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Everett stands beside me. Silently like he's assessing everything the way he does, but I feel his eyes on me, not the painting.

Looking at me.

I can feel it.

But turning to catch him in the act now isn't an option. It could break something free that I'm not sure either of us are ready for. Something that could put our entire agreement at jeopardy.

We move through the rooms slowly. Room after room. Piece after piece. Impressionists I worshipped as a teenager. Post-impressionists who changed how I understood color. A Morisot I've only ever seen online. A Cassatt that makes my eyes sting because my mother had a print of it hanging in our kitchen and I never thought I'd see the real thing.

I stand in front of it for a long time.

Everett doesn't rush me.

Doesn't check his phone.

Doesn't shift or cough or look anywhere else.

He just waits.

Like he understands that what's happening inside me right now is bigger than anything he could interrupt with words.

At one point, in a room full of Monets, I turn to him.

"How did you know?" I ask. "That I wanted to see this."

"Gabriel mentioned it." His hands are in his pockets. His expression is steady. "You mentioned it. Your face did the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing it does when you want something and decide not to ask for it."

He noticed. Of course he did.

The wanting I tried to smooth away before it became inconvenient. He saw it anyway and found a way to make something impossible, possible, at the expense of a bartering chip with Pierre. He did this for me, and for no other reason.

This isn't some purchased gift wrapped in ribbon or delivered by an assistant. This is access to beauty.

The thing I lost. The thing I've been slowly finding my way back to in Cannes with paint on my fingers and the sea in front of me.

He gave it back.

I don't say anything.

I don't trust my voice.

Instead I slide my hand into his—his fingers warm and steady when they close around mine—and we keep walking through the museum in silence, hand in hand, while Paris sleeps outside and the paintings watch us move through their rooms like we belong there.

By the time we're back in the car, I press my hand against my sternum without thinking.

The jet is warm and waiting when we arrive at the airstrip. I climb the stairs on slightly unsteady legs though Everett is behind me, as if always here to catch me if I stumble. The champagne and emotion and the still-buzzing feeling of standing in front of masterpieces at midnight with a man who noticed me wanting things I wouldn't ask for.

We settle in.

The engines hum to life.

And then, once we're in the air and the lights of Paris are falling away beneath us, I turn to him.

"It's your birthday."