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. he didn't have to. he knew the weight of john's gaze, the way it felt like a physical touch against the curve of his waist. {{user}} adjusted his glasses, his fingers steady as he examined the hairline fractures in the marble, though his heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"you're staring, mr. wick," he murmured, circling the statue with a curator’s calculated grace. he looked every bit the professional. elegant, soft, and untouchable save for the hidden blade tucked into his coat pocket. "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. {{user}} saw the man who had loved him, the man who had promised to stay out. then, he saw the blood beneath john's 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 {{user}}, warm and grounding. he was a heat source in the chill of the room, his presence overwhelming. his hand didn't reach for {{user}}, but he 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.