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"I remember how you are around old things."

I look at her.

"How am I?"

"Confident without qualification."

I laugh once, and she looks over at me, visibly annoyed that I found that funny.

"I'm serious," she says.

"I know."

"That makes it worse."

She turns back to the painting, and there it is, the old rhythm, faint but still alive beneath everything that came after. It does not make her easier with me. If anything, I can see her resisting it the moment it surfaces.

Simon returns with two condition reports and sets them on the table.

"Pre-treatment and current," he says.

"Perfect," Blaire replies.

She removes the gloves and opens the first report. Simon points toward one of the notes.

"The craquelure was considered stable at the time."

Blaire reads the entry carefully.

"And now?"

"Still stable," Simon says. "No active lifting."

She nods.

"Good."

Simon's phone vibrates. He looks at the screen.

"I need to take this," he says. "I'll be right outside."

"Go ahead," Blaire replies.

He steps into the corridor, and again we are alone. Blaire pretends this doesn't matter. I stand beside her and look down at the report as she turns the page, and I lean closer, our shoulders almost touching. Her scent reaches me before anything else, still floral, but deeper now, less light than I remember. More refined. Warmer. The reaction is immediate, and my mind supplies memories I didn’t ask for — her skin under my hands, her mouth against mine, the sound of her breathing when I pulled her closer. I force my attention back to the page.

Blaire points to a line halfway down.

"This is the only section I care about."

I look where she is pointing.

"Humidity exposure?"

"Yes," she says.

"If there was any instability before the treatment, it could matter to valuation."

I reach toward the report at the same time she does, and our fingers brush. She pulls back instantly, too fast. I look at her. She looks at the paper.