***
Museum staff moves fast once the cameras get what they want.
Polite smiles. Soft redirection. A practiced sweep that ushers the over-eager phones away like crumbs off a linen tablecloth.
Cam’s hand settles at the small of my back.
I lean into it without realizing I’m doing it, my body still a half-second behind my brain. Still buzzing. Still reeling. Like Istepped off a moving sidewalk and my balance hasn’t caught up yet.
He guides me toward a quiet alcove tucked between two galleries. Stone walls. Soft light. A bench no one’s sitting on. The noise fades to a low museum hum—footsteps, murmured voices, the faint clink of wine glasses.
The air feels charged.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
His voice is low. Steady. The same voice he used earlier when the world got too close.
I nod automatically. I shouldn’t have.
Because I’m not fine.
It’s not because I’m scared. I’m not overwhelmed by attention or crowds or phones pointed at my face.
But my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
And it has nothing to do with the press.
It’s him.
The kiss that was supposed to be nothing.
The way his hand felt at my waist—anchoring instead of claiming. The way he waited for me to say yes without asking out loud. The way he looked at me when he pulled back, like he wasn’t seeing a headline or a role or a job to be done.
Like he was seeingme.
I swallow, forcing a breath that doesn’t want to slow down.
Cam’s hand drops, giving me space immediately, like he’s careful not to take more than I offer. Like he’s learned my tells faster than I’m comfortable with.
“Yeah,” I say, because that’s what I always say. “I’m good.”
He studies my face for half a beat longer than necessary.
I don’t know what he sees.
I only know my pulse refuses to calm, my skin still humming where he touched me, my mouth remembering the exact shape of his.
This was supposed to be easy.
A fake kiss. A clean narrative. A step forward in a plan I agreed to.
Instead, it feels like the ground shifted.
I press a hand to my chest, waiting for the familiar spiral.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, my pulse keeps insisting on something far less convenient.
