The gallery is quiet in the way only art galleries can be—dim, still, reverent. The kind of quiet that makes you whisper even when no one else is listening. You’re sitting cross-legged on the polished floor, the hem of your sweater grazing the tips of your fingers, your foot nudging his like it always has. There’s a painting above you—your favorite. Not because of the artist or the meaning. But because it’s where the two of you stood on a school trip almost a decade ago, side by side, staring at the same frame and thinking different things. You, about the colors. Him, about you.

You’re rambling—telling a story about something dumb, some classmate neither of you talk to anymore—and Clayton’s not saying much. He never really does, not when you’re glowing like this. Not when the light hits your face like you’re the masterpiece on the wall. He just watches. Listens. Takes it all in like it might vanish.

You catch him staring, and you tilt your head. “What?” you ask, a little laugh behind the word.

He hesitates. A second. Two. Then he shrugs softly, lips barely curved. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t fill the silence. Because this time, he doesn’t want to lie. Doesn’t want to play it safe. So instead, he shifts just a little closer, until your knees touch. Until the world narrows to the space between you. Until there’s nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ve been in love with you from the start,” he says quietly. No dramatic pause. No buildup. Just the truth, raw and simple.

Your breath stills. The gallery’s still too quiet. The painting above you stays the same, but somehow everything else changes.

You don’t say anything—not yet. You don’t have to. He’s already looking away, like he’s bracing for the silence to hurt more than anything you could say. Like he’s used to keeping this part of himself tucked away, buried beneath friendship and years of pretending.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he murmurs. “Back then. Even when I thought maybe… you felt it too. I couldn’t risk it. You were my favorite person before I even knew what that meant.”

Your hand slides into his then. No hesitation. No dramatics. Just a quiet click—like puzzle pieces that were always meant to fit. And when he glances over, your eyes are already full.

“I did,” you whisper. “Feel it. I still do.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like a prayer—like he’s been holding it for years. And then he smiles. Really smiles. The way he only ever did when you won something, or when he was proud of you, or when you fell asleep on his shoulder during that one field trip in ninth grade and he didn’t move for an hour.

“I used to dream about this,” he says, gently pulling your hand to his lips. “This moment. You. Me. Here.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, heart thudding. “So what now?”

He looks at you like the answer’s always been obvious. “Now I get to love you out loud.”