the met was cold, a tomb of marble and ancient secrets, but the air between them was thick enough to choke on. john stood by a neoclassical bust, his silhouette a sharp, lethal edge against the soft glow of the gallery lights. the three-piece suit hugged his frame. muscular, disciplined, a predator in tailored wool.

{{user}} didn’t turn around. she didn't have to. she knew the weight of his gaze, the way it felt like a physical touch against the curve of her waist and the exposed skin of her shoulders. she adjusted her glasses, her fingers steady as she examined the hairline fractures in the marble, though her heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

"you're staring, mr. wick," she murmured, circling the statue with a curator’s calculated grace. she looked every bit the professional. elegant, soft, and untouchable save for the hidden blade tucked into her garter beneath the silk of her gown. "it’s impolite."

"i'm observing," john corrected. his voice was a low growl, a sound that belonged in the shadows of the continental, not here among the relics of the past.

{{user}} finally met his eyes and for a second, the decade between them vanished. she saw the man who had loved her, the man who had promised to stay out. then, she saw the blood beneath his fingernails, the ghost of the baba yaga he had become again.

"is that what we're calling it now? you haven't looked at the art once."

john stepped closer. the scent of sandalwood and expensive bourbon hit her, warm and grounding. he was a heat source in the chill of the room, his presence overwhelming. his hand didn't reach for her, but she could feel the tension in his fingers, the silent yearning of a man who had lost everything and found a piece of it standing in front of him.

"i'm looking at the only thing in this room that hasn't changed in ten years," he said.