through her mess of sun-streaked curls -- that thankfully are mostly behaving today -- tucking them back behind one ear.

"It suits you," you add.

She feels it again. That strange sensation of being looked at and seen at the same time.

And suddenly she's acutely aware that she's standing in the middle of a café with no shield, no armour, and absolutely no idea what to do next.

The throb of desire curling low in her belly is begging her to respond to the lick of hunger in your eyes. Her brain is yelling at her that that's a very bad idea. And her heart is thrumming uselessly between anticipation and caution.

She needs to extricate herself from this situation fast. Before she does something completely, utterly stupid.

Like kiss you.

You

A light flush dusts her cheeks and she gives a little shrug, like she's hoping the compliment might skip past her and disappear down the stairs.

"Thank you. Again." The words are a little strangled, as though she only just managed to force them out.

She turns toward the brunette behind the counter and you can't help the small flicker of disappointment when she steps closer to the glass display -- and further away from you. You actually see as the mantle of control settles on her shoulders. A perfectly composed example of self-possession. Cool, calm, collected. Unruffled.

"So, eclairs aside," she says, "I actually came here for lunch. Do I order from you or do you offer table service?"

"My waitress is on her break," the brunette replies easily. "But if you take a seat, I'll bring you a menu. She can take over when she's back. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime?"

"The biggest cup of coffee you have please, by which I mean a bucket would be perfect." You can hear the grin in her voice, an injection of sunshine that lifts it from burnt sugar languor into something floral and light. "Oh, and cold milk please."

"One Mega coffee, then," the brunette says with a laugh. "It's more bowl than bucket, but we do refills."

"Perfect. I'll just sit down then. No rush." She turns back to you, shifts the strap of her satchel more securely over her shoulder. Hesitates for a moment. "It was nice to meet you," she says finally. And then she's gone, heading for a small table tucked near the open windows where the light spills across the floor in golden sheets. You wonder what she almost said.

"You'll be having your usual, I suppose?" the brunette asks you.

But you're watching the sun play in her hair, fascinated by how it dances from one loose ringlet to another with every small movement. Each gilded curl seems to have a life of its own and it takes you a moment to remember that she's waiting, patiently amused, for an answer.

"Yes, the usual please," you say without taking your eyes off the small woman sitting with her back to you. "And I wanted to have a word about the new exhibition if you've got time."

She turns her head, looking at you over her shoulder as though to reassure herself that you're a safe distance away. Or because she wants to refresh her memory of you? The light seems to scatter when she looks away again, haloing around her head before skipping off into the shadows.

Focus. You'd wanted a closer look, and you'd gotten it. And as delightful a distraction as Little Miss Sunshine was, there was work to be done.

The bistro had been one of the ideas you implemented soon after taking over. Prompted, if you were honest, by your own need for a never-ending source of caffeine that didn't taste like burnt regret and budget constraints. Convincing your friend -- former sous chef at one of the region's better coffee shops -- had taken a little bribery, a lot of persuasion, and the promise of full creative freedom. But the gamble had paid off.

More than paid off.

People came for the food now. Locals who hadn't set foot in the museum in years were showing up again, wanting to see what a chef they knew and loved was doing in their own kitchen, and sometimes paid the small entrance fee to see the museum as well.

Tourists discovered it on local food blogs or travel articles and left glowing reviews about the 'divinely melt in your mouth pastries', which brought more to the door. Some even wandered through the exhibits after their meals. If your plan worked, the new exhibition would flip that pattern on its head.

They'd come for the museum. And stay for the coffee. Which meant it needed to be good. Not just interesting. Not just worthy.

Good.

You'd already filed the paperwork for the popup bar license. One night only. Limited stock. Wine, bubbly, light beer, house cocktails. Whisky, vodka, gin, brandy -- just the basics.

"I'll need a few new canapés for the launch night," you say, turning to your friend behind the counter. "Something a little fancier than we usually do. And definitely more elegant than the open sandwich and tomato jam affair the locals seem to love so much."

You prop a hip against the wooden section of the counter, cradling the small glass mug of cà phê sữa nóng in your hands before taking a sip. You'd come across the Vietnamese coffee a few years ago and fallen immediately in love with its unctuous complexity.

The rich sweetness of condensed milk balanced against the bitterness of traditional drip style Robusta was heaven in a cup, and just what you needed to get through days of too much admin and not enough time.

"And a couple of signature mocktails," you continue. "We'll have a pop-up bar running the booze, but we need something for the non-drinkers that still feels... elevated."

"Mm," she says, already thinking. "Pear and ginger spritz? Maybe a blackberry and lime cooler?"

"Perfect. I'll leave the rest to you. Just nothing with grenadine. Or paper straws."

"You wound me," she smirks.

You step back, already halfway into your mental to-do list again. Pause as you glance back toward the woman gazing out the window, elbow on the table, chin propped in her palm. The utter stillness is back, and you wonder what has her so absorbed this time.

Making a decision, you move to grab a takeaway box from behind the counter and place an eclair gently inside. You reach for a business card from the holder beside the till, then change your mind. You open the drawer beneath it instead, pull out a promo ticket. Free entry for one. Elegant matte finish. The museum's name embossed across the centre in blind gloss. No expiry date.

You tuck it under the wax paper and close the lid.

"Make sure she gets this when she pays," you say to your friend. "Tell her it's on the house, a gift from one chocolate eclair fan to another."

"Of course," she murmurs, not bothering to look up from the notepad in front of her.

You ignore the smirk in her voice and head for the stairs, coffee in hand.

She'll either use the ticket. Or she won't.

But you're betting she will.

Hoping.

Chapter 3

"Her Silhouette Your Surrender"

Her

She bends to look beneath the small bench, brushing her fingers along the floorboards just in case. There's nothing there -- no pens that rolled away, no lip balm making its bid for freedom, no paper slips or forgotten scraps of inspiration.

Still, it feels like something should be. As though the bench should have claimed a piece of her by now. She'd been there for long enough, so absorbed in the sketch that she hadn't noticed the hours slipping by.

It's habit more than worry.

She knows it wouldn't be a problem if she left something behind. Someone would find it and she'd be able to collect it from the front desk tomorrow. But that's not the point. If she doesn't check, it'll be the one thing she desperately needs later. Because Murphy is a bastard like that.

Satisfied she has everything; she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads for the door.

It's late afternoon and the museum is nearly empty. Just the way she likes it.

This is her favourite time to visit -- when the silence feels like something alive, softly exhaling around her. The displays seem to whisper to one another in a language only the quiet can understand. Dust motes drift lazily through the golden slant of light that the slowly singing sun sends spilling across the floor.

She pauses for a moment, watching as amber light and encroaching shadow chase one another over rooftops and crooked trees. Behind a low rise of hills nestled along the coastline, past the jumble of homes and carefully untamed nature that slopes gently toward them, the ocean glints like a secret.

She loves this time of day, when the world is catching its breath after the lunchtime rush. Not quite sleepy, but resting. Preparing itself for the next rush when everyone heads home after a long day at work. That feeling of a world on pause is amplified here in the museum.

She'd explored every inch of it a dozen times. Roamed every room turned gallery, wandered every hallway while keeping an eye out for any closets, niches, or recesses hiding a random arrangement of items, searched for and discovered the secrets hidden in every display.

She'd yet to grow tired of the ambience though, and the museum had become something of a sanctuary. Little pockets of time frozen in place while the world marches inexorably on into the future outside the thick stone walls.

Somewhere she can escape to whenever her thoughts become too overwhelming for her own company. Whenever her memories of you aren't enough to keep them at bay anymore.

She hadn't noticed the ticket when she'd finally allowed herself to open the takeaway box, after dinner with the Botha's. She'd stared at it longer than she should've. Read it twice. Flipped it over, as if it might have something more to say.

She'd been a little worried that Mrs. Botha would be offended that she was choosing the takeaway dessert over what she'd made. But the older woman had only laughed when she explained where it came from, telling her to enjoy it. And spotting the ticket, to bring back some melktert when she visited again.

It had taken three days for her to do exactly that.

Three days of telling herself not to overthink it. Three days of replaying every moment of the encounter in the bistro. Every feeling. Every touch. Every breath. Three days of wondering whether she would see you if she did go back.

She'd seen you almost immediately.

You were standing with a tour group in an area just off the front entrance, gesturing toward a portrait as you spoke. You were obviously in your element -- confident, articulate, effortlessly holding the attention of anyone in earshot. Impossible to look away from.

Your hair was a clipped-up cascade of copper and flame, a few soft tendrils falling free to kiss your neck. The satin blouse you wore was a deep wine-red with a plunging neckline, half-tucked into sharply tailored trousers that accentuated every gracefully fluid movement as you led the group through the museum.

She'd tagged along with the tour, drifting unnoticed behind them. She'd known the exact moment that you registered her silent presence. Heard the slight pause in the flow of your words, seen the satisfied edge that slipped into your smile.

She didn't speak to you that day. Just watched. Trying to absorb every detail while pretending not to. The way your blouse clung when you moved. How the light caught on the fine gold chain at your throat. The constellation of freckles just visible above your collarbone. The shape your mouth made when you said elegant and telepathic and irrelevant.

She hadn't followed the group up to the bistro at the end of the tour, instead leaving as silently as she'd arrived.

But she'd kept coming back. Almost every day since.

She brought her sketchbook every time, moving aimlessly through the museum. Sketching items that caught her eye -- a locket on a dresser, the light playing across the row of perfume bottles, an ornate letter opener, the worn edge of a portrait frame. But sometimes, the thing that caught her eye was you.

The back of your head, curls pinned up in controlled disarray. The slope of your neck when your head tilted to listen to someone speak. Your hands, long-fingered and expressive, wrapped around a coffee cup. The edge of your mouth curled into that small, knowing smile. It was only when she was back at the B&B that the sketches got more detailed.

A closeup of your fingers undoing your blouse, revealing more of the lacy bra and the swells they cupped that she'd glimpsed earlier. Asleep, hair spread across the pillow and blanket strategically draped over your bare skin.

A portrait of you with the same look you'd given her the one day the two of you had actually spoken -- like you saw every hidden corner and wanted to run your fingers through the dust.

She'd been crying. She couldn't remember what triggered it this time. And then there you were, your voice behind her the first clue that she wasn't as alone as she'd thought she was.

"You alright Sunshine?"

She'd turned her head away, wiping furiously at the tears and trying, unsuccessfully, to swallow the sobs that wracked her shoulders. She couldn't have answered if she'd wanted to, and you'd continued, a matter-of-fact tone replacing the soft concern of your first question.

"Life," you'd said. "It can be a bit of a bitch sometimes."

The small sound of agreement was all she'd been able to manage.

"People too," you'd said, moving around to stand in front of her. "They're worse really. Should just do away with the lot of them." You'd stepped closer then, slowly, carefully. Like she was some wild fawn, and would bolt if you moved too fast.

She'd just nodded, keeping her face turned away from you, one hand pressed to her mouth and the other clenched at her side. "I've already started actually, but it's slow going. Good thing I work here now... plenty of hidey holes for the bodies."

The deadpan statement had startled a tiny laugh out of her, and she'd almost looked at you then. But the thought of what she must look like, all puffy eyed and red nosed had stopped her, sent her gaze somewhere off to one side of you instead.

And then your fingers were under her chin, lifting her head and locking eyes, thumb wiping away the tear track on her cheek. Almost, she would swear, brushing across her lips before coming to rest at the corner of her mouth. Your voice had dropped an octave then, dipping into something intimate and private meant just for her ears.

"Just like I thought," she'd said quietly. "As beautiful in tears as when you're watching me from across the room, all wide eyes and wanting."

She'd jerked back then, shock breaking the spell of your fingers on her skin. You knew that she'd been watching you. Knew what she'd been imagining when she did. "Sorry," she'd choked out, whirling in search of the door.

"Sorry." It was all she could manage. And then she'd run.

It had been days before she came back. And she wasn't sure if she was disappointed or relieved that she hadn't seen you since.

You

You take the long way to your destination.

Not out of indulgence, but because there's a particular satisfaction in tracing the quiet edges of the museum. The back routes. The softened corners. The corridors that were never given names on the maps that visitors can pick up from the front desk.

You know this building intimately now. Where the foot traffic slows. Where it forgets to look. You've marked out the spots most visitors pass by without ever really seeing. There are more of them than people realise -- blind spots in the choreography of curiosity.

The one you're headed to now is your favourite.

An alcove nestled along a corridor that serves as a kind of architectural afterthought -- too narrow to showcase anything substantial, too crooked to invite photographs. Most guests don't even use it, drawn instead toward the light pouring in through the massive arches at either end of the hallway.

Unless they happen to glance back over their shoulder before stepping into the gallery where that light comes from, they never see the small opening tucked just out of sight.

You're counting on that.

You'd chosen this space carefully. An old storage recess repurposed with just enough carelessness to seem accidental. A small bookshelf lined with abandoned books -- warped spines and curling covers, bindings split down the middle. Water-damaged pages that stick together like they're keeping secrets.

A threadbare, high-backed armchair angled just so. A weathered side table, a lamp with a faded silk shade. The illusion of neglect was what made it work. Everyone assumed it was part of the display. Most didn't step inside.

Which made it perfect.

You'd watched her every single time she came to visit, the woman you'd taken to calling Sunshine. The times she tends to arrive and leave, where she lingers, which of the displays she'd sat down to sketch. The wild grace as she roamed, light and sure on her feet. The still awareness of everything around her, how sometimes she'd disappear like mist and sometimes let her curiosity keep her in place.

She'd found your alcove, of course. Even stopped there once or twice. But she usually only came this way on her way home. Which she should be doing soon.

You hadn't been sure she'd come back after the day you found her crying. Had watched the monitors like a hawk, breathing a sigh of relief and something else when you'd seen her stepping through the entrance. She'd moved even more cautiously than usual and you'd known she was watching for you.

What you'd said that day had clearly left her feeling exposed and vulnerable, and so you'd kept your distance. Satisfying yourself with the view from your office.

You step inside and your heartbeat ratchets up just a notch. You lower yourself into the chair, legs folding neatly. Your skirt hitches just enough. Deliberately. One hand rests against your thigh. The other curls along the worn armrest.

Soon, you think. Soon.

You let the thought settle low and slow between your hips, a heat that simmers without rising. Not yet. The delay is part of the ritual. So is the restraint. And the sweetest part of being seen is not knowing for certain who might be watching.

You close your eyes. Let the shape of her rise behind your lids, summoned from memory.

It had been in the music room. One of your quieter additions -- a small gallery for unreleased songs and lost recordings. Artists who never made it. Albums shelved before their time. A playlist made up of fragments and B-sides that visitors could listen through the headphones mounted around the room... or stream from the code printed on the gallery card.

She'd chosen the latter.

You'd seen her from the hallway -- headphones over her ears, one hand absently hooked in her back pocket. And she was moving.

Not dancing exactly. Not choreographed. But caught in a kind of slow, spiralling drift that bent her body into arcs of motion -- hips swaying, shoulders dipping. She wasn't performing. She didn't even know anyone was watching.

But you'd watched.

Just outside the door, half-swallowed by shadow, praying she wouldn't open her eyes and realise you'd caught her in another moment of raw vulnerability.

She'd been wearing those jeans again, butter soft and hugging every curve like a whisper, a long-sleeved crop top slipping down off one shoulder -- one of those slouchy, effortless pieces that moved when she did. She was sun-drenched rhythm and ink-sketch grace. Lost in the music.

She'd turned, still dancing, still adrift -- and you saw her smile. Not for anyone. Just... hers. Joyous and soft and devastating. She looked like some kind of pilgrim -- prayerful and unguarded -- and you'd wanted to step into the hush of her space and watch her come apart beneath your hands.

You hadn't interrupted. But the image stayed with you. The purity of it. The ache. The restraint.

You remember the feel of it now. How your hands had clenched at your sides. The punch when her arms had lifted, the exact line of her throat as she tilted her head toward the ceiling like it might rain memory down on her. The softness of her vulnerability pooled just beneath the skin.

You hadn't moved. Hadn't dared.

Until now.

You let the memory sharpen, let your body respond. A slow drag of palm against your thigh. Fingertips curling against the sensitive seam. You're careful, calculated, even here. This isn't about need. Not yet. It's about power.

Your breath shivers. You shift your hips. Stroking, teasing, fingers dipping into the slick heat between your folds.

Not much longer now.

A sound breaks the hush. Soft footsteps.

Measured and slow. That rhythmic hush of sandals against stone. The subtle creak of the floor near the western corridor.

You don't stop.

Instead, you let your head fall back, hand moving with purpose now. Muscle memory curling fingers curling to find the most sensitive core of you. The tension winds tight through you -- not frantic, but near feral in its focus. You're not sure if the sound you make is swallowed by the thick air or carried forward into it.

But you hear the footsteps pause just outside.

You open your eyes.

And see her.

Backlit by the light coming through the archways, her white flowing skirt turned sheer in the sun. The outline of her legs, the apex of her thighs. The green corset top hugging the rise of her breasts. A brown belt cinched at her waist, tumbling curls catching the light like sparks flung from a fire.

And her face -- wide-eyed, stunned, lips parted like she'd been about to say something.

That's all it takes.

Your body clenches around the ache you've built so carefully, and the heat crests, blooming through you like smoke rising from the wreckage of control.

You come with her name, curled silent, on your tongue.

Her

The light has turned that amber she loves. Honeyed and warm, spilling across the floors like it's been saving itself all day just to say goodbye. She doesn't expect anyone else to be here at this hour. So, when she hears a sound -- soft, almost startled -- it catches her off guard.

She pauses. Tilts her head, trying to place where it had come from. Another small sound helps her place it. Someone is in the discarded book alcove. Another visitor enjoying the hush of the late afternoon, as delighted by the books on the warped shelf as she'd been?

She wasn't quite ready to return to the guesthouse if she was honest, so maybe she should go take a peek. See if whoever it was felt like a little chat. She likes the conversations that happen in the stillness of this place. The way people open up here.

Gentle exchanges about grief or beauty, childhood or memory. Stories about first loves and family heirlooms, memories triggered by something small and strange in one of the displays. The kind of things people only say when they're surrounded by ghosts in glass cases.

Museums invite memory, she thinks. And confessions.

She moves toward the alcove on near silent feet. Steps into the threshold, gently, not wanting to interrupt if they're occupied.

And then she sees you.

Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle the soft gasp of air that rushes out of her lungs like she's been punched, and she freezes instantly, completely, in place.

Your head is tipped back, the usual copper of your hair muted into a titian waterfall spilling over your shoulders. The soft glow of the lamp beside you and the amber sun behind her traces every line of your face and exposed throat with reverent fingers.

Closed eyes, long lashes resting on pale skin. Lips, soft pink and glistening, parted in something between a breath and a moan. Chest rising in a shallow, gasping rhythm.

Your hand cradling the breast exposed by your unbuttoned blouse. She registers red silk and black lace--darker now where your skin is damp. The other hand is buried between your parted thighs and she can see...

Everything she imagined and more.

She doesn't mean to stare.

But she can't move.

Can't breathe.

Because it's you.

It's you.

And you're radiant.

You're divine.

Everything about you is sharp and soft at once, the light rippling across your skin like worship. Like it was always meant to find you here, bare and undone and breathtaking. Your hair a crown of dishevelled fire, skin flushed, skirt hitched -- indecent and daring anyone to look.

A soft sound escapes between her fingers. And then your eyes open.

They find her instantly, gloriously molten and devilishly bold. Your hips arch. Your breath hitches. A low moan curls into the stillness.

She jerks back out of sight like she's been burned, breath knocking against her ribs, heart tripping over itself as she presses her back to the wall beside the alcove.

No.

No no no.

She didn't just see that.

You weren't--

But she did, and you were.

The images are already burnt behind her eyelids. The arch of your body, the curve of your mouth, the way your blouse clings to sweat-damp skin.

It wasn't her imagination.

Because she can still hear you -- the soft cadence of breath, the slick rhythmic sound of skin against skin, the muffled moan that slips from your mouth like something sacred.

The heat in her face is unbearable. Shame and shock and something she doesn't have a name for are knotted in her throat. She wants so badly to look again.

To see it.

To watch you fall apart.

Wants to give herself over to the part of her that's hungry and brave and not afraid of what stepping back into that alcove means.

But she's frozen.

Too stunned to move. Too stunned to breathe.

And then--

Another sound. Sharper this time. A soft cry quickly swallowed.

She knows what's happening.

Knows exactly what's happening.

A pulse answers low in her belly. A throb. Her hand tightens on the strap of her bag. An ache blooms all through her as the image behind her eyes sharpens.

Her own hand in place of yours. Pressing. Stroking. Claiming. Her mouth on yours, swallowing your cries, tasting the sound of her name in your release. Your eyes blazing impossibly bright the moment it happens, your body arching toward her, skin to skin, taking everything she has to give and wanting more.

Wanting everything.

She's rooted in place, every breath laced with guilt and heat and the unbearable weight of knowing she'll never unsee this. Never unhear the sounds you'd made. Never unknow just how hot you burnt beneath that polished exterior.

She hears the soft creak of the armchair. The rustle of fabric. Movement.

Panic floods her veins.

She needs to go.

She can't be here when you step out of the alcove. Can't let you see her standing here like some kind of creepy peeping tom -- can't explain that she hadn't meant to, hadn't known, hadn't been able to look away once she did. Can't let you see how much it undid her.

She bolts. Again.

Slips around the far side of the passage and takes the back route toward the entrance. Heart hammering. Shame tangled with something too deep to name. She doesn't stop until she's outside. Doesn't breathe until the sun is full on her face.

And even then, the echo of your release still hums in her blood. The heat of your gaze. The sounds you made.

She'll never forget it.

And she isn't sure that she wants to.

Chapter 4

"Wanting Is a Special Kind of Torture

You

You've gone over the exhibition plan four times already.

The layout, the lighting, the glass cases and angles. The pairing of this with that. The sequence. The silence.

It's flawless.

But you can't stop reworking it, perfecting it.

You straighten a frame that doesn't need straightening. Smooth a wrinkle from the archival cloth no one will ever see. Run your fingers along the edge of a cabinet with the same restless precision you once used to trace her silhouette in your mind. Like it might soothe something raw beneath your skin.

It doesn't.

Of course it doesn't.

But this isn't about her.

You keep telling yourself that.

Your heels echo too sharply in the hush as you cross the main gallery again. You're avoiding your office. Avoiding the corridor that leads past the alcove. You haven't worn flats in years, but today there's something unbearable about the sharpness of your own footfall. Like you're disturbing something.

Like guilt has weight.

The entire space is quiet -- too quiet -- and you know it's because she's not here.

She hasn't been back since that day.

You know it the way you know the ache in your belly when you've gone too long without food. The way your eyes search for her without permission. The way the camera feeds are closed on the monitors in your office even though every part of you is screaming to check them. Just in case.

You haven't watched the recordings either. You could. You almost did. Hovered over the archived date and time. The exact frame that would show you what her face looked like when she turned and ran.

But you didn't.

You'd crossed a line. No -- not crossed. Leapt. Eyes wide, breath held, heart racing. Daring her to catch you in the act of your own undoing.

And she'd wanted to. You know that like you know the shape of your own longing.

You close your eyes for just a moment. Let the memory flicker, fragile and electric behind your lids. The look on her face. That first flash of shock. The way she froze.

How you met her gaze anyway.

How it broke something loose in you. How it broke something else in her.

You shouldn't have let it happen.

Not like that.

You're not used to regret. You're used to risk, to getting your way with a look, a smile, the right words in the right order. You know how to play the game.

But this wasn't a game.

Not really.

And that's the part that scares you.

Cowardice, you think, is just another form of control.

You told yourself that waiting was tactical. That silence was respectful. That you were giving her space, giving her power, letting her decide what came next.

But it's more than that, isn't it?

You're terrified.

Because if she comes back, you might not be able to keep your distance.

And if she doesn't--

Well.

You don't finish the thought.

Instead, you force yourself back to work. The museum needs you. The exhibit is nearly ready. The launch is in four days. The press packets have gone out, the guest list is shaping up, the lighting tech is due tomorrow to make sure everything is perfect.

You keep saying that. That you want it to be perfect. And you do. This exhibition is important. There's a lot riding on its success.

You're just not sure who you want it to be perfect for anymore.

You're keeping the sex workers display for the exhibition, but replacing the current photos with ones of male streetwalkers. Some in sharp suits, with too thin faces. Some in booty shorts and scissor cropped sweatshirts, with faces too young for the knowing in their eyes.

A lot of the girls who ended up in the industry had been thrown out for being queer, but that was too complex and nuanced a background for a single photo to share. This -- young boys and mxn in a role traditionally associated with womxn -- not only tipped the stereotype on its head in a way that would hit hard, but fitted better with the expressly queer theme you were going for.

Tousled Angels is hung now. Framed and mounted on raw cotton paper, just as you'd imagined. You'd hung it yourself even though you could have delegated it. Could have had someone from the gallery team do it. But you needed to feel the weight of it. The finality. The intention.

That didn't stop your hands from trembling. Didn't stop your heartbeat from bleeding onto the glass.

You'd read it again while you worked. Every line. Every ache disguised as imagery. Every hope wrapped in despair and lit from behind like a back-alley confession.

It gutted you.

And still, you adjusted the frame four times before stepping back. You're not sure why it matters so much. That it's placed just right. That the light lands just so.

You just...

You want her to see it.

And to understand something you can't say out loud.

Maybe it's an apology.

Maybe it's a prayer.

You stand there now, in front of it, arms crossed tight across your chest, as if you can hold yourself still by sheer will. You try to stay focused. Try to let your mind catalogue the tasks you still need to handle -- labels that need printing, a scratch on one of the display cases that needs to be polished out, a coffee stain you hadn't noticed on the guestbook table -- but none of it sticks.

Because the truth is: you're unravelling. Just a little.

Not all at once. Not in any way that's visible to the outside world.

But you feel it.

The slip.

You had kept yourself in check for so long. Watched her from a distance. Waited for her to come to you. Made space in your days for coincidence, for chance. You played it careful. You played it cool.

And then you ruined it.

You let her see you.

Not just you, but the part of you that you keep folded away like silk too fine for the light.

The part of you that wants.

And you hadn't just wanted her. You'd wanted her to see you wanting her. Had let yourself climax not despite her gaze, but because of it.

You'd known exactly what that would do to her. And you'd done it anyway.

Reckless. Selfish. Stupid.

You turn from the poem, rubbing your fingers against your temples like it might banish the memory.

She had looked at you like she wasn't sure if she was terrified or turned on.

And then she was gone.

Gone in that same storm-swept way she'd left when you'd slipped and let her know how aware you were of her silent, cautious watching.

You hadn't followed her then either.

But you'd wanted to.

You still want to.

You know where she's staying. She'd told the bistro's waitress when she'd asked for a whole melktert instead of just a slice. You could go there. Speak to her, coax out that steel you know is there at her core. Because you'd seen it in her eyes, that first day in the bistro. The shadows that lurked behind the dancing laughter had told you everything you needed to know.

Maybe she'll come back tomorrow.

Maybe she'll stand in this exact spot.

And maybe -- just maybe -- you'll be able to say with your mouth what your body had said that day in the alcove.

That you saw her.

That you still see her.

And that when you came undone in that chair, it wasn't just the light, or the moment, or the risk.

It was her.

It was all her.

Her

She wakes up gasping, one hand tangled in the sheets and the other pressed hard between her thighs. Her body pulses -- oversensitive, soaked -- the aftershocks of her climax shuddering through her in slow, shaking waves.

She doesn't move. She can't. The dream had been too much. Too vivid. Too real. So vivid she swears she can still smell your perfume -- blackcurrant and something darker -- clinging to her skin like guilt.

You, looking up from that armchair with your hand between your legs and your eyes locked on hers -- and then that sound. That moan. The one that had curled into the shadows and made her knees buckle.

That soft, aching murmur, breathless and low -- the final exhale as your body arched into release. Her name. Not her name. The name you gave her. Said with a kind of affection she didn't know what to do with. And now it haunts her, echoing in her mind like the aftershock of thunder. Raw. Reverent. Shattering. The way you'd said it. The way it sounded.

Sunshine.

Like it mattered. Like she mattered.

But she'd felt it. In the dream. In the way your eyes locked on hers, molten and unblinking. In the way your mouth had opened against hers, hungry and trembling. Her hand. Your body. That gasp. The shock of pleasure that had rolled through you like a wave. She had caught it. Taken it. Held it between her teeth like something holy.

But she's not dreaming now. She doesn't know if it was real. If it actually happened. Or if her brain had filled it in -- want making memories from hope.

And still, her fingers are soaked. She jerks them away from herself like they've betrayed her, echoes of her climax cracking open every seal and pouring through the break like floodwater. Her body is limp, trembling. Her chest heaves with effort. And she's crying. Silent tears sliding down her cheeks and into her hair.

She came to the sound of your voice. To the shape of your mouth as you said it. No. Not her name, but the one you gave her -- like it meant something more. The shame floods her all at once, fast and suffocating. She wraps her arms around her knees like she can make herself smaller. Disappear into the fold of her own body and forget.

She keeps seeing it. You.

That moment in the alcove like a film she can't stop replaying. Every flicker of muscle beneath your skin. Every gasp. Every curve of light that made you look like something feral and divine.

The low moan -- Sunshine.

Spoken like an invocation. Or a sin.

She had imagined that moment a hundred different ways now. Had filled in the blanks between fantasy and memory. Her own hand in place of yours. Your mouth claiming hers. The feel of your fingers tangling in her hair, dragging her closer. The way you might sound if you'd said it again. Whispered it against her lips, into her skin, right before falling apart.

She needs to forget the dream. Forget the moan. Forget the burn of your skin in the amber light, the way your blouse clung to the sweat blooming between your breasts. The way your hips lifted into your own hand like you were being offered to someone.

To her.

It wasn't real. It was a fantasy. A delusion. And that's what breaks her.

Because how dare she.

How dare she hold that image like it belongs to her. How dare she want you like this. How dare she think -- even for a second -- that it might have been her you were picturing. That it might have been her you wanted in that moment. She was nothing but a shadow in the doorway. A fleeting audience to something not meant for her. You couldn't have known. You didn't know.

Except... except you'd looked right at her.

You'd seen her.

She scrubs her hands over her face and sits up sharply. She's furious now. With herself. With you. With all of it. For not walking away the second she'd heard that first sound. For not leaving like she should have. For standing there, watching, heart in her throat and heat flooding every inch of her body.

She's furious at her own weakness, at the hunger that bloomed inside her so fast it left her unsteady. At the way her body still aches when she thinks of you undone. At the way your skin glowed, the way you arched into it, like being seen only made it sweeter. She's angry for wanting you.

Because women like you don't want women like her.

You don't need anyone. You don't break. You don't beg. You're fire in human form -- controlled, refined, devastating. And she is the girl who flinches away from the lightest touch. The woman who flees at the slightest provocation. Watching from the edges, sketching from memory, dreaming from a distance.

She's not mad at only herself though. You had played your part in this. Purposely. Deliberately. Wantonly.

Touched her in the bistro, your hand at her back, your breath at her neck. Given her a name and then moaned it like it was yours to use. Seen her watching, enjoyed it, and revelled in it. Flaunted the knowing, wanted her to see you at your most elemental. Made her feel like she was something more than just another visitor wandering through the exhibits.

She clenches her jaw. Stares hard at the wall.

Tries to make her pulse settle, but her whole body is tight with adrenaline and unshed want. Her thighs still tremble from release.

What the hell were you doing in that alcove? In that chair? In that light?

Why like that? Why her?

She should never have let herself feel anything. Should never have followed that sound. Should never have let her body betray her like this -- not now, not again, not for you.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands, yanking the sheet off the mattress as if that will erase the evidence. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and yanks the sheet off like it might erase the evidence. She is not going back. Not to that museum. Not to you. Not ever again.

She won't be another story you collect. Another fragile girl who broke herself open for the sake of something beautiful. Let someone else fall for women who come undone in hidden alcoves with other people's names on her lips.

Because she's done.

She has to be.

You

"You're overdoing it," she says, not unkindly.

You don't look up. Just finish your note and tap the end of the pen once, lightly, against the margin. Then again. A silent metronome counting down the seconds it takes for you to respond.

"I want the mocktails prepped in tasting portions for the tech run," you say, still focused on the page. "And I need you to pick your final five canapés by tomorrow. No last-minute changes."

"I said you're overdoing it," she repeats, voice quieter now. "Not that you're wrong."

You glance up, finally. The brunette is leaning one hip against the espresso machine, arms crossed, brow lifted in challenge. Her apron's dusted with flour. A smudge of chocolate dots the edge of her wrist like a birthmark.

"Excellence is a habit," you say dryly, quoting one of the first curators you ever worked under. "Sloppiness is a choice."

"And perfection is a symptom," she replies, "of people who are trying really hard not to feel something."

You still. Just for a moment.

Then set the pen down.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"No," she agrees, brushing her palms against her thighs. "But I know you. And I'm not blind. I saw her that day." You still waiting. You don't have to ask who she means by 'her'.

"And?" you prompt when the silence stretches on too long.

"And she looked gutted Hun."

You breathe in slowly. Let it settle in your chest. That sharp, bitter sip of knowing. "She was upset?" you ask, confirming. You just need to hear it said out loud.

The brunette tilts her head, eyes narrowing. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Play the innocent. We both know you're not."

You close your eyes. Just briefly. The ache behind them is starting to bloom again.

"Whatever you did? You better fix it," she says, the edge in her voice unmistakable. Matter of fact, brooking no argument. Like you hadn't already spent days trying to figure out how to do just that.

You open your mouth to respond -- maybe to protest, maybe to defend yourself -- but the words never come. Because she's no longer looking at you. She's looking past you. Over your shoulder. Her face softens, but her mouth presses into a thin line.

There's a flicker of something in her eyes when she glances at you. A warning. Don't fucq this up she's saying. You don't need to turn around. You already know.

You feel it before you see her -- the shift in the air, the thrum under your skin, the way the silence folds itself around the shape of her. You turn, slowly, every nerve on high alert. Your breath leaves you all at once. Because there she is.

Sunshine.

She's everything and nothing like you remember.

Hair in a tight, neatly tamed braid. Not a hint of the usual flyaways to be seen. Black canvas sneakers. Simple black leggings. A man's sized metal band tee, large enough to double as a dress. You quash the flash of jealousy as quickly as it rises. You've no right to it.

Just like you have no right to mourn the absence of the casual femininity you'd come to expect from her. This was armour. And you were the reason she needed it. The reason for the brittle expression. Not broken, but held together by sheer force of will. Like one wrong move might undo her entirely.

She hadn't expected to see you here. Though she clamps down on it quickly, the flicker of surprise is unmistakable. The barest widening of her eyes, the way her mouth tightens into a flat line, how her posture stiffens. You see her steady herself. See the straightening in her spine.

See how her fingers clench on the strap of her satchel as though she's fighting every instinct she has. And then she meets your eyes. Somehow the usual aquamarine has been replaced by stormy grey, turbulent and wind tossed and bleak. It knocks the breath right out of you. No smile either.

Not for you.

But she doesn't look away.

Doesn't hide behind her hair or bolt for the exit like you half expected her to. She just... holds your gaze. Fragile, defiant. The barest tremble in her stance offset by the stubborn square of her shoulders. It lands somewhere behind your ribs. An ache. A warning.

You take half a step forward. You don't even know what you mean to do -- speak? Apologise? Offer her your whole throat? And she flinches. Not visibly -- not quite. But her spine straightens just a touch more, her chin lifts, and that sliver of steel in her gaze tightens.

The message is clear. Not angry. Not even cold.

Just... resolute.

Don't.

You let your weight settle back onto your heels. Message received. She didn't come here for you. She came in spite of you.

The realisation slices through you--clean and deep. But you don't retreat. You absorb it. Let the hurt settle in your marrow, right beside the want. Because as much as it cuts, there's pride there too. Pride so fierce and unexpected that it almost doubles you over.

There she is. That steel you'd felt shimmering just beneath the surface the first time she smiled through a fluster. The same steel that made her hold herself still in front of Tousled Angels. That cracked open just enough to let you in -- and slammed shut when you broke the spell with too much too soon.

She walks past you. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Controlled. A battlefield walk.

She nods at the brunette -- who flashes the barest smile in response -- and heads for the same table by the windows that she'd chosen before. She sits. Not quite graceful. Not quite tired. Just... fragile, in the way strong people are when they've used up every last drop of resolve to show up anyway.

You see it now. The shadows under her eyes, the slight droop in her shoulders, the way her fingers curl too tightly around her satchel strap before she sets it down. She hasn't been sleeping. You'd bet your life on it. The air in your lungs feels too heavy to hold.

You step back. Turn to the brunette and murmur, "Make sure she's okay." Her response is a nod, low and serious.

The door of your office clicks shut behind you. And you breathe. Just once. Then you cross the room and flip the monitors on.

She's there.

Back to the camera. Shoulder blades curled in like she's trying to fold herself smaller. But not defeated. No. She's holding herself still in that way she does -- like stillness is her form of resistance.

You drink in the sight of her like someone parched. Let your eyes trace the silhouette you've memorised too well. The soft slope of her neck. The single stray curl ghosting her cheek. The tilt of her head as she looks out the window but doesn't see it.

You'd give anything to know what she's thinking.

To be close enough to hear it.

To explain.

To apologise.

But you don't move.

You watch her settle in from behind the glass of the security feed, just long enough to see her breathe again.

Then you turn off the screen.

And you let her have her peace.

Chapter 5

"When Almost Is Not Enough"

Her

It's just a corridor.

That's what she tells herself as her feet slow, the air quieter here than it has any right to be. The kind of quiet that listens back, too alert to be silence. It's not because she's hesitating. Definitely not because she's nervous.

She's just--pausing.

Making sure she's got everything. Because that's what people do when they're calm and unbothered. She adjusts the strap of her bag. Pulls her braid forward over her shoulder. Flips it back again. A gesture that means nothing. A reset. A rhythm. A stalling tactic. Breathes in. Deep. Measured.

Ignores the thrumming in her throat because there's nothing special about this corridor. It's just stone floors and afternoon quiet. That hush that lives in old buildings--thick and a little dusty, like it's been folded into the walls over time--echoing your thoughts back at you in a shout.

A corridor exactly like any of the others in the museum.

She steps forward.

The light is filtering in at each end of the passage, catching on the stone arches, pooling against the wall and fading just before it reaches the ground. Soft and uncertain, like it doesn't know whether to settle or move on. The air here is cooler than she remembers. She keeps her eyes forward. Doesn't look to the side.

Her breathing hasn't quickened; her heart isn't knocking painfully against her ribs. This is fine. She's just taking the shortest route between where she was and where she wants to be.

She's fine.

She doesn't look toward it. She doesn't need to. She swears under her breath. Just a ghost of sound. Because she remembers. All of it. Everything. Just waiting there in the periphery of her memory.

That amber glow painting itself across your skin. The soft rustle of red silk and black lace. Your hips lifting into your hand and your eyes locked on hers like she was yours to claim. The expression that said you were starving and she was the only thing on the menu that you wanted. That soft, low moan -- reverent. Wrecked.

She's not thinking about it. She's definitely not reliving it. Her breath stutters, fingers tightening their death grip on the strap of her bag.

No. No.

She veers. One step to the right and through the archway, into the gallery. Casual. Like it was the plan all along. Like she isn't still aching in the echo of that corridor. Like her breath isn't catching on a name that's not quite hers.

The sun is golden here. Soft against the pale floorboards. Dust catches in the light like it's dancing just for her. The silence is warmer, easier to carry. She exhales, soft. Relief or regret--she can't tell. And then she stops.

Because you're here.

Of course you're here, now.

Because of fucqing course the universe can't give her one tiny break ever. She lingers near the entrance, pretending to examine the items on a table that might as well be bare for all she registers them. Pretending she isn't painfully aware of every breath you take in this room. She could leave. She should, maybe.

But that would look odd. That would mean something. And she doesn't want anything to mean anything. She'd also have to decide whether to turn left or right in the corridor, which kind of defeated the point of her coming in here in the first place.

So, she stays. Not because you're here. Definitely not because of that. Because she's not dreaming about you. She's not still waking up soaked in shame and want. She's not replaying your voice in the dark.

She's fine.

She drifts forward with deliberate ease, letting her eyes skim over exhibits she doesn't actually see. A scrapbook of pressed flowers. A ceramic bowl filled with keys. Something small and sharp, tarnished with age. All of it blurs.

Because you're here. Because she's not fine.

Not really.

Her body remembers too much. The clench in her stomach. The pulse behind her ribs. The ghost of your moan still humming under her skin. And nothing sticks when your presence is a gravity that bends everything in the room toward you. She's just a visitor you haven't noticed and you? You're just the woman haunting her dreams and her every waking moment.

She and the universe need to have a conversation. Sort out whatever it is she did to piss it off. Because it's enough now. She's had enough. She's been punished enough. Surely?

And then your voice cuts through the quiet like wind rippling across still water.

"What do you think?"

You haven't turned. Haven't even shifted. But the words reach her with that low, easy poise that's somehow more intimate than a shout. Of course, you knew she was here. Probably from the moment she stepped into the room. Of course.

Your tone is polite. Detached. Professional.

It shouldn't sting.

But it does.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. You're not looking at her. And she's still not looking at anything else. You lift a hand to your hair, fingers threading through the loose strands like you meant to pin it back but forgot the clip. You ruffle it once and let it fall again, mussed and easy.

And it undoes her.

The contrast. The casual disarray. It's intimate in a way that feels too vulnerable, too real. God, she wants to draw that. Capture the contradiction. The curve of your mouth when you think no one is looking. How you stand when you've forgotten to hold yourself like a weapon sheathed in sharply tailored silk.

The way your hair defies the rest of you -- soft where you're sharp, sensual where you're composed. A quiet halo of disorder that could only belong to a woman who unravelled like a storm and came with a prayer on her lips. You shift, starting to turn. She looks away, eyes flicking toward the rest of the room with sudden focused intensity.

Only then does she actually see what you were asking about. A single frame on an otherwise empty wall. The gallery is half empty in fact, and she realises that this must be where the new exhibition everyone has been talking about is going to be. It's a huge canvas print of a black and white photo.

It looks casual at first glance -- two women mid-laugh at what might be a party. But their Hands are too close. Their eyes are too aware. Like the camera caught them seconds after an embrace that wanted to be a kiss. They haven't stepped apart yet, haven't stopped touching, and there's a lingering feeling like they wish they didn't have to.

She blinks. Her heart stumbles. Grief hits her deep and sharp. She doesn't understand why. But it's like someone took a memory she hasn't made yet and hung it on the wall. There's nothing specific to recognise. No real reason for the way her chest tightens.

But something in the shape of them-- the intensity in the way the taller one has bent her head to lock eyes with the other woman; the softness in the way the other woman is leaning toward her. It's not recognition--not exactly. But it feels like something she should remember. Like déjà vu wearing someone else's perfume.

She takes a step closer before she realises she's moving. Her voice is quiet when she finally answers.

"It's beautiful." She's so caught up in it, in the feelings and half formed memories, that she almost forgets you're there.

"There's something about it," you say softly, musing. "Feels like... I don't know... like there's something I've forgotten. Something important. And if I stare at the photo long and hard enough, I'll remember what it is."

She nods once, slow. "Yes, I felt that too. Or something like it."

The silence stretches, but it doesn't feel empty. Just full of something neither of you knows how to name. Your fingers adjust the frame again, even though it doesn't need it.

"It's a moment between moments," she murmurs, as surprised as you seem to be that she's speaking the thought aloud instead of keeping it locked behind her eyes like she always does. "Like it wasn't ready to be something more. Or they weren't."

"Some people live there," you say, quiet enough that she almost misses it. "Half-second before or after. Always."

She risks a glance toward you. You're still turned slightly away, your face unreadable. Your profile a study of light and shadow, mouth soft with something she can't name.

"I like the one on the left," she says, wanting to erase whatever thought put that expression there. "She looks like trouble. Like her life's mission was upsetting apple carts and every status quo she ever encountered."

You glance at her over your shoulder, lips tilting in a small curve. Not a full smile but it's enough to send a tendril of heat along her skin.

"Like maybe the best place to find her would be on a moon dark night along some lonely trade route? Wearing leather and lace. And a silk bandanna of course," your laugh is soft and husky, inviting her to join in as it curls around her.

"Lying in wait for some greedy old duke who'll strip down to his undergarments at the point of her wickedly sharp rapier, leaving nothing but the memory of her mocking smile and a trace of her perfume as she rides off in his ridiculously posh carriage?"

"Yes, exactly!" she laughs. "You get it."

Your smile unfurls slowly, like you've known the secret that everyone else is just discovering all along. "I do. Get exactly what you like."

It hits her like a match dropped into a gasoline-soaked pile of tinder. And she remembers then. Remembers that she's not supposed to like how your voice sometimes slips from bourbon smooth to smoked velvet. Or wonder what it would take to replace that knowing smile with something a little less sure of itself.

She can't want this.

She can't want you.

She shoves all of it -- thoughts, feelings, fantasies, memories -- into a box and locks it in the deepest recesses of her mind. Slides that practised mask in place, lets her voice go light.

"So, you think," a pause as she steps just a little into your space, rakes her eyes over you. "But you can only imagine." She meets your gaze then. Let's you see the cool in her eyes. The glint beneath it. The smile that could mean anything. Like none of this matters.

Like she's never woken up wet and wanting with your name tangled in her sheets.

You

"What do you think?"

You don't turn.

Don't move.

Just send the words over your shoulder like you're collecting responses for an anonymous survey.

But inside, you're vibrating.

Because you'd known the moment she stepped through the archway. Not only would you recognise those soft footfalls anywhere, there was no mistaking the way the light changed or how the silence stretched impossibly tight and held its breath. The tightening in your chest had announced her presence in the same way that her scent -- luminous white florals with a hint of spice, layered over soft woods and skin-warmed citrus; elegant, sensual, and just a little untamed -- usually did.

And gods--when she hesitated right there at the threshold. It had taken everything you had not to turn and beg her to stay. And maybe if you turned fast enough, you'd see the ghost of your own want written across her face.

You focus on the frame. On the uneven edge of the canvas print. You adjust it again, even though it's level. Even though it's perfect. You pretend not to count the seconds it takes for her to answer. And when she does, it's so her that you can't help the tiny smile that forms.

"It's beautiful."

Soft. Quiet. Simple unvarnished honesty that's rare in a world where people care too much about what everyone else thinks. You breathe. Slow and careful. She doesn't know you've been trying to find the women in the photo for weeks.

That you've cross-referenced archives and private collectors and still come up blank. That you've read every letter in the box a dozen times, hoping some new clue might surface.

That you've dreamed of those women--one tall, poised, half-laughing; the other, all soft angles and wide eyes--as if remembering someone you once were. But it's not the photo that's undoing you now.

It's her voice.

That softness. That ache.

She talks more than you expect, thinking out loud. And for a moment, you let yourself believe. Let yourself hope that maybe--just maybe--what happened in the alcove hadn't destroyed whatever fragile thread had existed between you before.

You glance at her, only once. Just enough to catch the shape of her in profile. You want to touch her, remind yourself that she's real. You can see her opening again. Just slightly. The corners of her reserve peeling back like tissue caught in a breeze.

"I do. Get exactly what you like."

It's out before you can stop it and you're cursing yourself along with every god that ever was or would be, wishing almost as hard for an undo button as you had that day.

And then--

The shift.

Subtle. But absolute.

Her shoulders straighten. Her mouth curves--not soft, but sly. Her voice lifts, just enough to make it light. "So, you think," she says, stepping closer. Raking her eyes over you with casual detachment. "But you can only imagine."

It's perfect.

Too perfect.

You recognise it instantly. The script. The mask. You've worn it yourself a thousand times. And it slices through you. Because you know who put it there. You swallow down the ache, the anger--at yourself, mostly--and follow her lead.

"Imagination," you say, matching tone for tone. Guard for guard. "Has never been something I lack."

You shrug, gesturing toward the half of the gallery that hasn't been cleared yet.

"How else do you think I became the curator of a museum whose sole reason for existing is so that everyone would call the woman behind all this a visionary... instead of batshit crazy?"

Her expression doesn't change, but you see the flicker. The part of her that wants to laugh. That wants to keep playing. So, you play too.

"Grandma Batty--"

"They don't call her that!" she interrupts, laughing.

"Oh yes, yes they do. Grandma Batty," you pause, daring her to interrupt again, "was a collector and hoarder of all things strange and sentimental... and usually already on a trash heap somewhere. Eventually the family gave up fighting it and turned it into a proper institution. Sort of."

She arches a brow, clearly amused. "Sounds... challenging."

"Chaotic," you say. "The building's falling apart. The board's full of relatives who hate each other. The archives are a disaster, and the plumbing screams at night."

"Charming."

You grin. "But the job came with a kettle and a lifetime's worth of randomness no one else knew what to do with, so I stayed."

She laughs then. Not fully. But it's real. And it thaws something.

"As a rule, though," you murmur, "I try not to imagine. It tends to get me into all sorts of trouble."

Her smile doesn't waver. "Pity."

The air between you is sparking again. But it's sharper than it was before that day. Controlled. Now every word is measured. Guarded. And you know it's your fault. So, you play the game by her rules. There's a silence. Not awkward. Just... full.

You glance over. "And you?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Your turn. What do you do when you're not haunting museums and doubting the imagination of their curators?"

She huffs a soft breath, then glances away. "I work with kids."

You tilt your head. She's not looking at you anymore. Her eyes are back on the photo.

"Nothing formal, like school or anything like that. More like... mentorship? Community work. Long hours. Lots of heartbreak. Lots of joy, when it goes right."

You nod, keeping your voice gentle. "And when it doesn't?"

Something shifts in her face. A shadow. Barely there.

"When it doesn't," she says, "you take a long holiday and hope the world looks different when you go back."

You could say something here. Reach out. Ask. Offer. But you don't. Because the distance is still there. Because the air between you hasn't settled yet. But you feel it anyway. The grief she carries. The guilt. And you ache to be the place where she can set it down, even if only for a moment.

The silence lengthens again. But it's not empty. It's threaded through with a thousand unsaids. You tilt your head, let your eyes slide down her figure and back up again. Just once. Deliberate.

"I agree that the on the left would have made life as difficult as possible for a very particular variety of man," you say, tone light. "Dirty tricks. Flashy smile. Probably with a very pretty little dagger hidden in her garter. Steal your purse, a kiss and your heart all inside five minutes."

Her eyes flick to yours. Her mouth opens, then closes again. Her lashes drop. She swallows. For half a second--barely more--you see it flashing behind the mask she's trying so hard to keep in place. That same wide-eyed hunger you saw when you opened your eyes and she stood silhouetted on the threshold of the alcove.

The vision that sent you crashing over the edge then, and every time it has invaded your thoughts since, made sweeter by the taste of her name in your mouth. And you feel it like a fascination. Pride or something like it when she stands her ground, refusing you the satisfaction of her surrender. And a flare of hunger.

She doesn't answer. But a spark coils tight in the air between you.

Waiting.

Her

She should feel smug. Or something close to it.

Because she didn't flinch.

Didn't fold. Didn't say the thing she actually meant to say in response to your last comment--didn't confess the image it summoned, the way it landed with a thud behind her ribs. She just smiled. Played the game. Stepped right up to the edge and didn't fall.

You'd said it so casually, too.

"Dirty tricks. Flashy smile. Probably with a very pretty little dagger hidden in her garter. Steal your purse, a kiss and your heart all inside five minutes."

And she had smiled, like it was nothing. Like she hadn't been picturing you as a leather and lace clad bandit. Like her knees hadn't gone weak at the thought of your mouth on hers with nothing but the stars as witness. She played it off. And did it well.

You're standing there with that casual, feline ease that makes her want to unravel you just to see what's underneath and she's proud of herself, for a heartbeat. Proud that she doesn't let the thought show. That she stepped closer. That she let herself look you over and say, "You can only imagine."

This time it's you stepping into her space and there's nothing little about it. You're toe to toe, hand wrapped round the strap of the satchel she'd forgotten she was carrying and looking at her like she's a riddle you're two seconds from solving.

"I bet," you say softly, lips inches from hers. "That you kiss like someone who thinks too much about what it'll cost."

It's meant to be charming. A slow-burn compliment wrapped in amusement. Something flirtatious and half-true, thrown out like a thread you expect her to tug at playfully. She blinks, tries to process what you just said.

She kisses... like what?

You hold her gaze like it's nothing. Like you didn't just say the most demeaning thing imaginable in a voice that still wraps around her like smoke. You sound so certain. Like you've got her all figured out.

Like everything she is and everything she's been holding--quietly, painfully, carefully--is just another line in your neat little sketch of her. And the fact that you say it now, after watching her cry in a darkened room, after watching how her wanting tore her apart and then how she glued herself painfully and slowly back together?

That's what stings. Because you think you know. But you don't. Not even close.

And something inside her snaps.

"And I bet," she says, matching your intimate tone. "That you kiss like someone who's never had to wonder what that kiss might ruin." She steps back oh so slowly. Still smiling. But there's a different edge to it now. Something serrated. Something made of salt and truth.

"You see," she says, still not raising her voice. "Not all of us can afford to pretend it doesn't mean anything."

She sees her words find their mark. You freeze. Just a flicker. Just long enough for her to see that she scored a direct hit. Exactly as intended. Your mouth parts like you want to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Your jaw tightens just slightly. Your pupil's flare.

The hand still wrapped around her satchel strap goes slack for a breath. And for that single, perfect second--she knows you felt it. The cut. The truth of it. And then--just like that--you're smiling again. Polished. Controlled. A little amused. The sharp edge in your words matching the flint in your eyes.

"That's funny, coming from someone who runs before something has a chance to mean anything."

Her breath catches.

Because that's it, isn't it? The casualness. The way you can just throw that line out there like it doesn't matter. Like she doesn't matter. Like the ache she's carried since the moment she saw you in that chair with her name--

No. Not her name. That word... on your lips, was just a passing thing. A phase. Because of course it didn't mean anything to you. Because she's just one more wide-eyed girl who wanted too much.

And suddenly she's furious.

With herself--for believing you ever looked at her like she was more than a moment. With you--for pretending this is all some harmless flirtation. With the stupid, aching hope that thought maybe, maybe you'd meant it.

Fine.

You want to play? She'll show you exactly what she looks like when she's not running. She turns without another word. Doesn't trust herself to speak. Her steps are steady, deliberate. She keeps her shoulders back and her jaw set as she walks away--like she's not shaking, like she's not burning.

She doesn't know what just happened between them. Doesn't want to think too hard about it. But she knows this: She is done wondering what it would take to be the one you want.

If you really said her name that day, it was a fluke. A throwaway. A game. You don't want her. Not really. You just wanted the way she looked at you. The way she burned.

Fine.

Let's see how you like it when the girl who watches from the sideline's steps onto the stage. She's going to that exhibition. She's going to look like every impossible thing you've ever wanted but couldn't keep. And when you look at her--really look--she'll make damn sure you feel it in your throat.

First stop: the boutique in the square with the velvet-draped mannequins in the window.

She needs a dress.

And a new pair of boots that scream "I'm everything you ever fantasised about and so much more."

Because she's done waiting to be wanted.

Now?

Now she wants to be remembered.

Chapter 6

"You Will Never Be Ready for This"

You

You can't stop thinking about her.

Not in the romantic, slow-burn kind of way. Not in a way that feels tender or nostalgic. No, it's worse than that. It's obsessive. Aggravating. Like a song you hate but still hum under your breath. She's in your bloodstream now -- mid-thought, mid-stride, mid-anything -- like static that won't clear no matter how many times you reset the frequency.

And that would be fine. It would be manageable, even, if she hadn't looked at you that way. If she hadn't said what she said. If she hadn't taken the carefully held mirror, you'd spent years polishing and cracked it with nothing but truth.

"Not all of us can afford to pretend it doesn't mean anything."

You'd meant to tease her. That's what you keep telling yourself. You'd wanted to push her just a little. Provoke a reaction. A spark. You hadn't expected the precision strike. The blade buried right where you don't let anyone reach.

The worst part is she was right.

And now you're furious. At her, for seeing too much. At yourself, for letting her. For wanting her to.

You drag your fingers through your hair, already mussed from hours of prep, and try not to snap at the lighting tech who's asked the same question three different ways. The answer hasn't changed.

"Just soften the top wash," you say. "The side lighting's already doing the work. Let it breathe." And swallow the bit about how if he asks you one more time, you're gonna bury him in the archives with Grandma Batty's cursed doll collection and a copy of the museum's plumbing schematics

He mutters something about lumens and moves off, and you let yourself exhale. You can feel the tension rolling off you in waves. And you know it's not just about the exhibit. It's not just about tonight.

"Jesus, you're a nightmare," comes a voice behind you, low and unimpressed. You don't have to turn around. You glance back. Your best friend is leaning against the wall, arms folded, brunette hair twisted up into an elegant chignon, apron swapped for a sharp black jumpsuit and oxblood lipstick that's already stolen the attention of half the gallery.

"You're like a kettle with a broken whistle," she says, her eyes narrowing. "Seething. And sooner or later, you're gonna boil over."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're about five minutes away from throwing a wine glass or propositioning a journalist out of spite."

You raise a brow.

"And I didn't wear heels for you to ruin your own damn night. Get your shit together. My canapés are good but they're not divert-a-scandal good."

You want to argue. You want to explain. You want to scream.

Instead, your eyes catch the front entrance.

And time stops.

Because there she is.

The air shifts when she enters, like the building itself pauses to look at her. The slow, purposeful sway of her walk. The way the fabric of her dress shivers around her thighs with each step, black chiffon and bare skin and dangerous restraint.

The corset--purple brocade, steampunk-soft and unforgiving--hugs her waist with criminal intent. And those boots. Tall, black, butter soft suede that begs you to touch. A whisper of dominance in a room full of pleasantries. It shouldn't match. But it does.

The dark romantic drama of her outfit--chiffon, corset, a brush of shadowed elegance--lands with uncanny precision. An echo of something you hadn't even realised you'd hoped for. You don't need a mirror to know: the aesthetic you've wrapped yourself in tonight is the same language, spoken in a different dialect.

Gothic heat to her ethereal chill. Opposite pages from the same book.

She sees you but her gaze slides over you like you're one of the exhibits--worth a glance, but not a second thought. When she walks past you, she nods once. Cool. Distant. Civil. Like you're one of the ushers. Or a particularly helpful lamp. For the first time ever, you feel it. The chill of dismissal. The precise weight of being ignored.

And suddenly, you're not angry. You're wrecked.

You barely hear your own speech. You know your mouth is moving. Know the words are the same ones you rehearsed. That your voice is steady, charming, magnetic. That people are listening. Laughing in the right places. Nodding when they're supposed to. You've done this before. You know how to hold a room.

But all you can think about is how she didn't even look back.

The event begins in earnest. Glasses clink. Laughter rises. The gallery fills and spills. And you watch her--like always. She's doing it deliberately. Floating through the space like smoke, like music, like she owns the fucking air. Laughing softly at someone's comment. Resting her hand lightly on an elbow, a shoulder.

Leaning in. Whispering something that makes a man flush and a woman bite her lip. Moving on. Always moving on. You know the dance. You invented the dance. But watching her do it, watching her perform the exact illusion you perfected years ago--it unravels you.

Because she's good. Too good.

And not once--not once--does she look at you.

She's a storm wrapped in satin. A spark arcing across every wire except yours. And the worst part is: it's working. The guests adore her. People are circling her like moths to flame; drawn by the promise of warmth they'll never get to keep. You spot her near the gallery wall--close to the new sex worker display.

She's standing very still, her body half-angled toward the framed poem, shoulders drawn in tight like she's bracing against something. A moment later, she turns and crosses the room with that quiet, deliberate grace that is as much a part of her as the colour of her eyes or the tumble of her hair.

And when she heads straight toward the brunette, who's off duty but still keeping an eagle eye on the waiters circulating the crowd, you don't need to guess why. Of course. You watch the exchange with clinical detachment. Or that's what you tell yourself. She leans in, murmuring something. The brunette laughs.

She rests her hand lightly on the brunette's hip--barely there. A familiar touch. And then the brunette takes it, guides it around her waist. Slides her own arm around the other woman's slim waist in a motion so instinctive, so damn comfortable, it could hollow you out.

And you see it. See it like a goddamn high-definition video playing out in front of you. Them leaving together. That softness turning inward. Those hands on someone else. That laugh shared in someone else's bed.

And it snaps.

You move before you think. Before you breathe. You're across the gallery in seconds, heels a staccato warning. The brunette's head lifts just slightly. Her smile doesn't fade, but her tone changes.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite troublemaker," she says, warmth in her voice and warning beneath it. A subtle shift in posture, her head tilting just slightly. She knows exactly why you're here. Knows that tone of yours. The temperature in your eyes. You force yourself to breathe. To behave. She's dangerous when she decides you need reminding.

"Relax," she adds. "It's going better than any of us hoped. You've done something special here."

Before you can reply, the woman beside her turns, and for the first time all night, speaks to you directly. "The exhibition is... beautiful," she says, quietly. "The new display. The poem. The photographs." Her eyes flick toward the wall behind you. "It mattered. Matters. All of it... they'll be talking about it for weeks."

The words catch you off guard. They don't fit the cool she's been cloaked in all evening. They're soft. Unarmoured. And the tremor you can hear beneath them unbalances you all over again. You weren't expecting her to even acknowledge you, never mind sincerity. Not from her. Not tonight.

"Thank you," you manage, voice low. You're already unsteady, and then your best friend twists the blade.

"You should know that she's been an absolute terror the last 24 hours, getting this all finalised," she says to the woman next to her, nodding in your direction. "We missed having you flitting around the place like a little ray of sunshine."

You see it. That fractional recoil. That flicker in her eyes. Like she's been slapped with a memory she didn't want. She almost pulls away. But the brunette--calm, knowing--trails her fingers gently down the arm curled around her, laces fingers with the hand at her waist as though to hold it in place, anchors her with a softness that makes you want to scream.

And that's it.

That's the final fracture.

You turn on your heel, every line of your body coiled tight as wire. You don't look back. You don't breathe. You stalk past the press and the patrons and the guests who call your name.

You just need air. You need dark. You need somewhere no one can see that you are coming apart at the seams.

And it's all her fault.

Except it's not.

And that's the problem.

Her

She wasn't ready for this.

She's known that since she walked in through the doors and saw you talking to the brunette. Saw that outfit. But standing here, in front of the sex worker display that had rocked her so hard on her first visit. The sight of it now, hung there like a confession -- on raw cotton, under soft light -- with the new photographs lining the wall beside it like a prayer to something broken. Or saved.

Young mxn in heels and halters. In oversized coats with lipstick smeared just outside the lines. In denim shorts that ride too high and don't quite fit, and fishnets that have already begun to tear. Boys and mxn with bruised knuckles and bite-shaped bruises. Too much eye contact or none at all.

Expressions like coin tosses -- trust or defiance or indifference, flipped at random depending on the hour. It's the defiance that gets her. The kind that only exists when you've already lost everything you were afraid of losing. She knows that look. Has worn it in smaller ways.

Her gaze drifts back to the poem. The lines feel different tonight. More honest. Barer. Like whoever wrote them wasn't trying to impress, just... needed to survive the saying of it. She reads it again -- every line. Every scar tucked neatly into metaphor. The rage, the ache, the mercy.

It's too much.

The breath she takes is shallow. Her hand curls at her side. And the thought flickers through her -- not for the first time -- that maybe the entire exhibit is just a beautiful arrangement of someone else's pain.

That maybe that's all this is. An aesthetic. A statement piece.

She doesn't know why this display hits harder than before. Maybe it's the context -- all these curated bodies in curated spaces. Or maybe it's that her own body is a curated thing tonight. Corseted and dark and sharp in places it isn't usually. A construct. A strategy.

She stays a moment longer than she means to, eyes tracing over two boys in one photo, how they're holding hands like they'll never let go, the worn sleeves above those hands. Her throat tightens. She blinks. Swallows. Breathes. She pulls herself upright. Squares her shoulders.

Takes one last look--and lets the ice wrap itself around her again. That cool, slow-burning kind of fire that leaves a different kind of scar. She makes her way across the gallery without thinking, following the sound of glasses clinking and someone laughing too loud. Her boots land soft, sure, measured. She doesn't need to scan the room to know where you are.

She's known all night.

She heads in the opposite direction, toward the safety of the figure at the bar. The familiar tilt of her head, the unapologetic smudge of oxblood on her lips, the way she's scanning the crowd like she owns it. She does, in her own way. The staff listen when she speaks. So do the guests.

She's comfort. And control. And clarity.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Well hey, pretty girl," the brunette says, pulling her in for a hug that she melts into more than she should. Her head rests for a heartbeat against the older woman's shoulder. The scent of espresso and spice calms her in a way she didn't realise she needed. The scent of home, somehow, in a night full of masks.

"You holding up?" the brunette murmurs, pulling back to look at her properly.

She nods. "I just needed... I don't know. To stand still for a minute."

"Mm." The brunette gives a knowing smile, then lets her eyes flick down. "That corset though."

She laughs--real, tired, slightly wobbly. "I had help with the laces."

"I bet you did," the woman grins. "Or will."

"Stop," she groans. But she smiles.

"So," the brunette says, her brow lifting just slightly. "Having fun, are we?"

She laughs, low, laying her hand on the curve of the other woman's hip as she leans forward with a glint in her eye. "Define fun."

That earns her a laugh and a shake of the head. The woman reaches for the hand on her waist, draws it fully around, and hooks her own arm across the small of her back. Turning them both to face the room like a pair of queens presiding over some strange court.

"You've caused quite a stir, you know," the woman says lightly.

"I was aiming for mild devastation."

"Achieved. Along with at least two marriage proposals and one poetry reading invite at my last count."

She hums, letting her eyes scan the gallery again. She knows exactly where you are. Has known every time you turned, every time your shoulders stiffened when she leaned in too close to someone else. She's mapped your movement like a migratory pattern. Flirt when you're looking. Breathe when you're not.

That's the game.

She learnt it from you.

You taught her how to hover at the edge of someone's senses until they forget how to function without you. How to bait with glances, with half-smiles, with a head tilted just so. She watched you do it in the café. At the ticket desk. That one afternoon in the alcove when the air pulsed with the heat of you.

She learnt. She's good at learning.

So she let herself become a ghost. Unreachable. Desired. A thing to chase.

You gave a speech earlier. And it was good. Too good. She'd stayed near the edge of the crowd, far enough not to be seen, close enough to watch your mouth move. You were magnetic. Graceful. The whole room clung to your voice like it was spun from silk and static. You met her eyes only once -- brief, impersonal, like she was any other face in the crows.

It burnt.

So she lit the whole room on fire.

She let people lean too close. Let her laugh carry. Let her hand linger just a little longer than necessary. She isn't usually like this -- not in her own skin, not on purpose. But tonight isn't about truth. It's about symmetry. You made her feel disposable. She wants you to feel haunted.

And yet...

When you're suddenly there -- standing in front of her and the brunette holding her gently in place -- she doesn't feel triumphant. She feels dizzy. Because god, you look like a dream too sharp to touch. The deep burgundy velvet of the Gothic riding jacket, lace detailing echoed by the lace shirt you're wearing, leather pants cleaving to your legs like a second skin.

Leather and lace and velvet. The same elements you once used to conjure a woman in her imagination. One she said she liked. One who'd leave carnage in her wake. And now here you are, doing exactly that.

It hits her harder than she expects. The fact that you dressed like that. That you remembered. That maybe--maybe--some small part of you had thought of her when you chose it. Maybe that's why she can see turmoil in your eyes. Maybe that's why your fists are clenched like that, shoulders tight as a bow on the verge of snapping.

And she wonders for a moment if she went too far. Because this is supposed to be your night. And now all she can think about is how badly she wants to reach for your hand. Tell you that the poem wrecked her -- twice. That she can see the care that went into the exact placement of each photo.

That she might have been the furthest thing from your mind when you were putting it together, but everything about the exhibit makes her feel seen. So she speaks, faltering a little over the words because the emotions are a lump in her throat. Soft. Earnest. Too honest. She means them. Every one.

And that's when the brunette, angel that she is, cuts in with a light jab -- something about you being a nightmare to work with. A beautiful terror. And then--

Then she says it.

That word.

Sunshine.

She flinches. Just barely. But the sound hits like a slap. Like a secret said out loud. And it almost undoes her. She's not that word. Not that name. Not from someone else. Not now. Not when she's worked so hard to keep every wall intact. The woman beside her must feel it, because she trails her fingers gently along her arm.

Links them with the hand that still rests at her waist. Keeps her anchored. Keeps her standing. And that's when the thing that she's been working toward all night happens. She sees it there, in your eyes, how all that perfectly curated control just... breaks. She watches you go. Watches the set of your shoulders, the snap in your stride.

It's what she wanted. What she planned for. The whole point was to make you feel exactly what she felt -- powerless, unseen. But now that it's happened... Why does it feel like grief? She doesn't realise she's trembling until the fingers still laced with hers give a gentle squeeze.

She turns. The brunette's gaze is soft now. A little sad. "Be careful, hey?" she murmurs, reaching out to tuck an unruly curl back behind her ear. Kind. Knowing. "You're sharper than you look. And she cuts deeper than she means to. But when she realises she has... she'll bleed for it."

She doesn't answer. Can't. There's too much inside her now. Longing and anger and satisfaction and shame. She feels wild with it. Too full. "I just need a minute," she murmurs. She slips away before the other woman can respond. Glides through the gallery like mist again, like she's still in control.

She isn't. She finds a hallway marked private and follows it. The door to the abandoned music room is closed, but the soundproofing and low lighting make it perfect. She steps inside and closes the door behind her, lets her head rest back against it. Silence. Darkness. Finally, a moment to--

"Oh for fucq's sake," she breathes.

She sees you. You're already in the room. Already seated. Already watching her with something like devastation in your eyes. No. Absolutely not. She spins. Reaches for the door.

"Wait," you say. Voice hoarse. Quiet. "Please don't go."

She freezes. One hand still on the handle. Silence stretches. Breaks. Binds. Something in her splinters. She turns. Face taut. Eyes burning. Shoulders squared. And finally--finally--she speaks.

"Why? What do you want from me?"

The words are a lash.

"You... you play these games," she hisses. "Touch people like it means something. Smile like it's a promise. Then vanish like it never happened. You look at me with those goddamned eyes and say things with that perfect. Fucqing. Mouth. And then disappear before I can figure out what the hell any of it meant."

Her voice breaks on the last word, chest heaving with the effort it takes not to cry.

"One sentence. One glance. That's all it took you know! Destroyed every defence I've spent my entire life building just to survive women like you... like that." She snaps her fingers and you open your mouth, but she's not finished. "And then you walked away like it was an afterthought. Like it -- I -- didn't warrant another moment of your time."

She's trembling. Eyes bright with unshed tears. Lips parted as she tries to breathe around the emotions that are clawing at her throat. Heart wrecked.

"And now you want me to stay?" She shakes her head, furious and aching and shattering in place.

"Then give me one good fucqing reason."

You

It's all too much. The lights. The voices. The unbearable weight of your own restraint.

So you head for the soundproofed silence of the abandoned music room. Just in case the scream building in your chest slips from your control. The brunette was very explicit about the quality of her canapes versus the weight of a scandal, and she was probably right.

The lights are dimmed to their lowest setting, just a thread of golden glow from the wall sconces. Even the air feels gentler here -- padded and soft, like silence layered over quiet. You should be out there. Shaking hands. Accepting compliments. Smiling.

But you're in here instead. Heart in your throat. Control in pieces. And maybe if you just sit here long enough, the walls will close in and spare you from its slow collapse. You sink onto the edge of one of the sofas. Let your head fall back, arms folded tight across your ribs like you might fall apart if you don't hold something.

Praying maybe. Not to any god you know. Just for quiet. For space. For a place without edges where you can bleed a little in peace. For something inside you to still. You're not sure how long you stay like that. Long enough for your breath to slow. Long enough for the weight in your chest to settle.

Long enough for the sound of her laughter, soft and intimate and not meant for you to stop echoing in your ears. Long enough for the memory of her arm around the brunette's waist, their fingers laced like that's where they belonged to fade from behind your eyes.

The door opens and your head snaps up. You expect a staff member. A lost guest. Maybe someone with a question about the exhibit. But instead, it's her. She doesn't see you at first. Just steps inside, closes the door, lets her head rest against the wood. She exhales.

Not a dramatic sigh. Just a soft slip of breath, not quite relief and not quite grief, the kind that escapes when someone thinks they're finally alone. You see the way her shoulders drop. The way her chin dips. How the tension in her body begins to melt just enough for you to glimpse the shape of her beneath the armour.

Her whole body relaxing into the illusion of solitude. And just like that-- she's herself again. Not the woman who's been wrecking you all evening with every glance she wouldn't give you. Not the siren in chiffon and brocade who danced circles around your resolve. Just... her. And then she sees you.

And it's like you just tore the air in half.

"Oh for fucq's sake," she breathes, and it's not cold--it's panicked. Gutted. Spinning on her heel, she reaches for the door, already halfway gone.

"Wait--" You're on your feet before the words are even out. "Please don't go."

A rasp. A plea. She freezes. Doesn't turn, one hand clenched around the door handle like it's the only thing anchoring her in place. And you just... stare, silence wrapping around you both like a tide. At the tension in her neck, radiating from her like heat off asphalt.

The line of her spine, too stiff. The way her fingers curl slightly against the frame like your voice alone hurt her. You don't know what to say. You should stay quiet. Should give her the space she clearly came here for. The quiet you've now intruded on.

But you can't. Not when she's standing there like that. Not when the light is catching in her hair like that and you can see how every breath trembles behind her ribs. You want to say I'll go. You want to say I'm sorry. Tell her that she haunts your thoughts like a heartbeat.

That you see her in every shadow and every glint of light. That all you can think about since the moment she put her hand in yours -- met your eyes all breathless and flustered, light turning her hair into a halo she had no idea she wore, and so fucqing beautiful it hurt to look at her -- is kiss those shadows from her eyes.

Beg her to look at you. Beg for her forgiveness. But none of it feels like enough. So the silence stretches. Too long. Too raw. Until she turns and you know before the first word leaves her lips--she's not here for reconciliation. She's here for blood.

When she speaks--It's fury. And heartbreak. And truth. And it splits you open. She's fire and thunder and storm-swollen sea. Eyes burning that wild ocean-green, lit from within by a fury too sharp to be tamed. Her hair curling wild around her shoulders.

And in that moment -- she is myth. She is memory. She is god. Persephone in full bloom, goddess and reckoning all at once, reminding the world why the rest of the pantheon treads lightly in the face of her ire. She stops just short of you. Breathless. Shaking.

You're rooted to the floor and all you can think in the aftermath of the devastation she hurled at you--is how could she not know? How could she possibly think that you ever saw her as anything less than myth and miracle?

That you'd worshipped her from the moment she walked into the bistro in boots and hesitation, all breathless grace and bitten-lip restraint? That every time you touched her, it was reverent. That every teasing smile was stitched with awe.

You reach up. Slowly. Toward her face. Not quite touching. Just tracing the line where a tear might fall, where her fury trembles just below the surface. She flinches.

"No," you say softly. "That's not..." And you can't bear it. The distance. The ache. The sheer violence of her hurt. "Jesus," you whisper. "Jesus, woman--"

You close the space between you in a single breath. And then you're kissing her. Fierce. Desperate. Starved. She stiffens, shock crackling under your palms. Then she melts. And it's everything. You don't remember crossing the space between you. Don't remember reaching for her or pulling her in.

Only the taste of her -- breathless and salt-sweet, fury melting into want. Your hands tangle in her hair, anchoring you both. Her lip's part under yours and she's kissing you back like she's been waiting a lifetime for this. Like your mouth is the answer to every question she couldn't bear to ask.

Every inch of her surrender is earned. The gasp against your lips. The low sound she makes when your teeth graze her lip. The way her arms wind tight around your shoulders. She presses close, body moulded to yours, heat to heat.

You break just long enough to whisper her name--not her name, but the one you gave her. Just once. And then you lift her. Her gasp is swallowed by your mouth as you press her back against the wall, her legs wrapping around your waist like itis instinct. Like it's memory. Like it's fate.

She pulls you closer, fingers fisting in your jacket. Your hands are firm beneath her thighs, your body slotting against hers with aching precision. You grind your hips into the heat of her slowly, deliberately--drawing a sound from her that's part moan, part surrender.

She tastes like heat and havoc. Like apology and hunger. Like everything you've ever denied yourself. And you want to laugh, or weep, or drop to your knees.

Because this is what it's been. Every fantasy. Every memory. Every whispered thought that's kept you company in the dark. And still--this is more. You pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are wide. Lips swollen. That fire still burning in her but now it's a blaze that wants.

So you give.

Your lips find her throat, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear.

She's gasping against your mouth and gripping your shoulders like she's trying to climb inside your skin and stay there. Her body arches into yours, the heat of her bleeding through every layer. And still, you don't stop. Because this isn't about hunger. It's about all the things you couldn't say.

"You don't know," you whisper. She blinks, dazed. "You don't know what you did to me," you murmur, kissing the corner of her mouth. "You think I just wanted your attention? Your eyes on me? I wanted all of it. And all of you. The parts you flinch away from. The ones no one sees."

She whimpers when your fingers slide beneath the scrap of lace soaked with her wanting, slipping between the slick folds and slowly pressing deep. You break her open with your mouth. With your hands.

With every stroke, every press, every deliberate grind of your hips into hers until she's arching and gasping and whimpering in your arms. The sound she makes when she comes is soft and sacred. Wrecked. Like it broke her open and healed her in the same breath.

She can't afford it. So you'll pay the price.

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes are dawn forest dark, reverent. Swimming with a thousand emotions and unsaid things, and for now at least - not a single shadow to be seen.

And it breaks something loose in you. This is not about possession.

You're going to give her everything she gave you. The obsession. The ache. The need that wrapped itself around your ribs and refused to let go. You are going to undo her the way just the sight of her undid you that day in the alcove.

Completely.

You're going to take her higher than any of her fantasies ever let her climb. And when she breaks--because she will--you'll be there. Mouth, hands, heart. Catching every shattered piece and kissing them back into her skin.

You want to take your time.

But you also want to destroy her.

So you do both.

You lower her gently onto the old velvet sofa. Let her hands drag you down with her. And then you break her apart. Carefully. Ruthlessly. Every kiss is a vow. Every stroke, a reckoning. You take her to pieces with your mouth, your hands, the rhythm of your body against hers.

You show her what it means to be shattered. Not just wanted but worshipped.

And when it's done--when she's boneless and quiet and wrecked beneath you-- you start again.

Slower.

Softer.

Putting her back together. One kiss, one touch, one breath at a time.

Chapter 7

"Leather, Laces and Wicked Smiles"

Her

The museum is silent now.

Not just quiet -- but truly, wholly still. The kind of hush that only settles once the last voice has faded and the ghosts know that it's their time to come out and play.

She walks beside you past the darkened gallery and the front desk where the last wine glasses were long ago cleared. A note from the brunette is propped beside the till, scrawled with a cheeky little flourish and a lipstick print she probably added just to make you roll your eyes.

You glance at it and laugh softly. "I could kiss her," you say. It's mostly to yourself.

Sunshine tilts her head, smiling like a cat in sunlight. "She'll have to stand in line." And her expression makes it clear that she means it. That she would stand in line with a numbered ticket, for hours if necessary. And maybe commit just a little bit of violence if it helped her get to the front just a little faster.

Your answering look is like heat curling off a matchstick. That look should undo her -- once, it would have. But not now. Now, her steps are steady. She doesn't falter. Because she knows, now, without a doubt -- that look is hers.

She follows you into the parking lot. Gravel crunches under her boots, the night air brushing against the heat still lingering in her skin. There's no wind. No noise beyond the distant hum of something mechanical.

You stop beside your car. Not quite facing her. Not quite looking away.

"My place?" you ask.

But it's not really a question.

She nods once.

Then again. Slower. "Yes," she says quietly.

And then neither of you moves.

For a long, strange moment, you just... stand there. Under the soft floodlight and the hush of the empty lot. Like time has looped into something quieter. Something waiting.

She studies your face -- not with hesitation, but with a kind of quiet awe. A little amazed that it's her you're looking at like that. That it was her you undressed with your eyes that day in the alcove.

She reaches up. Fingers grazing your cheekbone, then brushing lightly across your skin. Confirm for herself that you're real. Her palm lingers. Warm. Gentle. Possessive in its softness.

You lean in.

And she meets you halfway.

The kiss is unhurried. Just the press of lips. A soft hum of breath. The kind of kiss that speaks of reverence more than hunger.

When she pulls back, she rests her forehead lightly against yours.

"Take me home," she murmurs. Her voice is low. Steady. Threaded with something ancient. "Before I make you take me right here."

Your grin is pure trouble. "Alright... Sunshine."

It's a tease, of course. A flare of velvet-wrapped danger in your voice. But the way you say it -- that word, that name -- lands different now. This time, she doesn't flinch.

She just smiles.

Soft. Certain.

Shakes her head like she can't believe it's real.

Because now she knows.

It was her.

It's always been her.

And there's no feeling in the world quite like that.

She already knows what your house will look like. Clean lines softened by texture. Warm wood. Soft light. She's imagined this place. Not in specific details, but in tone. In weight. And it feels like stepping into a memory she didn't know she had.

The front door clicks shut, and the hush of your space wraps around her. You reach down to slide off your shoes and she mirrors you, leaning against the wall to work on the zip of her boots. You're already upright, barefoot, when she glances up.

And sees it.

The pause.

Just a flicker of uncertainty in the way your weight shifts. The way your hand lingers near the light switch. She straightens, slips her hand into yours.

"Bedroom?" you ask, simply.

Your walk as you lead her down the hallways is unhurried, but there's a tautness to your spine that didn't exist in the parking lot. The light is low, the bed a shape of soft shadows and inviting lines. You stand at the foot of it as if one wrong gesture might break the spell. She sees the way your fingers clench, just once, at your side. The tiny shift in your stance.

And she answers the only way that matters.

She steps into your space.

Reaches up. And tells you with her kiss that this -- you -- are exactly what she wants.

You sigh into her kiss, and the tension eases just slightly. Not gone -- not yet -- but softer now. Your hands lift, instinctively, like they want to hold her, like you need something to anchor yourself with.

When she pulls back, your forehead rests gently against hers. The air between you is warm and slow. A breath shared. And in that quiet, she realises:

She needed to be chosen. Deliberately. Unequivocally. Completely. And so did you.

"Sit," she says softly.

Your eyes flicker, just for a second. A brief glint of surprise -- not resistance -- before you ease down onto the edge of the bed, thighs parting slightly as you rest your hands on them. She steps between your legs.

The warmth radiating off you makes her breath catch. Not because she's nervous. But because the proximity is dizzying. Immediate. Inevitable.

She lifts both hands, cups your face gently in her palms.

And kisses you.

This time there's nothing careful about it. Nothing withheld. It's full and slow and deep, the kind of kiss you give someone you've been waiting a hundred lifetimes to find again. The kind you give only when you're sure. When some part of you -- some quiet, ancient part -- remembers.

Your lip's part under hers, soft and warm. The sound you make is low and quiet and sinks straight into her. She kisses you again, and again, until the space between breath and wanting disappears completely.

Then she slides her hands down. Curving under the lapels of your jacket. She pushes the fabric gently off your shoulders, letting it slip down your arms and pool onto the bed behind you. Her eyes follow the way it falls. Slow. Luxurious.

"Leather and lace and a wicked smile," she murmurs, more to herself than to you.

She lets her gaze drift lower, to the sheer black bodysuit clinging to your torso like smoke. Her fingers brush the delicate fabric once, then settle against your ribs.

"If I didn't know any better," she says, her voice a shade closer to laughter now, "I'd swear you picked this outfit on purpose."

Your smile unfurls like a secret. All sharp edges and soft danger. Wicked, as expected.

"How else," you ask, voice low and lazy, "was I going to get you to kiss me?"

She hesitates. She knows it was rhetorical, that you were teasing. "You could have asked. With actual words," she brushes her thumb along your lips to soften the words.

"I'm good at reading between the lines. Sometimes so good it's like they're not even there. But when my head is doing a dark and twisty?" she pauses, meets your eyes. "I'll miss every cue, even when it's thrown directly in my face. Especially when my own feelings are blinding me to what's right in front of my eyes."

She huffs out a laugh, shrugs a little as some of that old fluster sneaks back in. This trait along with a tendency to answer direct questions, rhetorical or not, are not ones she likes to talk about. But sometimes it's worth it. And it's important that you know. For next time you...

She derails that thought before it can go any further. She's not going to think about that now. For now she's going to focus on this moment. On you. In front of her. A dream, one she didn't dare have, come true.

You

"You could've asked. With actual words."

It's the brush of her thumb against your mouth that keeps you still -- the gentleness of it. The way she softens the honesty, makes space for the truth to breathe. She doesn't linger there though. Doesn't try to make it into a lecture. Just meets your eyes and lets you see it:

That this part of her -- the part that second-guesses, that doesn't always read the signs -- is real.

And that you're being trusted with it.

She shrugs a little, laughing like maybe she's embarrassed. You can feel it -- that old flicker of fluster rising in her again. But it doesn't shield her like it used to. Doesn't hide her. Not anymore.

You kiss her.

Quiet. Anchored. Not in hunger, but in understanding.

And something else too -- a flicker of apology. Of regret. Because you know what it means to miss a cue. To drown in your own chaos so thoroughly that all the light gets misread. All the open doors look like walls.

She kisses you back, like she's grateful you didn't say anything more. Like she's grateful you didn't need to.

When you pull away, your lips linger just a second longer than necessary. You smile, soft but wry.

"Use my words," you say, a little dry. "Got it."

It's a rope -- not a joke. Something she can grab onto to pull herself out of that soft, dark place she nearly slipped into.

And it works.

She laughs. Not loud. Just low and warm. Her head dips slightly, curls brushing your bare shoulder.

Then she turns.

Between your legs now, facing away from you.

Her hands move to the lacing of her corset -- a quiet invitation.

Your hands rise. You work the laces slowly, fingers brushing the warmth of her back as you undo her piece by careful piece. The garment loosens, then slips off. You fold it gently and set it aside, and she turns again to face you.

Her dress is simple. But when she grips the hem and pulls it over her head in one smooth, sinuous motion -- when it flutters to the floor like a discarded veil -- she is anything but simple.

And you forget how to breathe.

She's poetry in skin and silk.

The light hits her like it was made for this moment.

Bra and panties, deep jewel-toned, modest but decadent. Her hair is loose around her shoulders -- half falling forward, hiding just enough to make you ache for the rest.

You drink her in.

The soft weight of her breasts beneath the fabric. The sharp slope of her collarbone. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her skin catching the light in glints and shadows -- sun kissed olive and hidden places. One bare foot slightly forward, like she doesn't even realise she's posing for a portrait her soul once posed for before.

You reach out.

Hands smoothing along her waist, her hips. She shivers. You brush her hair back, sweeping it over her shoulder so nothing is hidden now. Your hand slides behind her, drawing her closer.

Closer.

Until the warmth of her body is pressed against your mouth.

You open your lips, close them over one nipple through the silk.

She gasps. Her knees give just slightly, but you hold her steady. Your other hand lifts, cups her other breast, fingers kneading softly as your tongue teases and tastes and takes.

She moans -- quiet and high -- and you feel it against your lips.

She smells like heat and citrus. Like soft florals and sweat. She tastes like something you've dreamed of, something you once remembered but never thought you'd touch again.

And in this moment -- her body trembling beneath your mouth -- you think maybe this is what reverence was made for.

Her skin is satin beneath your hands. Your fingers move up the line of her spine, following the slope of muscle and warmth and memory. You reach the clasp of her bra -- and she stops you.

Not with force. Not with hesitation.

Just with intention.

"Not," she murmurs between kisses. The next one brushes the corner of your mouth. "Yet."

Another kiss, lower now, just beneath your jaw.

And then her hands are on your chest, easing you back. You don't resist. You let her guide you down onto your elbows, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. Your breath catches in your throat as she looks at you -- not like a conquest, but a secret she already knows the shape of.

Her hands move to your waist. She undoes your pants with a patience that feels like reverence, like she's peeling away something sacred. The button, the zip. The slow slide of leather over your hips, your thighs. You lift slightly to help her. She doesn't speak. Doesn't need to.

Her smile changes when the shirt reveals itself for what it is.

You see it happen -- that flicker of surprise, then delight. The realisation that the black lace blouse you wore tonight is a bodysuit. Fitted and sheer and clinging to every line of you like you'd dressed knowing this moment was always going to happen.

Maybe you did.

She sinks to her knees between your legs.

And for the second time tonight, you forget how to breathe.

The light catches her just so -- curls tumbling around her shoulders, skin flushed from heat and want, eyes heavy-lidded and full of something that doesn't feel like this lifetime.

You feel her fingers against your ankle. Then the soft trail of her lips.

The inside of your knee. A slow kiss. Then another, higher.

You can't look away.

She's not rushing. Not claiming. Not consuming.

She's tasting.

Like this -- you -- are something rare.

Your thighs part instinctively, welcoming her closer. You feel her breath, warm against your skin. Then the press of her mouth, soft and lingering, to the inside of your thigh. Right where the lace begins.

And just like that, you're undone.

Because the lace is already damp. Still soaked from earlier. From the moment in the alcove when she walked in and caught you shattering with her name on your lips. That memory rushes back now -- not in shame, but in fire.

And she feels it.

She leans in. Presses another kiss right against the fabric. And it's not urgent. It's not teasing.

It's devotion.

You feel your breath catch.

Her gaze flicks up. Meets yours. Holds it.

And stays.

There's no coyness there. No smug satisfaction. Just that quiet knowing you're still not sure how to name -- like she's remembering you more than she's discovering you. Like this isn't the first time she's knelt between your thighs, lips parted, eyes dark with wanting.

You shift slightly. A shallow roll of your hips. An offering. An ache.

She doesn't move right away. Doesn't press harder. Just stays there -- mouth hovering, warm breath ghosting across damp lace. You can feel the exact moment she parts her lips.

Then her mouth is on you.

Still through the fabric. Damp with your release from earlier. She sucks, long and soft and slow, tasting you again like she's been thinking about it since the alcove. Since the echo of her name in your mouth shattered the space between you. Your spine arches -- unbidden, immediate -- and she hums again. A little deeper. Like she felt it too.

Then her fingers move -- not fast, not fumbling -- just certain. She undoes the clasps and peels your panties down your thighs, dragging the soaked lace over your skin like she's savouring the friction, the heat, the unveiling.

And then she looks at you.

Really looks.

You can't move. Something in her gaze that roots you in place, makes you feel bare in a way that has nothing to do with nudity.

Her lips part again.

And then she's tasting you. Skin to skin.

Her tongue slides between your folds, slow and sure, a flicker of heat that makes your breath punch out of your lungs. She doesn't rush. Doesn't dive in like she's starving.

She tastes.

Flick. Nibble. Gentle suction. A lazy swirl of her tongue over your clit like she's learning you from the inside out. You can feel your body tilt toward her without meaning to, chasing more friction, more pressure -- but her hands slide up your thighs and hold.

Not forcefully. But firmly. Her thumbs brush soft against your hip bones. Anchoring you.

Keeping you exactly where she wants you.

You groan -- low, ragged -- as her mouth keeps working, drawing circles that tighten and shimmer. The muscles in your belly contract. Your toes curl. You can hear yourself now -- moaning, breathless, a soft litany of sound that feels half-worship, half-warning.

Just as your body starts to tip, just as the edge begins to fray beneath you, she pulls back.

You almost sob, part frustration at the denial, part something else. Because somehow this woman who managed so much of what you'd tried to tell her - knows you better than anyone has ever dared to try. Has brought you to the edge and pulled you gently back again and again. Is holding you there now, on the cusp of your release.

Quiet confidence in the touch of lips and fingers that tells you she will keep you exactly here, for as long as she likes, until she is ready to let you fall.

Her

Her fingers slide up your torso, slow and steady, tracing the line of your body as she gathers the fabric in gentle folds. The lace pulls taut, then loosens with each inch, baring skin she's dreamed of but never dared to imagine like this.

Her mouth follows the trail her hands create.

A kiss just above your hip bone.

Another one along the dip of your waist, where softness meets definition. She lingers there, nose brushing skin, tongue flicking out for the salt of you.

Then upward.

The smooth plane of your abdomen. The hollow just beneath your ribs. The underside of your breast -- warm and tender and impossibly soft.

The bodysuit peels away slowly. It isn't difficult -- it slips from your skin like it was always meant to be taken off in pieces, in silence, in awe.

And then--

Then it's gone.

You're naked in front of her.

Fully.

Finally.

And she stops.

Just stops.

Because the sight of you steals the breath from her lungs and replaces it with something else entirely. A kind of ache that roots in the hollow beneath her ribs and blooms outward in every direction at once.

Your breasts are full, heavy with arousal, the nipples flushed the same deep pink as your mouth. Which is kiss swollen and parted around your panting breaths like you're chasing the last notes of the high she denied you.

Your legs -- long, lean, shaped by motion -- lie slightly parted, and your skin glows in the low light. Freckles dust your collarbones, scatter across the slope of your chest. Your eyes, half-lidded and blazing with heat, find hers.

She wants to move, to touch.

But all she can do is stare.

Because you're beautiful.

More beautiful than she ever imagined. More than memory, more than fantasy. And she has imagined. Has tried to build you in her mind more times than she'll admit. Has tried to recreate the shape of your mouth in sketches and shadows. Has tried to guess at the weight of your body against hers from a single point of contact.

But this--

This is art and myth and home.

She doesn't look away when she slips the last of her clothing off.

Just steps out of her underwear like she's shedding the last of the world's noise. Then crawls forward -- slow, deliberate -- over the mattress. You're still propped on your elbows, half-risen, watching her. She straddles your hips, thighs bracketing your body, bare heat settling against the skin just above your navel.

It's like a circuit clicks closed.

The gasp leaves her before she can stop it -- small, sharp, wholly involuntary -- because the contact is immediate and electric. You're warm beneath her, solid, your skin slick from sweat and arousal, the line of your abdomen flexing just slightly when her hips settle there.

Your arms come around her waist and you sit up -- the motion is easy, fluid, like gravity works differently when it comes to you. Her breath stutters as your hands splay against her back, anchoring her in place as your mouth finds her breast.

She groans. Low and breathy.

Your lips close over her nipple and she feels her spine curve instinctively, her fingers curling against your shoulders. You suck softly at first, tongue dragging over sensitive skin, then again, with more focus -- a slow, open-mouthed kiss around the whole curve of her breast.

Her body rocks forward once, dragging her slick heat across your stomach, her clit catching on the curve of muscle just below your ribs. The friction is low and heady, more tease than relief, but it steals her breath anyway.

You hum against her skin. Keep going.

Your hands shift, one arm still anchoring her, the other rising to cup her other breast. You knead gently, fingers working in counterpoint to your mouth. Her head tips back, a tremble running through her thighs.

She rocks again.

Slow. Deliberate.

Just once more. Just enough to feel.

And when you moan -- deep in your throat, the sound vibrating through her chest -- it feels like being devoured from the inside out.

So she lets you have her.

Lets you get your fill.

Of her skin. Of her breasts. Of the weight of her hips and the heat already slicking between her legs. Lets you take everything she's offering without question. She shifts forward again, guiding you with her touch -- a hand behind your back, a whispered pressure against your shoulder -- until you're both moving together.

She eases you down, her body following, settling her weight on top of you. Thighs tangling. Skin to skin. Breasts pressed close. The heat between your bodies is a pulse now -- not just warmth, but gravity. Something ancient and cellular and holy.

She trails her fingers over your cheek, down the curve of your jaw. She watches the way your eyes darken beneath her touch, the way your lip's part like a sigh is already waiting there.

She kisses your jawline first, slow and grazing.

Then lower, along the column of your neck.

She finds that place behind your ear and lingers there, letting her tongue press gently against it before her lips close around your skin.

You shiver. She feels it everywhere.

She kisses lower. The arch of your collarbone. The hollow where it dips.

She finds your pulse and sucks.

Softly. Slowly. Your heartbeat beneath her mouth feels like a secret -- and she wants to keep it.

When she lifts her head again, she whispers it:

"I dreamed of this."

Her voice is steady. Barely a breath.

"I dreamed of tasting you. Of hearing you say my name and knowing--without question--that it was meant for no one else."

You're quiet.

Then your lips curve. Your fingers slide up her spine.

"It was," you murmur. "It is."

Her lips find yours, and everything else disappears.

There's no desperation in it. No hunger. Just heat and presence and the kind of intimacy that unfolds with every brush of tongue, every slow tangle of hands. You kiss like you're discovering each other again -- like each press of lips is a confirmation, not a question.

Your fingers drift over her back. She touches your side, your breast, the curve of your hip. There's no hurry. No goal. Just exploration.

Just this.

Bodies rocking, softly. Breathing into each other's mouths.

Her hips roll -- not with friction, but to feel your skin shift against hers. To let the moment stretch.

And stretch.

And stretch.

She slides her hand down your stomach, slow and reverent. The curve of your waist, the subtle twitch of your muscles as her fingers descend -- every shift is memorised, mapped by heat.

Then lower.

She feels it before she finds it -- the wet, the want, the way your thighs part without prompting.

Her fingers slip between your folds.

Soft. Swollen. Trembling.

She finds your clit and presses -- gentle, just once -- and your whole body answers. A sharp gasp. A sudden arch. She strokes lightly. Just fingertips at first. Teasing. Reverent. The echo of a promise.

Then deeper.

Her fingers dip, slick with your arousal, and slide into you like they belong there. You gasp her name.

"Sunshine."

Soft. Desperate. A summons.

Your head falls back; mouth open. Your hips rise, chasing her hand, trying to take her deeper. She gives it to you. Presses in. Curves. Finds that place inside you that pulses with heat and memory.

She watches you.

Watches your face twist with pleasure. Watches your breath stutter as her fingers move inside you -- slow, certain, steady. Like this is something she's done a thousand times before.

And maybe she has.

Because it feels like remembering. Like her body has always known how to bring you to this edge.

She leans in. Kisses your jaw. Your throat. Finds your nipple and sucks it into her mouth, rolling her tongue around the aching peak. Your moan trembles through her.

Your leg slips between hers. She gasps as her slick heat drags across the smooth strength of your thigh. She rocks into you -- again, again -- matching the rhythm of her fingers inside you.

She's moaning now too, soft and ragged against your skin, her breath hot where her mouth trails. Her fingers never stop. Curling just right. Pressing just deep enough.

She knows this.

The feel of you clutching at her. The velvet pull of your body around her fingers. The sound of your soft moans and panting breaths. The feel of you writhing beneath her.

You're close.

So close.

Shaking under her now, your hands gripping at her back, at her shoulders, at anything you can hold. She shifts -- just slightly -- the angle of her hand changing. Her fingers sink deeper. Thrust harder. Find that spot again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then you break.

Your release rushes over her hand -- hot, pulsing, flooding -- and you cry her name. Louder this time. Wrecked. Raw. Like it's the last word you'll ever say.

It undoes her.

She grinds harder against your thigh and her own orgasm hits like lightning -- sharp, sudden, devastating. Her fingers still thrusting into you, still wringing out every wave from your body as her own rocks through her. Aftershocks stretch between you, drawn out with every pulse, every moan, until there's nothing left.

Nothing but breathing.

Nothing but the weight of her collapsed on your chest, and both of you panting as you try to catch your breaths.

Eventually, you move. Just a little. Your eyes are slow to open -- heavy, dazed. Your lift her hand from between your legs and your smile is unmistakable.

You bring her fingers to your mouth.

And suck.

Eyes on hers the whole time.

Her breath catches. You taste yourself, slow and deliberate, your mouth soft and wicked around her knuckles.

"Jesus woman," she breathes.

Her body is still quivering in the aftermath of her climax, the taste of you is still on her lips and you looking at her like that.

So what else could she possibly say?

Chapter 8 (Epilogue)

"Shadows In the Flames"

You

The knock on your office door is perfunctory. An announcement of intent rather than a request. You don't look up. You already know who it is thanks to the jingle of bracelets that accompanied the knock.

"What do you want?"

You're staring at a cursor blinking accusingly at you from your laptop screen, half-lost in some admin hellscape, blinking blearily at a spreadsheet that refuses to balance. The brunette is awkwardly balancing a package in her arms -- large, flat, carefully wrapped.

"I've got something for you," she says, grinning. "It just arrived. Courier. No return name. Thought it might cheer you up."

You don't look up. "Unless it's cake or arson, not interested."

"Nope," she says brightly. "Better." She sets the parcel down, leaning it against a filing cabinet, and plants her hands on her hips. "Open it."

"I'm busy."

"You're sulking. Open it."

You look up with a frown. "I'm working."

"No, you're not." She arches an eyebrow. "You're brooding in spreadsheets."

"Same thing. Anyways, I'm not in the mood."

"You never are lately," she replies, voice softer this time, with a glance you don't quite meet. "Which is why you should open it now."

You sigh. Loudly. But she's not wrong. So you push your chair back with a squeak and glare at the package like it personally offended you. It's been a while since anything's felt like it mattered -- not since the day she left. You're not sure how long it's been.

Long enough for the scent of her to have faded from your sheets but not from your memory. You tear through the wrapping with more irritation than interest -- brown Kraft paper and tape falling away in strips. Your breath catches when you step back to get a proper look.

It's a painting.

Ink and watercolour splashes, vibrant and chaotic, abstract and precise all at once. The kind of style that blurs things until they look like memory. A wash of amber and crimson, streaks of smoke grey and wine-dark blue, all wild strokes and soft edges and swirling shadows.

But it's the figure that arrests you. A woman in an armchair. Head thrown back. Blouse unbuttoned; mouth parted. One hand between her legs, the other clutching the curve of the chair. Her hair--

Red.

Vivid red.

Your red.

Your breath stills. Your heart doesn't. Because it's you. It's you in the alcove. Mid-desperation. Mid-release. Mid-surrender.

"Oh my god," the brunette breathes, closer now. "Is that--Is that you?"

You don't answer. You can't. She leans in, peering at the frame. "There's no signature. Just this."

Her finger taps a small brass plaque at the bottom edge of the frame.

Cherry Fire.

Still, you say nothing.

"Who sent this?" she asks, but her voice is already shifting, uncertainty creeping in.

You're not looking at the brunette anymore. You're not even really in the office. You're there again. The memory cuts clean -- no warning.

You'd been half-dressed, humming as you packed leftovers into the fridge. She'd leaned against the counter, hair still damp from the shower, hands curled around a mug of coffee.

And you'd said it -- casually, offhand -- that you'd take her to that beachside place you love. It's a drive, but worth it. You'd make a day of it. She'd gone quiet. Quiet in a way that made you turn to look at her. You remember the look on her face. The way her finger had traced the rim of her mug.

The way her eyes flicked to the clock on your kitchen wall, then back to you. That exact second when the light dimmed behind her eyes. "I'm leaving soon," she said softly. "About thirty hours, give or take."

You remember the silence. The ache. The sharp, stunned coldness that filled your ribs. And then you'd kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Aching.

You'd made love like you were trying to stop time with your bodies. Like if you moved together enough, if you said her name enough, if you held her close enough -- you could erase those words and she wouldn't have to leave. You remember the sound she made when she came.

The way her tears mixed with the sweat on your skin. You remember her hands on your face, her mouth on your chest, the way she whispered sorry again and again and again. The rest unravelled in fragments. Fingertips. Whispers. Desperation curled into the corners of every kiss.

You remember the way she moved against you that night -- as if memorising you with every stroke. As if claiming something she knew wasn't hers to keep. You remember not leaving the house again.

The kitchen. The lounge. The couch when you woke tangled and wanting, always wanting. The shower. The bed. Again and again and again. Each time slower. Softer. More desperate.

You remember giving her the original copy of Tousled Angels as she packed her bag. The way she held it like it was breakable. You remember the way her eyes went sapphire-bright when she turned at the door.

The way she wept -- soundless, shaking, one hand pressed hard against her mouth -- and the way you couldn't bring yourself to go after her. She walked out of your house with poetry in her bag and tears on her cheeks. And you haven't been the same since. But now--

Now the painting is in front of you.

The brunette's voice is softer when she speaks again. She's looking at your face. "It's from her, isn't it?"

You shake your head. Not no.

Just -- I can't.

Your throat is too tight. Your lungs too slow. You are on the verge of something sharp, and you are not sure what to do with it. She doesn't press. Doesn't ask again.

She comes around the desk and pulls you into her arms, murmuring something soft you can't quite make out. You don't resist. You let her hold you, your fingers curled into the back of her cardigan, your breath trembling between silence and grief.

Eventually, you breathe again.

She pulls away.

"I'll give you a minute," she says gently. Her voice is soft. Understanding. Almost pitying. Except she knows better. The door clicks shut behind her.

You stare at the painting.

Then cross the room. You reach for the frame already hanging there -- one of the original prints from the sex worker exhibit. You liked the power in how the woman in this one stood, cigarette dangling from her fingers. The gaze. The defiance.

You'd put it back eventually, when you found something permanent to replace it with. You take it down carefully, rest it against the wall and hang the painting in its place.

Cherry Fire.

Step back.

Sit on the edge of your desk, knuckles white as you grip the wood like that will keep your heart from shattering in your chest.

Just look, and remember.

Everything.

Her.