It’s instinct.
I tell myself I don’t need this. I have security. I have protocols. I have panic responses with clinical names and laminated emergency plans.
Still.
My breathing stays even.
We pause in front of a painting—something old and serious and very committed to being brown. Cam tilts his head slightly.
“Huh,” he murmurs. “That guy looks like he hasn’t trusted anyone since 1620.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. Not a grin. Just a soft acknowledgment, like he’s pleased he could make me laugh.
“Sorry,” I say automatically. “I’m not very good at pretending to be museum-serious.”
“I think you’re doing great,” he says. “You haven’t even said ‘haunting’ yet.”
“That’s because I’m saving it for something that really earns it.”
He hums quietly, approving, and we move on.
Every now and then he makes a comment—nothing profound. Observations. Gentle jokes. A note about brushstrokes. A remark about how uncomfortable one of the painted collars looks.
His voice stays low. Warm. Unintrusive.
It slides under my skin in a way I don’t expect.
I’m used to people filling space. Talking loud. Performing interest. Trying to impress me or themselves or whoever they think is watching.
Cam does none of that.
He doesn’t try to steer the conversation. He doesn’t try to impress me with facts or charm or carefully curated mystery. He just exists next to me. Present. Attentive. Uncomplicated.
Steady.
That word again.
I hate how much I like it.
We drift from one room to the next, and somewhere along the way I realize the tight knot that’s lived under my ribs for the last few years has loosened. Not disappeared. Just eased. Like someone turned the volume down without announcing it.
I glance at Cam, then away again before he can catch me doing it.
This is supposed to be neutral ground.
Safe. Controlled. Temporary.
I remind myself of that as we move deeper into the museum, surrounded by art that has outlasted empires.
And I try very hard not to wonder what it would feel like if this—this quiet, unremarkable closeness—wasn’t part of a plan at all.
We step out of the second room. Ahead, near the interactive exhibit with the touchscreen maps and aggressive font, a small cluster of people linger. Like they are waiting.
Phones are already up.
Not paparazzi. Not technically. No long lenses. No shouted credentials. Just the modern, slippery cousin of it—people with phones held chest-high, thumbs hovering, eyes too sharp.
