He nods thoughtfully. “Or maybe someone trying to hold on. The darker tones seem to pull everything inward, as if grasping at something they can’t quite reach.”
I glance at him, struck by how effortlessly he understands these abstract expressions. “You’re good at this.”
Monty turns to me, his lips curling into a soft smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by how art reflects emotion. It’s like a glimpse into someone else’s soul.”
His words send a small flutter through my chest. There’s something so earnest about the way he speaks. It feels like every observation he makes carries a piece of his own heart.
We move from piece to piece, sharing quiet observations and trading gentle jokes. The gallery fades around us, the art becoming a backdrop to the easy rhythm of our conversation. At one point, we stop before a particularly striking piece. It isa massive canvas awash with shades of black and gray, overrun with streaks of a bright, vivid, pink that seems to shimmer in the dim light.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. “It feels... hopeful.”
Monty stands close, his gaze fixed on the painting. “Like light breaking through darkness,” he agrees. “It’s... radiant. Just like you.”
The words hang in the air between us. They are soft and unassuming, but they hit me like a quiet storm. Warmth rushes to my cheeks, and I look down, trying to suppress the nervous smile threatening to break free.
Oh gosh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so romantic in all my life. I’m at a very real risk of swooning right into Monty’s arms.
“Sorry,” Monty says quickly, his voice laced with self-consciousness. “That might’ve been too much.”
“No,” I say, looking back up at him. My voice comes out quieter than I intend. “It wasn’t too much.” It was wonderful. I could get used to compliments and affection, I really could.
His eyes search mine. For a moment, the air between us feels charged, heavy with something unspoken.
Monty breaks the tension with a soft chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Shall we move on?”
I nod, grateful for the reprieve. But even as we walk to the next room, the warmth of his words lingers, filling me with a strange, fluttery sense of anticipation.
We reach the end of the exhibition sooner than I’d like, and we find ourselves in the museum’s small café, sipping tea and sharing a slice of chocolate cake. The conversation flows easily as we trade stories and laughter.
“Do you paint?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. He seems to know a lot about the subject. But then again, Monty seems to know a lot about most things.
Monty shakes his head with a soft laugh. “No. I’ve tried, but my attempts are laughable. My talents are more practical than creative.”
“Practical like cooking?” I tease, because I’m not going to mention alchemy in public.
Monty grins, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes my chest feel warm.
“Exactly,” he says, and then he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say more. “Though I do have a story about a particularly disastrous attempt at… let’s call it culinary artistry.”
“Oh, you have to tell me now,” I say, laughing.
Monty chuckles and leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “When I was younger, I decided to host a dinner party. It was meant to be a casual gathering, just some acquaintances and family. I thought I could handle the cooking myself. I’d watched the chef at home plenty of times and thought, how hard could it be?”
I’m already grinning. “Famous last words.”
“Precisely,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I decided to make a roast. Simple, classic. Except I overestimated how long it would take to cook. By the time the guests arrived, the kitchen was filled with smoke, and the roast… Well, let’s just say it was more charcoal than meat.”
I laugh, the image of Monty frantically battling a smoking oven far too vivid. “What did you do?”
“I improvised,” he says, his tone dry but amused. “I sent someone out to buy bread, cheese, and wine and declared it a rustic picnic dinner. Everyone was too polite to complain.”
“I’m sure they thought it was charming,” I say, still laughing.
“They were gracious,” he admits, his smile softening. “But that was the day I learned the importance of knowing one’s limitations.”
“And now you’re a culinary genius,” I say, recalling the expert way he made me breakfast in bed in his tiny campervan kitchen.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, but the pleased flush on his cheeks tells me he doesn’t mind the compliment.
