“You relax here,” he says quietly. “Your shoulders drop.”
I smile. “Art does that for me.”
We move slowly from piece to piece. Abstracts. Sculptures. Mixed media installations that make my brain buzz in the best way. I stop in front of a large canvas, blues layered over blacks and silvers, sharp strokes cutting through softer ones.
“This one,” I say. “This feels like survival.”
I turn to explain what I mean.
He isn’t looking at the painting.
He’s looking at me.
Openly. Unapologetically. Like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
“Drago?” I say softly.
He blinks, like I’ve pulled him out of something. “Sorry.”
“You haven’t looked at a single piece since we walked in.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Not true.”
“Oh yeah?” I tease. “Which one’s your favorite?”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. His voice drops, just for me. “The one right in front of me. She makes me feel like every evil thing I’ve done in my life can be redeemed. She makes me believe that breaking my rules for her will be the best damn thing that's ever happened. That I no longer survive without purpose, I do it for her.”
My breath catches.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper, sliding my hands up his chest before wrapping them around his neck. “But also incredibly cute.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by violence. And now I’m standing in a room full of beautiful things, and all my attention keeps coming back to you.”
His hand lifts, brushing my curls away from my face. “I don’t understand art to this level, only the paintings I do at home,” he continues quietly. “But I understand you. The way you see the world. The way you feel things deeply and still keep going.”
“You’re staring,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “I can’t seem to stop.”
The gallery hums around us, distant voices, soft footsteps, but it feels like we’re suspended in our own pocket of time.
“Has it always been art for you, Lily?” he asks.
My stomach drops, and the truth falls out of my lips. “My art was ballet. Since I was just a kid, right up until my early twenties. I loved it, with every fiber of my being. I’ve never quite found happiness like it since.”
His jaw twitches subtly. “You gave it up?”
“Things happened. I fell out of love. The memories hurt me too much to even put my pointe shoes back on.” I tell him and look away. I’ve tried a few times. Each time, I didn’t get very far. I couldn’t even walk into the ballet studio. Because whenever I’m reminded of dance, I’m reminded of what happened. I feel a painso raw that I want to rip my own skin off. And I hate that. I hate that it’s ruined what once brought me joy.
His hand slides down, gripping my waist. “Would you ever dance for me, lastochka? I’d love to see you in your element once more.”
For a second, I contemplate it. For some reason, with him, I feel like I could take on the world. If he can stand here and go against everything he stands for, his friendship with my father, the man who saved him, just to be with me. Then maybe, just maybe, I can do something scary too. For him.
“Maybe when you show me your paintings, I’ll give you one dance.”
He smirks. “Just one?”
“That is all I can offer right now. One.”
