I blink, and the thief is on the floor.
Seamus's hand tightens slightly on my waist as the scene unfolds.
I feel him tense, preparing to move toward the confrontation, but we're separated from it by a sea of startled onlookers.
We watch as the man firmly grips the thief's wrist, twisting it. The theif releases Lindsay's bag with a yelp of pain.
The crowd surges around the commotion, some people backing away while others press closer for a better view.
In the shuffle, someone bumps into me hard from behind, sending me off-balance.
I stumble forward, my ankle twisting painfully in my unfamiliar heels. Seamus reacts instantly, his arm encircling my waist to steady me before I can fall.
"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice lower and less controlled than I've ever heard it.
I nod, suddenly aware of the solid warmth of him against my side.
He's close enough that I can see the faint scar near his jaw I’ve never asked about. Close enough that the noise of the museum fades.
His hand is still at my waist.
His gaze drops—briefly—to my mouth.
And then he steps back.
The museum staff quickly handle the incident, escorting the attempted thief out.
The crowd gradually disperses, returning to the artwork with the added excitement of having witnessed some unexpected drama.
Seamus leads me to a quieter alcove off the main gallery, his hand on my elbow.
"You should sit for a moment," he suggests, guiding me to a bench positioned before a large abstract painting.
The canvas explodes with color. It has joyful yellows and oranges against a deep blue background.
"I'm fine, really," I insist, though I sink onto the bench gratefully.
Seamus sits beside me, closer than our usual careful distance.
"That could have escalated quickly," he says, his gaze drifting back toward where the incident occurred.
"He handled it well," Seamus adds, a note of professional respect in his voice.
"You moved pretty quickly yourself," I say, glancing at him with new curiosity. "I didn't know billionaires had such good reflexes."
Seamus turns to me, and I catch something that might be amusement in his eyes.
"Former collegiate fencer," he replies, the personal detail offered voluntarily—another rarity. "Reflexes stay with you."
I try to picture him younger, less controlled, engaged in fencing, and find the image strangely fitting.
I'll have to add that one to my sketchbook later. A college-aged Seamus in fencing whites, mask tucked beneath one arm, expression sharper but not yet sealed shut.
I have a growing collection of him now.
I’ve started thinking of it asThe Seamus Project.
That first sketch of him as a boy with his curls escaping in every direction, eyes narrowed against the sun, defiant and uncontained. Since then, I’ve added more. A lanky teenager in an oversized blazer, jaw set too seriously for fifteen.
