"That's what makes it unnerving. It's just how you are. And I keep wondering what's underneath."
The silence stretches. The gallery noise fades. We're standing in the light that falls through the gap, and he's looking at me with an intensity that has stopped pretending to be casual.
"You wouldn't like what's underneath," he says quietly.
"How do you know?"
"Because I don't like what's underneath."
The admission rearranges everything. He's not deflecting. He's standing in front of me telling me that whatever he's hiding, he's ashamed of it.
"I think you're more interesting than you want people to know," I say. The words arrive unbidden, the way the best lines of a sculpture arrive—true.
His eyes darken. Not with anger. With something that makes my stomach drop and my skin heat.
"Jess—" He says my name and stops. Just my name. Like it's a complete sentence.
Nish appears at my elbow with a collector. The spell breaks. Damien steps back—that controlled half-step that's a concession, not a retreat.
I'm pulled into introductions, handshakes, the machinery of an opening night. The hand piece sells. A second collector asks about a commission. Nish is incandescent.
Damien moves through the rest of the evening at a distance. I see him talking to other guests, looking at other work. But I feel him the way you feel weather—a pressure system in the room, altering the atmosphere.
Tess leaves at ten. She has an early morning—a painting she's fighting with, a deadline. She hugs me, tells me she's proud, makes me promise to eat something when I get home. I watch her red coat disappear through the gallery door and feel the safety net retract.
The show winds down. Guests thin out. Nish starts the closing-up rituals—dimming lights, collecting glasses. I help because it gives my hands something to do, and my hands need occupation tonight.
I say goodbye to Nish at the door. He holds me by the shoulders and looks at me with an expression so openly proud that I have to look away.
"This is the beginning," he says. "You know that, right?"
I nod. I don't trust my voice.
Then I'm on the street, alone, the November air biting through the green dress. I should have brought a coat. I didn't bring a coat because Tess said the dress needed to be seen unobstructed, and I listened because Tess is usually right about these things, and now I'm freezing on an East Village sidewalk at 10:30 at night.
I start walking toward the subway. Two blocks, maybe less.
He falls into step beside me.
I don't hear him approach. One moment the sidewalk is empty, the next he's there—to my left, matching my pace, his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. He doesn't announce himself. Doesn't say anything. Just walks.
"I didn't ask you to walk with me," I say.
"I know."
"So why are you?"
"Because it's late and it's cold and you don't have a coat."
"I don't need a coat."
"You're shivering."
I am shivering. The dress that looked so perfect under gallery lighting offers nothing against November. My arms are bare and covered in goosebumps and my jaw is tight from clenching against the cold.
He takes off his suit jacket. Doesn't ask. Just shrugs it off his shoulders and holds it out to me in one smooth motion, still walking, still not looking at me directly.
The presumption of it—the sheer, unapologetic presumption—should make me furious. It's the hardware store all over again. The man who reaches for things without asking. The man who decides what you need before you've said a word.
