Martin tries to twist around to look up at Faugh, but the sheer height difference makes the gesture comical and pathetic. "I... I don't know who you think you are, but this is a professional?—"
"Your critique was structurally unsound," Faugh interrupts. He doesn't raise his voice at all, doesn't need to. "You claimed her use of color was unrefined, yet her application of complementary contrast in the centerpiece canvas demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of chromatic tension that yourown portfolio consistently fails to achieve. I reviewed your work online before attending this evening. Your reliance on muted earth tones suggests either a fundamental misunderstanding of emotional resonance or, more likely, a complete absence of genuine feeling to convey in the first place."
My mouth falls open. I observe Faugh's profile, at the sharp line of his jaw and the deadly seriousness in his dark eyes, and I genuinely cannot process what I'm hearing. He researched color theory. He looked up Martin's work. He prepared for this possibility like he was planning a military operation, all because he knew Martin might show up and try to destroy me the way he always does.
Martin sputters incoherently, his face flushing an ugly, mottled red that creeps upward from his collar like a spreading stain. He opens his mouth and closes it again, fish-like, clearly grasping for some kind of coherent response. "That's—that's absurd, you can't possibly—" he stammers, his voice cracking slightly on the last syllable. His free hand flutters uselessly at his side, as if searching for some logical argument that might salvage this rapidly deteriorating situation, but nothing seems to come. He's sputtering now, genuinely flustered in a way I've never seen before, and it's becoming abundantly clear that he has absolutely no framework for being intellectually outmaneuvered, especially not by someone who looks like Faugh.
"Furthermore," Faugh continues, his fingers tightening just slightly on Martin's shoulder in a way that makes the smaller man wince, "your assertion that her emotional expressiveness is a weakness rather than a strength reveals a profound ignorance of the entire Romantic movement, the German Expressionists, and contemporary affect theory in fine arts. Chantel's work demonstrates vulnerability and raw authenticity, which requires significantly more courage than your derivative, technicallycompetent but spiritually vacant landscapes. You are, in essence, criticizing her for possessing the exact qualities that make art valuable rather than merely decorative."
The gallery has gone completely silent. I can feel eyes on us from every corner of the room, other artists and patrons turning to witness this absolute dismantling. Melissa, the gallery owner, is standing frozen by the wine table with her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with barely suppressed glee.
Martin's wine glass slips from his fingers and shatters on the polished concrete floor, red liquid spreading across the pale gray surface like blood. He doesn't even seem to notice. His entire focus is locked on Faugh, and the expression on his face is one of pure, unadulterated panic mixed with humiliation so profound it's almost painful to witness.
"Now," Faugh says, his voice dropping even lower, that subtle growl threading through the words in a way that makes my skin prickle with something that definitely isn't fear, "you will apologize to Chantel for wasting her time with your insecure posturing. You will leave this gallery. And you will reconsider whether publicly humiliating artists you secretly envy is truly how you wish to spend your diminishing relevance in this city's art community."
Martin stammers something that might be an apology, the words barely coherent, and then Faugh releases his shoulder. Martin practically runs for the exit, his expensive shoes crunching through the shattered wine glass, and the gallery door slams shut behind him with a definitive bang that echoes through the sudden, shocked silence.
For exactly three seconds, nobody moves. Then Melissa starts clapping, slow and deliberate, and suddenly the entire room erupts into applause and laughter. Artists I barely know are patting my shoulder, congratulating me, and someonepresses a fresh glass of wine into my hands while making a joke about finally seeing Martin get what he deserves.
But I can't focus on any of it because I'm staring up at Faugh, who has turned to face me fully, his expression shifting from that deadly calm back into something softer, almost concerned. He reaches out and gently adjusts the strap of my dress where it has slipped slightly down my shoulder, his enormous fingers impossibly careful against my bare skin.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and his voice is back to that formal, deliberate cadence, like he didn't just verbally eviscerate someone using advanced color theory.
I realize I'm crying, but they're not the humiliated, broken tears that Martin usually inspires. These are something else entirely, hot and overwhelming and mixed with this huge, bubbling laugh that keeps trying to escape my chest. "You researched the German Expressionists for me," I manage to choke out, my voice cracking on the words.
"I researched several movements," Faugh corrects, completely serious. "I wanted to be prepared in case anyone attempted to undermine your work with fraudulent academic posturing. It seemed likely given the competitive nature of gallery exhibitions."
I laugh again, this wild, slightly hysterical sound, and then I'm throwing my arms around him without thinking, pressing my face into his chest because it's the only part of him I can reach without a stepladder. He goes very still for a moment, and I realize too late that I've probably just crossed about fifteen roommate boundaries at once, but then his arms come up and wrap around me, careful and warm, and he lets me shake apart against him while the gallery buzzes with conversation and excitement around us.
"Thank you," I whisper into the fabric of his suit jacket, which smells like cedarwood and something else, somethingwarmer and earthier that I'm starting to recognize as distinctlyhim. "Thank you, Faugh."
His hand settles against the back of my head, his palm so large it covers my entire skull, and I feel the rumble of his voice through his chest when he speaks. "You are welcome, Chantel."
We walk homethrough the cool night air, the city alive around us with the particular electric energy that only Friday nights can produce. The streets are crowded with people spilling out of bars and restaurants, music thumping from open doorways, cars honking in frustrated bursts at clogged intersections. Normally I would feel small and anxious navigating through this chaos, but with Faugh beside me, his massive presence clearing space simply by existing, I feel oddly untouchable.
He insisted on carrying my portfolio bag, which looks absolutely ridiculous slung over his enormous shoulder, like a child's accessory on a grown man. Every time I glance up at him, I catch him scanning the crowds with that same watchful intensity he had at the gallery, like he's personally responsible for ensuring nothing disrupts my current state of euphoric relief.
"I can't believe you did that," I say for probably the fifth time since we left, shaking my head. The adrenaline is still coursing through my system, making everything feel sharp and vivid and slightly unreal. "I mean,chromatic tension? Where did you even learn that term?"
"The library has an extensive art theory section," Faugh replies, completely matter-of-fact. "I also watched several documentary series on modern painting techniques. The narrator had a soothing voice. It was educational."
I burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the brick buildings lining our street. "You watched art documentaries. Forme. To prepare for the possibility of verbal combat with my shitty ex-classmate."
"Preparation prevents poor performance," he says, which sounds like something a drill sergeant would bark at new recruits, except he delivers it with such genuine sincerity that it just makes me laugh harder.
We turn onto our quieter residential block, the noise of the main street fading behind us. The streetlights cast everything in pools of amber light separated by stretches of shadow, and our footsteps echo in the relative silence. I'm acutely aware of how close he's walking to me, his arm occasionally brushing mine, sending little sparks of awareness skittering across my skin.
"He was wrong, you know," I say quietly, the laughter fading into something more serious. "Martin. About my work being amateur. I always believed him before, thought maybe he was right and I was just too stubborn or delusional to see it."
Faugh stops walking, turning to face me fully. We're standing beneath one of the streetlights, and the warm glow catches the sharp angles of his face, the serious set of his heavy brows. "He was projecting his own inadequacies onto you because witnessing genuine talent made him feel small. This is a common behavior pattern among insecure individuals who have achieved minor status through technical competence rather than authentic vision."
I blink up at him, momentarily stunned by the casual psychological assessment delivered in that same formal, measured tone. "That's... actually really insightful."
"I worked as a bouncer for eight years," he says, resuming our walk toward the apartment building. "You learn to read people quickly when your job involves predicting violence before it escalates. Martin is not violent, merely cruel. But the underlying mechanism is the same. He attacks others to avoid examining his own failures."
We climb the stairs to our floor, and I dig through my clutch for my keys while Faugh waits patiently behind me, still holding my portfolio like it weighs nothing. My hands are shaking slightly, though whether from leftover adrenaline or something else entirely, I'm not sure. I unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of our apartment washing over me—that mix of my paint supplies and Faugh's cedarwood soap and the lingering smell of whatever elaborate meal he cooked earlier.
I drop my clutch onto the side table and kick off my heels with a groan of relief, immediately losing three inches of height. Faugh sets my portfolio down carefully against the wall and shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the couch with his usual meticulous precision.
