They don’t get his smile, that soft, glowing one he saves just for me.
I know he loves me.
I know he trusts me, chooses me, every damn day.
And he still looks at me with that same tenderness, that same shy boldness that ruins me every single time.
So yeah. Maybe it keeps me up at night—the thought of anyone else even thinking they could have a piece of him.
Because Lucas isn’t just someone I love.
He’s my calm, my obsession, the center of everything that keeps me human.
I drain the rest of my drink, forcing down the edge in my voice when I mutter,
“Maybe it does keep me up sometimes.”
Viktor’s lips curl into a knowing grin. “I know.”
Before I can respond, Maksim’s voice cuts through the low hum of the crowd.
“What are you two yapping about?”
He’s walking toward us, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair is different, no longer the dyed buzzcut he’s always kept. It’s longer now, tapering into something almost stylish. It looks good on him.
“Just talking about how unfair it is that you drag us to this stupid exhibition every damn year,” Viktor says, smirking. “Your art isn’t stupid, though.”
Maksim rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of pride behind it. Then his gaze lands on me.
“Can’t believe it’s been about a year and a few months since the last one,” he says, mouth curling into that familiar taunting smirk. “Ready to bid on another painting again, dear brother?”
“Fuck off, Maksim.” I shoot him a glare. “I still don’t know what to do with the last one.”
“You could hang it in your bedroom,” Viktor suggests casually, taking a sip of his drink.
“Hell no. Lucas is scared shitless of that painting,” I reply, the memory of his uneasy expression flashing in my head.
“Shame,” Maksim mutters, but his tone shifts suddenly. His eyes flick past me, and for a moment, something in his face softens—relief, maybe. But it hardens again, quick, like he’s fighting it.
I follow his gaze.
Tristan stands across the room beside a marble pillar, watching us. His eyes lock on Maksim first, then shift to me. He gives a slight nod in greeting. I return it out of habit.
“Why’s he just standing there like that?” Viktor asks, brows furrowing.
“You’re still torturing him, I see,” I say, raising a brow at Maksim.
“I have to,” he replies, his voice edged with defiance. “He tortured me too.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. They’ll figure it out on their own.
***
The bell above the door gives a soft chime as I step inside.
The air smells like cinnamon and baked sugar, warm in a way that makes my chest tighten with nostalgia.
Behind the counter, an older woman looks up from the register. The moment her eyes land on me, they widen slightly before breaking into a wide, delighted smile.
