Rin

I hummed as I picked up a stack of books the next day, making my way around the library to put them away.

The last week had been utterly, absolutely, completely perfect.

The clothes had been a catalyst for change that seeped into every aspect of my life, from walking to work to my job itself. I mean, Bianca still hated me—I was beyond believing I could single-handedly bridge a gap the size of the Royal Gorge—but Dr. Lyons had tapped me to help him, and that satisfied me, giving me a sense of purpose and a job to do well.

My favorite parts of the day were chatting with him in the morning and saying goodbye in the afternoon. Don’t get me wrong. He was still cold and distant, dismissive and borderline rude, but when we talked about topics we both loved, the conversation was rousing. Refreshing. A meeting of minds, and his mind was as beautiful as the rest of him.

Added bonus: the view.

Really, it wasn’t fair how gorgeous he was. His brows, strong and dark, drawn together with a contemplative line between them. His eyes, stony and gray and heavy when they brushed over me. His lips, always hard, even when tilted in an expression barely constituting a smile.

I got the sense that he enjoyed being around me too, though he hadn’t approached me about the project until I started dressing up.

A frown tugged at the corners of my lips as I slipped a book on Medici’s college into its spot on the shelf. The newfound attention was a blessing and a curse—it made me feel like a queen, and it made me feel cursed. It made me question people’s motives, and it made me question my own awareness of others. I wondered if people were always willing to treat me with kindness and respect had I only stood up straight and looked them in the eye.

My bare feet padded on the low-pile industrial carpet as I turned a corner, shifting the books in my arms. I wondered if I’d walked in on my first day dressed like this, what would have happened? I was convinced Bianca would have still hated me simply because we were so different. But would Dr. Lyons have noticed me? And if I’d come in dressed like I was before but walked into the room with my head held high, would they have seen me?

I sighed, picking up the next book on my stack to read the binding again, but it tilted in my hand, and when I shifted to hang on to it, the books in my arm slipped away and tumbled to the ground.

Where my bare, unsuspecting feet waited.

Pain exploded across the top of my feet and toes, and I sucked in a breath, reaching for the shelf to steady myself as I swore through reflexive tears. I brought one foot up to my knee, squeezing the top as hard as I could to try to defuse the pain, but goddamn if it didn’t help at all. The books were tented and, to my horror, the pages bending, and I dropped to my knees, my feet throbbing as I picked them up. But in my hurry, I grabbed a book carelessly—a page dragged long and slow against my fingertip in a blinding white-hot slice.

“Son of a bitch,” I hissed, dropping the book without a single care as to its safety, that traitor. Blood welled so quickly, it immediately began to roll off my fingertip, and I shoved the digit in my mouth, not angry enough to punish the turncoat book with my hemoglobin.

I hobbled to the table where my bag sat, digging through it for my makeup kit, releasing my finger to assist in unzipping it as the blood flowed openly and without remorse. But, a few seconds later, the paper cut to end all paper cuts was momentarily contained by a bandage touting a Ninja Turtle, Michelangelo.

An art history gag gift, courtesy of Val.

I dropped into my chair, the wind properly out of my sails, the pain in my feet dulled to a gentle ache and my finger pulsing with my heartbeat, and realized with a salty laugh that not much had changed at all.

I was still very much me, lipstick and heels or no. And Mikey and his gooey slice of pizza were proof.

Which, I found, was somehow supremely comforting, paper cut and all.

* * *

Court

The day was almost over, and I found myself in a rush to get to my office after the budget meeting in the hopes I wouldn’t miss Rin coming to report on her day. I blew through two attempts at conversation, thwarted a handshake, and flat-out ignored another curator who tried to flag me from across the room. But no one could stop me.

Not until I saw Lydia in the gallery, standing in front of Pietro Longhi’s The Visit.

Fitting, I thought, stopping behind her without realizing.

Lydia was as poised and beautiful as she’d always been, her golden hair cascading down her back in gleaming waves, her clothes impeccable and expensive, her poise and grace innate. When she turned, she met my eyes with no surprise, as if she’d known I was there, though I knew it was him she was waiting for.

“Hello, Court.”

I jerked my chin at the painting, slipping my hands into my pockets to mask my discomfort. “I used to wonder why you loved this painting so much. In hindsight, it makes perfect sense.”

She chuckled—a sound that set my insides twisting—and set her attention on the Italian noblewoman, seated in her parlor, surrounded by men. The old regal one behind her was clearly her lord husband, and a servant hung in the shadows behind her. To her left sat the chaplain, likely preaching to her about her sins—the primary sin being the virile young man seated to her right. He wore a dressing gown, his hair mussed and cheeks flushed, as he fed her lapdog a treat; his hand formed a partially masked circular gesture that, at the time, was considered erotic. He was her escort, and their tryst had only just ended, judging by his state of undress.

“How are you?” Lydia asked plainly, as if we were old friends.

It was always like this.

“What are you doing here?” I clipped.

“Isn’t it obvious? Waiting for your father. Admiring Longhi. What are you doing here?”

“Leaving.”

I turned to go—I never should have stopped in the first place—but she halted me.

“Really, Court—are you well? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

My jaw clicked shut as I met her eyes mine glaring, hers cold. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like you give a shit about me. Because we both know that’s not true.”

She sighed, a resigned, dismissive sound. “This was why we never would have worked. You have far too much sensibility. For being so strong, you’re terribly delicate.”

“And for being so well bred, you really are a whore. Give my father my regards.”

To her credit, she didn’t even look offended—I thought I heard her sigh again as I turned on my heel and walked away.

My mind was a beehive, humming and buzzing and crawling in my skull. It wasn’t uncommon to see Lydia at the museum. And it wasn’t uncommon for me to find myself affected by her presence.

I’d forgotten all about Rin until I walked into my office and found her standing in front of my desk, her body turned for the door like she couldn’t decide whether to stay or go.

Stay, my mind whispered.

Her face brightened when she saw me. “Hello, Dr. Lyons. I finished the research you requested today—it should be in your email. I just wanted to stop in before I left to see if you wanted to discuss it.” The final word hung between us like a question, one with the indubitable answer of yes.

“Thank you, Rin. Yes, have a seat.”

She seemed as relieved as I felt as she sank into the leather chair and rummaged through her bag for her notes. And I stepped around the desk and sat, feeling the hive in my brain slow like it’d been smoked, stilling once she began to talk, silencing as I answered.

Her hair fell in her face as she spoke; she brushed it away with her fingers, one of which was taped with a green blur.

I frowned. “What happened to your finger?”

Her cheeks flushed. “Oh! I…well, I-I dropped a stack of books—I’m so sorry, but they’re all right. I mean, there might have been a few bent pages, but I smoothed them out, and I think they’ll be okay,” she rambled, her eyes darting around the room like she was in an interrogation for a heist rather than an inquiry after her health.

“Rin, I’m not worried about the books. What happened to your finger?”

She sighed and held it up. “A paper cut.”

My frown deepened as I noted the dark spot of blood smudging—I squinted to see—a Ninja Turtle’s face. “Is that…”

“Leonardo. Cowabunga.”

A laugh shot out of me. “Must have been some paper cut.”

“It was. This is my third Ninja Turtle. I only have Raphael left.”

I opened my bottom desk drawer for my first aid kit, digging through it for a swab and a real bandage before getting up, walking around my desk, and sitting on the edge in front of her. I extended my hand for hers.

Her flush, which had momentarily gone, surged in her cheeks, smudging them with color. “Oh no, that’s okay, I’m fine. It’s just a paper cut.”

I quieted her with a look, flexing my fingers in a silent demand. And, tentatively, she obliged.

Her fingers were long and soft, her hand warm and delicate, and I turned it over in mine, peeling the flimsy kids’ bandage off easily—an accidental flick of her wrist would have rid her of it. The cut was deep, white on the edges, her skin pruned from the confines of the bandage. I took my time cleaning her off and bandaging her up, cataloging the details of her hand, the creases in her knuckles, her long nail beds, the fine bones, the meat of her palm. And before I let her go, I made the grave mistake of meeting her eyes.

They were locked on mine, her lips parted, her body leaning and hand resting solidly in mine.

I didn’t let her go.

And I found myself leaning.

She drew the smallest of breaths.

Awareness snapped through me like ice. I returned her hand and rose from my perch in a single motion, moving to put the desk between us.

I opened my computer, my eyes on my screen so I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “You know, I don’t want to keep you here so late. I’ll look over your notes, and we can discuss them in the morning.”

She was already packing her things, much to my disappointment.

What did you want her to do, say no?

“Thanks, Dr. Lyons.” She stood, slinging on her bag, and I searched her face, looking to see if she was as affected by me as I was by her. But I found nothing.

It was for the best.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said with a smile.

I nodded once, watching her walk away.

And I didn’t even have the good sense to realize how little control I had.