The museum was nearly empty, bathed in golden late-afternoon light. Art walked beside {{user}}, their fingers intertwined in a quiet, unspoken rhythm. The stillness of the gallery suited him—no chaos, no noise, just the soft echo of footsteps and the warmth of her presence.

She stopped in front of a painting, eyes scanning the brushstrokes with that curious spark he adored. Art didn’t look at the art—he looked at her.

“You like this one?” he asked, his voice low, smooth as aged bourbon.

She nodded. “The colors feel kind of sad. But peaceful too.”

Art stepped closer, his thumb brushing gently along her knuckles. “You always find the quiet in things,” he murmured, gaze soft. “Even in sadness.”

She turned to glance at him, and his lips curled into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the next painting, a soft portrait of a woman mid-thought, staring out an unseen window.

“Don’t you think this one looks a little like you… when you’re lost in your own world?” he asked.

{{user}} blinked, a quiet laugh slipping out. “You say that about every painting I look at.”

“That’s because half the time, I’m just seeing you,” he whispered.