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He stares back.

My brain offers absolutely nothing useful.

Finally, I manage, “Holy shit.”

His smile widens.

“An understandable reaction.”

I grip the platform.

“You’re talking.”

“Very observant.”

“You’re a statue.”

“Not by choice.”

“Statues don’t talk.”

“And yet here we are.”

I blink several times.

He looks amused.

Actually amused.

Like this is all perfectly normal.

Like seven-foot marble men wake up in museums every day and start flirting with the staff.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

“Unlikely.”

“Or a stroke.”

“Also unlikely.”

“Then I’m dreaming.”

He tilts his head.

“Would you like me to prove otherwise?”

I stare at his mouth.

The same mouth I’ve spent four nights dreaming about kissing.

The same mouth currently smiling at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Absolutely not.”

His eyes glitter.

“Liar.”