Something shifted in my chest. Some wall I'd built decades ago, crumbling under the weight of her perception. She saw me. Really saw me—not the violence, not the competence, not the carefully constructed armor.
Just the man who loved her.
I kissed her then. Soft and slow, tasting salt from her tears, feeling her melt against me in the golden afternoon light. Our paintings stood behind us, twin testimonies to what we saw when we looked at each other.
When I finally pulled back, she was smiling through her tears.
"We should take these home," she said.
"We should."
"And hang them somewhere we'll see them every day."
I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Wherever you want, little bird."
Her smile widened.
And something in me that had been waiting my whole life finally felt found.
Therestaurantwasthekind of place tourists never found.
Twelve tables, maybe fewer. Dim lighting that came from candles rather than fixtures. The particular smell of garlic and good wine and bread that had been fresh that morning. I'd been coming here for years—it was owned by a family with no connections to my world, which made it one of the few places I could eat without watching the door.
Tonight, I watched her instead.
She'd changed the skirt for something simpler—jeans, soft boots, my sweater still because she'd refused to give it up. The collar peeked above the neckline, catching candlelight whenever she moved. We were tucked into a corner booth, the kind of seating that encouraged secrets, that made the rest of the restaurant feel distant and unimportant.
The wine arrived first. A Barolo I'd ordered without looking at the menu—the owner knew my preferences, brought things without being asked. She tasted it carefully, the way she tasted everything, cataloging.
"It's good," she said, surprised.
"You expected poison?"
Her lips curved. "I expected something complicated. This is just . . . good."
"Sometimes the simple things are best."
We ordered without urgency. Pasta for both of us, different preparations, an appetizer of burrata that arrived glistening and perfect. The conversation started small—observations about the day, the studio, the paintings we'd made and what we might do with them.
But I could feel the deeper current beneath the surface. The questions we hadn't asked yet. The histories we'd only sketched in typed messages across five months of careful distance.
"Tell me about your grandmother."
The question came out before I'd fully decided to ask it. But I'd heard her mention the woman before—fragments, references, the particular weight in her voice when she spoke of someone lost.
She set down her wine.
"She taught me to paint." The words came slow, thoughtful. "Not formal lessons. Just . . . she'd put paper in front of me and let me make messes. She never told me I was doing it wrong."
"That's rare."
"For me, it was everything." She traced the rim of her glass. "My parents didn't—they tried, I think. But I was exhausting. Too sensitive. Too particular. I had meltdowns over things that seemed stupid to them. Wrong textures. Wrong sounds. Wrong everything."
My chest tightened. The image of her as a child, overwhelmed and misunderstood, made something protective flare in me.
"They wanted a normal daughter," she continued. "Someone who didn't need accommodations and explanations and endless patience. So I learned to fake it. To mask. To pretend I was the girl they wanted instead of the one they got."
"But not with your grandmother."
