She pauses long enough to focus her attention on me. “No. He was obsessed with getting it right.”
I glance at her instead of the painting. Getting it right. Yeah. I can definitely relate. We move slowly. No rush. No phones out. Just wandering. At one point she stops in front of a piece that’s abstract, chaotic, slashes of dark against gold.
I step up beside her. “You like this one?”
She nods faintly. “It’s messy. But intentional.”
“Sounds a bit like me.” I mutter under my breath.
Her head turns slightly. “That’s a harsh self-description.”
I shrug. “I like to keep things real, even about myself.”
Her breath catches. Just barely. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe I did. She studies the painting a moment longer before speaking. “You really don’t think I failed him?”
There it is. I shift to face her fully. “I think you care, and sometimes caring doesn’t get you the outcome you want.”
She swallows. “You didn’t see his face.”
“I don’t need to.”
Her fingers flex at her sides like she’s debating something. Then, small and deliberate her pinky brushes mine. Not an accident. A question. I don’t grab her hand. I just let my fingers settle against hers. Not pushing. She could pull away. She doesn’t. And I clock the moment. Her breathing changes again, because that’s when I realize something dangerous; she’s looking at me differently today. Not like I’m fun. Not like I’msafe chaos. Like I’m solid. Like I’m something she could actually lean on. And yeah, this seems like one of those good steps.
We move through more rooms. She talks. I listen. Sometimes I understand the art. Most of the time I don’t. But I understand her. And that feels more important.
Later, we sit on the museum steps outside, the September sun hitting the lake just right. She’s got a cider in her hand from a street vendor. I reach over without thinking and wipe a smudge of cinnamon from her upper lip with my thumb.
Her entire body stills. I freeze too. Because we both know exactly where this could go. We’ve been there. Twice. There’s a line here, and we’re right on it. Her eyes flick to my mouth. Mine probably do the same. The air tightens. I could kiss her right now. I know she would let me. Hell, I’d ruin myself over it. But I don’t. And I don’t move closer. Not because I don’t want to though. Because I do. Too much.
Instead, I lean back slightly, giving her room to breathe. “You doing better?”
She nods, but her voice is quiet. “Yeah, thanks.”
Not embarrassed. Just relief. I stand and offer her my hand. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
She takes it immediately. And she doesn’t let go. On the walk back toward the train, she’s the one who threads her fingers fully through mine. No hesitation. Not testing. She’s choosing and I feel it all the way in my chest.
I don’t squeeze. I don’t tease. I just hold on. Because this, whatever this is, deserves patience. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not in a rush to get to the good part. I think I’m already in it.
Chapter Sixteen
Quinn
In The Air Tonight
Natalie Taylor
I don’t sleepmuch Saturday night. Not because anything happened. Because nothing did. When we got back to the apartment, he didn’t make a move. Didn’t linger in the doorway. Didn’t pull me in close like the air between us wasn’t crackling.
He unlocked the door. Let me step inside first. Asked if I wanted tea.Tea. I almost laughed. We sat on opposite ends of the couch while the kettle boiled. Opposite ends. Like we hadn’t spent the entire afternoon brushing against each other in museum galleries and holding hands on the train.
He handed me the mug. Our fingers touched. He didn’t let them linger. “Long day,” he commented lightly.
Yeah. Long. Then he stood. “I’m gonna turn in, you good?”
I just nodded. He hesitated for half a second, just long enough that I thought maybe, but nope. He stepped forward and kissed my forehead.My forehead.
“Night, Q.” And then he went to his room.
