Page 24 of His Vow

He was standing in front of the Pinheiros streetscape. Black suit. Hands in his pockets. His head was tilted, his eyes on the painting, his jaw relaxed. He stood in my gallery like the empty chair in the café had never happened, like five days of silence were a scheduling error.

I stopped 6 ft. away from him and crossed my arms.

He turned. His eyes found mine. The almost-smile started, the ghost reaching for the corner of his mouth.

I didn't smile back.

The ghost died. His hands came out of his pockets. He took a step toward me. I held my ground.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For which part? The walking out? Or the five days of silence after?"

"Both." His voice was low. No deflection. "I handled it badly."

"You keep saying that. You handled the three days badly. You handled the café badly." I uncrossed my arms because keeping them crossed felt like hiding, and I wasn't going to hide from this. "What's really going on here, Nolan? Between us? Because sometimes I think you want me, and other times I'm not sure at all."

He closed the distance between us. Two steps. His eyes were dark, fixed on my face with the focus I'd learned to recognize — the intensity that made everything else in the room go blurry.

"I want you." His voice dropped. "Let me prove it."

His hand found my jaw. His thumb traced my cheekbone. He leaned down and kissed me — slow, warm, his lips parting mine with a deliberateness that made my toes curl against the concrete floor. My fingers found his lapels. I let the kiss happen for three seconds. Five. His tongue brushed mine, and a sound built in my throat.

I put my hand on his chest. Not pushing. Holding. Creating a distance I controlled.

"No." My voice was unsteady. "That's not it. You can't just kiss me every time I ask a real question."

His forehead was close to mine. His breath was warm on my lips. His hand was still on my jaw.

"Talk to me," I said. "Tell me something real. Because I can't keep falling for someone I don't know."

His thumb stopped moving on my cheek. His eyes searched my face. The war behind them was plain — the impulse to deflect, to redirect, to kiss me again and hope the question dissolved. I held his gaze and didn't give him the exit.

He let his hand drop. Took a breath. "I don't know what to tell you."

"That's not good enough."

"I know." He rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes drifted to the painting beside me, the Pinheiros rooftops, the laundry lines strung between buildings. "The truth is, I don't know myself very well either. I know what I'm good at. I know how I work. But the rest of it…" He trailed off. His hand dropped from his neck. "I was hoping you could help me figure that out."

I shot him a look. "That's sweet, Nolan. It's also a deflection."

His jaw twitched. Caught.

"I'm not asking you to bare your soul on my gallery floor," I said. "I'm asking you to let me in. Even a crack. Give me something to hold onto so I'm not just falling into empty space."

He was quiet. His eyes came back to mine. The control was there — the walls, the system, the locked doors — but behind all of it, something was working. Deciding.

"Ask me a question," he said. "Anything. I'll answer."

I studied him. His shoulders were set, his feet planted. He looked like a man bracing for impact and choosing to stand in its path anyway. The offer was real.

A dozen questions lined up. Where do you go when you disappear? What happened at that café? Who were you looking for on that street corner? But the one that came out was simpler, sharper, the one that had been sitting in the pit of my stomach for days.

"Are you seeing someone right now?"

His eyes held mine. "Yes."

The word hit me in the chest. My face fell before I could catch it — the smile collapsing, my brows pulling together, the flush draining from my cheeks. I took a step back. My shoulder blade hit the wall beside the painting.