-Devon.
Ever since I woke up this morning, there has been a restless hum beneath my skin, the kind that doesn't come from coffee or lack of sleep but from some invisible hand that keeps tugging at my collar. I haven't felt this self-conscious in years—decades, really. Fourteen, maybe, the last time I remember caring this much about how I looked walking out a door.
I dressed in what Gracie and the stylist had laid out for me: clean lines, a dark tailored jacket that sat on my shoulders too well to feel accidental, trousers pressed sharp enough to slice air, and a shirt the color of deep smoke. My hair was down, heavy against my face, brushing the edges of my jaw in the same easy, careless fall it always had. But this morning it felt less like habit and more like a decision—one I couldn't stop glancing at in the mirror. The man staring back at me looked composed, maybe even attractive, though I felt anything but. My reflection seemed to be playing a role I wasn't sure I had auditioned for.
When I stepped out into the living room, the air carried the faint trace of fresh coffee and fabric softener. Gracie was perched on the arm of the couch, tapping her phone screen, but what snagged me first—unfortunately—was him. Bryce. He was standing by the record shelf, flipping through sleeves, hair a touch unruly, rings catching the light when he moved. I should have looked away quickly, the way I normally do when I'm on duty, but the brief slant of his eyes toward mine felt like stepping into a furnace.
We locked eyes only for a breath, yet it was enough for heat to climb my neck. He broke it first, clearing his throat, pivoting toward the kitchen as though he had simply remembered he was thirsty. No word, no nod, just movement. He vanished behind the counter, and I was left in the room with Gracie, who looked up at me with a face that could cut straight through silence.
I crossed over and leaned down, gave her a quick hug hello. It was brief, awkward, and did absolutely nothing to dilute the tension still prickling along my arms.
"What's wrong with you two?" she asked immediately, voice light but edged with suspicion. "Did you fight?"
"No," I answered too quickly. "No, no, no. No fights."
She narrowed her eyes at me as if weighing the truth, then clapped her hands against her thighs. "Alright then, if we're all ready, let's go, please. We're going to be late for the gallery."
I nodded, grateful for the change of subject. "Yeah. Sure." I went for the door first, eager to anchor myself in the practical motions of escorting.
Outside, the car was already waiting. I moved toward the passenger seat, but Gracie, with all the subtlety of a cat knocking a glass off a table, opened that very door and slid into it.
"Gracie," I said, low but firm, "what are you doing?"
She turned in her seat to look at me, brows lifted in mock innocence. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting in the passenger seat."
"That's my seat," I said, trying not to sound like a child guarding his favorite chair. "It's protocol. I sit up front, next to the driver."
"Who said?"
"I said," I replied, already exasperated, "because it's written in protocol. Designated place."
She gave me a look so disinterested it could have flattened mountains. "Relax. It's not like we're driving the Pope. It's Bryce."
From behind us, a cough. "Excuse me," Bryce called out, mock-offended, "what the fuck does that mean?"
"Exactly what it sounded like," Gracie shot back.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You said you don't want to be late. So please, Gracie, get in the back next to him. Let me do my job properly."
She sighed, then twisted around to Bryce. "You heard the man." With a shrug, she stepped out, circling to the back seat. Bryce followed her with theatrical reluctance, sliding in after her.
Once I was in the passenger seat, I finally let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The car pulled away from the curb. The glass of the side mirror caught the back seat in soft fragments, and against all better judgment, I looked.
There he was, leaning slightly into the window, lashes lowered, jawline clean in the morning light. And then, as if sensing the weight of my glance, his eyes flicked up and locked with mine through the reflection. It was so quick, but enough to unsettle me. I turned back to the road, only to feel that same magnetic pull a minute later.
I risked another glance through the rearview, and this time he was already watching me. The moment our eyes met, he snapped his attention to the window as though it had suddenly grown fascinating. My throat tightened, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh at the absurdity of it.
It was ridiculous—two grown men catching each other's reflections in mirrors like awkward teenagers.
"Are you two seriously flirting with eye contact in the rearview mirror right now?" Gracie asked flatly, not even bothering to look up from her phone.
The silence that followed could have drowned a choir. Bryce shifted in his seat, I adjusted mine, and for once, we both found the floor mats incredibly compelling.
Gracie smirked, thumb still scrolling. "High school never ends, huh?"
I cleared my throat, pressing my gaze hard onto the road ahead. The corner of my mouth betrayed me with a twitch.
What in God's name was going on with me?
The moment we stepped out of the car, the night's chill carried the faint metallic tang of rain that had dried too soon, leaving the city damp and restless. The pavement glistened under the lights strung across the entrance, reflecting the swarm of cameras waiting for their shot of Bryce. I leaned close to Gracie, keeping my voice low, deliberate.
"I really don't appreciate what you did in the car."
She didn't even blink, eyes still sharp as she adjusted the strap of her bag. "Oh, oh—you mean catching up on whatever is going on?"
"There's nothing going on," I hissed. "Shut up. Shut up, Gracie."
She tilted her head, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "Okay, I gave you permission to scold Bryce, but I never gave you permission to scold me. So be careful."
"I'll scold you all I want," I muttered, stepping closer so only she could hear. "You're crossing the boundaries. Remember what I said—if they're crossed, I walk."
Gracie's eyes widened theatrically, and she raised her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, sorry. Didn't mean to. I was just joking with you two. Of course nothing's going on between you. What was I thinking?" She pressed her lips together, then stormed ahead into the gallery like a teenager told to clean her room.
I exhaled slowly, tugging my jacket straight as we entered.
The brightness hit first—flashes from the cameras ricocheting off every surface as Bryce stepped through the doors like a scene rehearsed just for him. He had the kind of presence that pulled lenses without trying. Reporters barked his name, their flashes catching the faint shimmer of his beige blazer. He wore a striped button-down beneath, layered with a soft sand-colored vest that gave him an unstudied, school-trip sort of charm. Light blue denim fell loosely over sneakers the color of vanilla cream, laces slightly undone as if to remind the world he refused to be entirely polished.
The organizers moved quickly toward him, a woman in a deep plum dress with a smile that felt warm even under fluorescent lights. She introduced herself as Mrs. Williams, her husband stepping forward with a polite nod. Bryce's easy charm turned on immediately, his voice smooth with courtesy.
"This is Devon, my personal security," he said, glancing my way, "and this is Gracie, my manager."
Hands were shaken, names exchanged, and the warmth of civility carried us past the flash storm into the gentler space of the gallery itself. Mr. Williams explained the evening—a blend of exhibition and charity, every canvas painted by his wife, each piece destined for auction to fund institutions that kept their doors open only through nights like these.
"Please mingle, enjoy yourselves before the others arrive," he urged, before being whisked away by another pair of arriving guests.
We moved deeper into the gallery, the hush of the place a relief after the cameras. Paintings hung in rhythm across whitewashed walls, the lighting positioned to make shadows bloom where the colors deepened.
I let my eyes drift to Bryce beside me. He had his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans, head tilted as though every canvas was speaking to him personally. And every so often, just at the corners of my vision, I caught the flick of his gaze away from the paintings and onto me. He didn't hold it long enough for confrontation, just enough for my stomach to knot with the knowledge that he had.
I decided to slice through the quiet. "You're dressed for a school field trip."
His head jerked toward me, mouth parting in disbelief. "Wow. The first thing you say to me since last night is an insult."
I smirked, the sound of my own low chuckle escaping before I could stop it. "I'm messing with you. You look good."
He pressed his hand against his chest like I'd shot him. "Why, thank you, Devon. I understand how hard that was for you to say."
"As long as my efforts are appreciated," I replied, deadpan.
We stopped before a painting that stole the breath from the room. Bottles scattered across a shadowed floor, the smear of dark red against black, two figures barely outlined—one slouched on a couch, swallowed by shadow, the other stationed in the doorway, thin light spilling around them like accusation. Yellow smudges of lamp-light made the darkness even heavier, pressing down from the edges.
Her sense of light was staggering. The entire piece was built like a war between glow and shadow. I felt myself nod. "Her lighting is immaculate. The whole thing is stitched together with shadow and flame. If no one buys this, they're all tasteless scumbags."
Bryce laughed softly beside me. "Do you like it?"
"Yeah," I said, still studying the frame. "Not enough to buy it. But I'm sure it'll catch someone. Someone who sees themselves in it."
Bryce tilted his head. "What, a drunk on the couch and a ghost in the doorway?"
"That's one reading." I raised a brow. "Or maybe it's just two idiots in a car earlier pretending the rearview mirror wasn't a weapon."
His laugh rang too loud in the gallery, earning a glance from an older couple across the room. He ducked his head, grin crooked, shoulders shaking like he'd been caught sneaking candy.
"Shut up," he whispered back at me, still laughing.
And I couldn't help the smile that edged across my own face, quiet but too real to hide.
We kept moving, the echo of Bryce's laugh still hanging between us like a string neither of us wanted to cut. Servers drifted quietly across the polished floor, glasses of champagne trembling on their silver trays. One came too close, her tray dipping precariously as she turned, and Bryce plucked a flute mid-sway without breaking stride.
"For me?" I asked.
He handed it over with mock gravity. "No, this is mine. You can have the bubbles left over when I'm done."
I took the glass from him anyway, his fingers brushing mine too briefly to be accidental, and brought it to my lips. The champagne tasted faintly metallic, not my preference, but it gave me something to occupy my mouth before I said something I couldn't take back.
We passed landscapes, portraits, still life—all beautiful, all somehow falling flat against the memory of that first painting. Until one stopped me.
I don't know if it was the angle of the spotlight or the colors she had dragged from her palette, but the canvas pulled me in like a tide.
The scene was a small kitchen—claustrophobic, cluttered with plates stacked too high, a sink swollen with water dark as ink. A single chair sat crooked at the table, as though abandoned mid-thought. The light came from a single bulb overhead, and it didn't spread evenly. It fell harshly across the chair, cutting the rest of the room into a blur of shadow. The colors were muted but deliberate: the yellows sickly, the blues too sharp, the reds sunk so deep they felt like bruises.
And in the corner, half-swallowed by that same shadow, there was a pair of sneakers. Just the sneakers, nothing else, worn and scuffed, placed as though someone had kicked them off carelessly and never returned.
My chest went tight. It was ridiculous, but the whole thing looked like every place Treasure and I had ever lived in—rooms too cramped, meals eaten half-cold, chairs always left pulled out because someone was too tired to push them back. Even the sneakers. I'd lost count of the nights when he'd kick his shoes off and collapse, promising he'd tidy later, never once doing it.
I stared so long I forgot to breathe. The painting wasn't loud or grandiose, but it cut closer than the others. It felt lived in, like memory made visible.
Beside me, Bryce had gone uncharacteristically quiet. He was watching me instead of the painting, head tilted slightly, eyes softer than I was used to seeing.
"You really like this one," he murmured, not teasing, just observing.
"Yeah," I said, though the word came out rough, caught in the throat. "The lighting's cruel. Makes everything ordinary feel… heavier. Like the weight of it is in what's missing."
Bryce hummed, thoughtful. He looked at the painting then, lips pursed faintly. "The sneakers," he said after a while. "That's the part that kills it. Like whoever wore them didn't matter enough to be painted whole."
I turned to him, startled by the precision of it. He didn't look back at me. His gaze stayed on the canvas, but his hands were in his pockets, his jaw set the way it got when he was holding something back.
I wanted to say something—something to ease the lump in my chest—but my voice betrayed me with silence. So I only nodded, drinking in the painting again, letting it brand itself into memory.
The sneakers, the chair, the harsh light, the silence.
A gallery full of people, and somehow it felt like no one else existed except the two of us and that room on canvas.
The interview started quick, a half-circle of lights angling toward Bryce as the reporter tugged him into practiced conversation. I stepped back, letting the glow wash over him without stepping into it myself. My role was always in the edges, in the lines no one cared to look at. I moved toward the lobby, leaning against a polished marble wall, the cool stone cutting through the warmth of my jacket.
The space stretched wide and clean, white marble veined like faint rivers, glass cases standing like tall guardians, their insides gleaming with carefully positioned artifacts. The hum of conversation floated from the main gallery, polite laughter slipping into the air like clinking coins. My eyes traced the exits without thinking—two side doors, one service entrance tucked neatly behind a partition, the main hall open like a throat that could swallow the crowd whole. I counted heads, placed distances, noted shadows. Old habits refusing to quiet.
But my mind kept circling back to the paintings. The woman behind them wasn't just talented; she saw light and shadow the way people saw movement, like it was alive. I caught myself thinking that I wanted to ask her about it. Not out of courtesy, but hunger. I wanted to know what she saw when she painted those shoes, that chair. What was absent in her life that she captured absence so vividly?
That's when I felt someone at my side.
"Hey."
Gracie slid in like smoke, arms folded, one foot braced against the wall, the other casually crossing into my path so I had nowhere to go. The tilt of her stance looked careless, but her eyes betrayed sharpness, a glint of knowing. She cornered me without raising a finger.
"Hey," I returned cautiously, trying for neutral. I shifted left, only for her to mirror me, sliding that foot just enough to keep me pinned in place.
"So, you and Bryce."
I raised a brow. "We work together."
"Mhm," she hummed, leaning closer, lips curving like she had already trapped me in a net. "I don't believe that. I'm getting the sense there's something going on between the two of you."
I exhaled slowly through my nose, the kind of sigh meant to release pressure before it boiled over. I stepped to the left. She matched me. I moved right. She mirrored me again.
"Gracie."
"Devon," she replied immediately, tilting her head, a smile spreading slow across her face. "I've been around him a long time. I can tell when he's wound up about someone. And today? Both of you are walking around like you're carrying a secret. I don't like being left out on secrets."
I took a deliberate sip from the champagne in my hand, the fizz bitter on my tongue. "Maybe we're just in a good mood."
"Uh-huh." Her shoulder pressed against the doorframe, casual as ever. "Look, I'm not prying—"
"You're literally prying," I cut in.
"I'm politely prying," she corrected, smug, as if the word itself gave her a pass. "Just—if you're not going to admit something has happened, at least admit you know what you're—"
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
The words came firmer than I intended. My eyes met hers, holding steady, and the silence stretched. "I know, Gracie."
Her smile faltered. She narrowed her eyes at me for a long moment, then stepped aside, letting the corner breathe again. "Fine. Keep your mystery. But I'll find out. I'm not stupid, and I don't appreciate being treated like a stupid girl."
"Nobody's treating you like you're stupid," I said, keeping my voice even. "If there is something, you'll know. If not from me, then from Bryce. He already doesn't know how to keep things to himself anyway."
Her mouth twitched at that, half-smirk, half-warning. "Okay, fine. Suit yourself." She straightened off the wall, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "I'm going to check on him before he says something controversial to the press."
She left in a flash of perfume and tapping heels. I followed after a beat, heading back into the warm pulse of the gallery.
I scanned the room, but Bryce wasn't where I'd left him. For a moment, I wondered if I'd miscalculated my position, until he strolled out from between two displays, hands buried in his pockets, a little grin tugging at his lips as though he'd been waiting to ambush me.
"You seem jumpy today."
"No," I muttered, eyes sweeping ahead, "I'm focused."
"Focused is when you check the exits," he said, voice dropping lower as he drew closer, "jumpy is when you won't look at me."
I didn't answer. My gaze fixed on the marble floor stretching forward. Bryce slowed his steps until we were shoulder to shoulder, close enough that his sleeve brushed mine when he leaned in.
"You know," he murmured, "if you keep avoiding me like this, people are going to start asking questions. And I'm pretty sure by now you've noticed that Gracie's already all over it."
"That's fine," I muttered, too quick, too clipped.
"Is it?" He tilted his head toward me, shoulder brushing my arm. "Because I think it's kind of cute when you—"
The words broke off as my elbow clipped against the pedestal beside us. The slender glass case wobbled, the priceless ceramic vase inside listing forward as if deciding whether to fall. My heart lunged before my body did. I shot out a hand, steadying the case just as the vase tilted dangerously toward its edge. For a second, the world held its breath.
No one noticed—the guests were sipping their champagne, laughing softly at their own conversations—but Bryce noticed.
"Wow," he whispered, grinning like he had just caught me naked in public. "First I kiss you, now I've got you so flustered you're taking swings at ancient artifacts."
I straightened the case, jaw tight, knuckles white against the glass until I forced myself to let go. "Watch where you're walking."
"Watch where you're walking," he echoed back, too delighted. Then, leaning closer so only I could hear, he added, "Or next time someone might catch you destroying ancient artifacts."
I ignored him, though the flush creeping up my neck betrayed me.
From across the room, Gracie's voice cut through, playful but edged. "Hey! Try not to bankrupt the gallery before the event even starts."
Bryce chuckled under his breath, shoulders shaking, and I had to fight the urge to shove him away—not because I was annoyed, but because I knew he'd only laugh harder, basking in it like I'd just given him a gift.
I drifted away from Bryce's laughter, my pulse still steadying after the near catastrophe with the vase. He was pulled again by some eager guest, Gracie orbiting close, her voice already stepping in to smooth whatever reckless thing he was about to say. I took the chance to breathe.
The gallery had filled out. Polished marble reflected long shadows of guests as they moved from painting to painting, their murmurs threading through the air like soft background music. The scent of champagne drifted lightly, undercut with something metallic, the smell of paint still fresh in certain corners where canvases hadn't fully lost their edge. My eyes caught on the pieces again—her pieces. Each one lived like an organ in the body of the room, pumping color and silence into the crowd.
I found myself circling back toward the kitchen chair painting, the one with the sneakers left abandoned at the corner. Something about it rooted me each time I looked. It reminded me of hours gone, of spaces filled with weight but no sound, of the small ordinaries of life that somehow carried more than the grand gestures. I wanted to know what she thought when she painted it. Whether she even knew how it would sit heavy in someone else's chest.
A soft voice broke through behind me. "That one's always the one people linger on."
I turned. The artist stood there, not dressed like she had been waiting for applause but in muted colors, her hair pulled back carelessly. She had the air of someone who had been coaxed into her own event rather than someone reveling in it.
"I was wondering if I'd meet you," I admitted, my words slower than I intended. "Your work… it doesn't let go."
Her lips curved, small and knowing. "Paintings aren't supposed to. At least, not if they're honest." She stepped closer, tilting her head toward the canvas. "Most people look at the sneakers first. You?"
"The light," I said. My voice sounded quieter in my ears. "How it falls across the chair. Makes everything else feel heavier. Like someone left the room, but the air didn't move on with them."
She studied me a moment, eyes narrowing faintly, not in suspicion but as if filing something away. "You've been somewhere like that."
The words landed too direct. I shifted, exhaling through my nose. "Yeah," I said finally, not adding detail.
She nodded once, as if that was all the confirmation she needed. Then her hand swept lightly toward the wall of canvases around us. "These are all moments I couldn't shake. Some people write them down. I paint them. Better to live with shadows on canvas than let them rot inside."
Her phrasing stuck. I found myself staring at her fingers, stained faintly with pigment, her nails bitten short, a reminder she wasn't just a name on the placard by the door but a person who had walked through her own storms.
I cleared my throat. "I wanted to ask you something. Do you paint for yourself, or for the people who'll stand here and make their guesses?"
She smiled, soft but with a flicker of sharpness behind it. "Both. Sometimes I start for me and finish for them. Sometimes the reverse. Sometimes I don't know until someone tells me what they saw, and I realize I'd been painting it all along."
That caught me. My grip tightened faintly around the stem of my glass. Because wasn't that what I'd been doing for years? Living for myself in one breath, living for someone else the next, and never able to name which was which until it was already too late.
"Thank you," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
She tilted her head again, a small nod. "For looking at it properly, you mean. Most people just ask how long it took."
Before I could answer, Bryce's voice rang from across the gallery, bright and demanding, like a light switched on in a dark hall. "Devon!"
I glanced over. He was half-buried in guests, but his eyes found me instantly, his hand lifting like he'd been waiting too long.
The artist gave me a look that was almost amused. "That one's got the energy of someone who can't be ignored."
My jaw shifted, something between a sigh and a smile tugging at me. "You have no idea."
"Then go," she said, turning her gaze back to her painting. "But don't forget to come back to the sneakers."
I left her there with her shadows, the chair and the shoes watching me as though they had more to say. Bryce's voice carried again, impatient, playful, the tether I always swore I didn't need but somehow kept following.
The gallery tour dissolved into soft applause, champagne flutes clinking faintly as guests drifted toward the next round of polite conversations. I kept my course steady, angling down a side corridor that led to the staff exit. My stride was measured, deliberate, but I could hear him behind me, always behind me. The faint scuff of his sneakers on marble echoed like a shadow trailing my steps, and the sound was so casual, so unbothered, that it felt like he was amused at something I hadn't yet caught onto.
"You're quiet," he said, his voice low, warm with something that made the corridor feel narrower.
I didn't turn. "Trying to keep you from getting banned from another venue."
His chuckle rolled out, easy and unhurried, brushing down my back like a draft of heat. "Oh, please. You're the one who nearly demolished a thousand-year-old vase."
I stopped just short of the exit door, my hand brushing the metal handle, and turned on him. His grin was already waiting, tilted like he'd known I'd cave. "You leaned into me," I said.
He closed the distance by a fraction, the marble carrying his steps. "Mm," he murmured, eyes flicking lazily over my face, "so you're saying it's my fault you lost focus."
"I didn't lose focus—"
"You did." His interruption came soft, almost indulgent, as though he was humoring me, and that tone made it worse. His mouth twitched, the corners curving up with fondness that wasn't meant to sting but did anyway. "But it's okay. I kind of like it."
The words hung between us, sharp and sweet. My jaw tightened, but he didn't give me the courtesy of retreat. He dipped his head closer, just enough that his next words brushed the shell of my ear, the warmth of his breath threading along my skin.
"Saving ancient history," he whispered, his tone heavy with amusement, "very heroic. If we'd been alone, I'd have kissed you for that."
Heat licked up my neck before I could force it down. I straightened my shoulders, grounding my weight into my heels, trying to keep the pulse from hammering too loud in my chest. "We're not doing this here."
Bryce leaned back with a grin, his eyes bright with triumph, as though my protest was nothing more than a confirmation. "Fine," he said, shrugging as if he was granting me some favor. He took a step back, then another, but his gaze never wavered. "But later? Don't trip over any more priceless antiques. I can't promise I won't reward you for saving them again."
He strolled ahead toward the exit, his hands buried casually in his pockets, humming under his breath like a man who had just won a round in a game only he knew the rules to. I stayed where I was, the metal of the door handle cool under my palm, my pulse running quicker than it had any right to.
"Asshole," I muttered, more to myself than to him, though the word didn't land with anger. It tasted almost like relief, almost like laughter I couldn't let out.
Through the glass, I saw him pause by the car, his head tipped back as he said something to Gracie, who had caught up with him. She gave me a look the moment I stepped into the night air, eyebrows raised in silent, sharp amusement.
"You're flushed," she said under her breath as I passed her. "Gallery too hot for you, Devon?"
"Maybe it's the company," I shot back, not looking at either of them as I opened the car door.
Bryce laughed low, the sound curling into me even as I slid into the front seat. His reflection in the side mirror caught mine, lips still curved, eyes still fixed, like he hadn't moved on from the corridor at all.
And God help me, the heat still hadn't left my neck.