Museum staff murmurs something polite. Gestures toward another wing. Smiles with their mouths but not their eyes.
The group doesn’t move.
My skin prickles.
This is the part I hate. The in-between. When no one has crossed a line yet, but everyone’s standing right on the edge of it, toes curling over.
One of them recognizes me fully and brightens, like they’ve just won a prize.
“Lila!” he calls, too loud for the space. “Over here!”
My spine goes rigid.
I paste on my soft smile. The one that’s supposed to say approachable but busy, kind but not available for follow-up questions.
Years of practice snap into place.
Another phone lifts.
“Can we get a picture with you and your boyfriend?”
My breath hitches before I can stop it. Not panic. Not yet. Just that sharp, involuntary intake that tightens my ribs like someone’s cinched a corset around them.
I tell myself to relax.
This is expected. This is literally why we’re here.
I nod once, shallow and controlled, like maybe that’s enough of an answer.
Another voice cuts in, louder. Hungrier.
“Cam! Look this way! Put your arm around her!”
A few people laugh. Encouraging. Like they’re directing a rom-com instead of standing in a museum where silence is supposed to be sacred.
My pulse spikes.
This is it, then.
The moment ERS flagged. The casual intimacy checkpoint. The suggested kiss with bullet points and contingencies.
I feel it click into place in my head with a strange sense of detachment, like I’m watching myself from the outside.
Okay. Fine. I can do this.
I’ve smiled through worse. This is nothing. A peck. A headline. A harmless gesture.
I shift my weight, preparing my face, my posture, my everything.
And then Cam moves.
He doesn’t grab me or pull me in like this is some pre-rehearsed move. He turns to me asking with his eyes if this is OK. Then he waits.
Just long enough for me to nod.
It’s barely a nod. More like my body remembering how to say yes before my brain can overthink it. A quiet tremor of consent.
Only then does he touch me.
