Like a wine pairing no one asked for but everyone will insist makes sense.
Everything has been arranged.
The press. The timing. Possibly the weather.
I smooth my hand down the sleeve of my deep-blue coat and remind myself that I am very good at this. I’ve walkedred carpets in six-inch heels. I’ve sung live on international television while my in-ear monitor gave me static.
I can absolutely handle a museum entrance.
Cam is beside me as we head toward the glass doors. Our shoulders don’t touch, but he’s close enough that I can feel his warmth through his coat. Steady. Contained. Like a quiet engine that doesn’t need revving.
It’s distracting.
ERS suggested a kiss today. Casual. Natural. Verydon’t think about it too much or you’ll combust.
The thought skitters through my brain and hides behind my ribs. I do not invite it to elaborate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice another couple being discreetly ushered toward a different wing. A tall, broody man in a charcoal coat, all sharp angles and nerves, followed by a woman clutching a sketchbook like it’s a flotation device.
I recognize them from ERS. Apparently today is a group project.
Cam still hasn’t touched me. No arm around my waist. No hand at my back. I’d half expected him to overcorrect—to go stiff, hyper-aware, like a man trying very hard not to be perceived incorrectly.
Instead, he just walks.
Matches my pace without comment. Adjusts his stride when mine shortens. Close enough to be there. Far enough to give me air.
It’s weirdly soothing. Like walking beside a really calm guard dog who hasn’t decided if anyone needs biting yet.
He isn’t looking at the cameras. He isn’t scanning the crowd. He looks relaxed. Present. Like this is just a place we’re going, not a moment being documented for future dissection.
Inside, the museum swallows sound.
Marble floors echo softly underfoot. Light pools where it’s meant to, gentle and deliberate, like the building is actively trying not to startle anyone. The air smells faintly of stone and expensive cologne and wine that’s been poured too early in the day.
It feels civilized.
The first exhibit is a collection of historical paintings. Landscapes. Portraits. Things that have survived wars and weather and the invention of Instagram. Quiet art. Patient art. Art that isn’t trying to sell me anything.
People drift by with pamphlets and stemless wine glasses, murmuring in respectful tones. A few heads turn when they recognize me. A few eyebrows lift. But nobody rushes. Nobody lunges. Nobody decides this is the moment to shout their feelings at my face.
My nerves lower half an inch.
I didn’t realize they were that high.
Near a donor display, I catch sight of a sharply dressed man leaning down to whisper something to a woman in a bedazzled hoodie. She clutches her drink defensively and whisper-shouts back, “I won the lottery, I never attended finishing school—stop talking to me like I know museum etiquette.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Cam doesn’t comment. He just keeps pace beside me, unbothered, like navigating slightly absurd social situations is a normal Tuesday activity.
He stays close. Not pressed against me. Not hovering. Just… positioned.
I notice it when a small group approaches from our left and Cam shifts half a step, casually placing himself between me and the oncoming bodies like it’s muscle memory. When someone trails too closely behind us, he adjusts again, just enough that they pass him first.
It isn’t obvious.
It isn’t showy.
