"Dickasso: Swimmer Shoulders, Surrealist Fantasies, and the Death of My Dignity"

I greet Richard, the ancient museum guard, as I walk up to the self-scanner at the Danish National Gallery. He always carries himself like a proud grandfather — dignified, slow-moving, mildly suspicious of technology. He might actually be as old as some of the statues here. Honestly, to me, he's just as much a national treasure.

I scan my annual pass, nodding in greeting, then ask about his wife, his day so far. It's always the same, like a script we've quietly perfected over time. Our conversation ends, as it always does, the moment my entrance sticker prints — right on cue.

Normally, that's when I begin my usual stroll through the galleries, checking in on all my old friends — the ones in oil, bronze, and marble. The ones who never ask anything of me and the ones I always share my secrets with.

But today, the machine spits out two stickers. One crimson red for me, and another for my unwelcome +1.

Richard tilts his head toward him, a wordless question in the form of a nod. It's the first time I've used my +1 on anyone other than my mom. I shrug back at Richard like I'm just as confused as he is.

I slap my sticker on without ceremony, then press August's firmly between his collarbones, right over the weave of his black turtleneck.

"There. Wouldn't want it to go anywhere, right?"
I whisper through clenched teeth, pushing just a little too hard — making sure the sticker fuses with fabric and ego.

He raises an eyebrow, the smug smile arriving right on cue.

"Of course not. Let me return the favor," he says, reaching toward me.

I flinch and step back instantly — maybe the fastest Richard has ever seen me move. My hands instinctively cover my chest like I'm guarding state secrets.

"Relax," he murmurs, amused. "I wasn't planning to mimic your CPR disguised as kindness."

His voice is warm, disarming. Mine is still catching up — eyes wide, breath shallow, trying to process the unexpected ceasefire.

I blink twice, clear my throat, and get into character.

"Right. Welcome to the Danish National Gallery. It would take approximately eleven and a half days to see every exhibited piece, so today we've prepared a very special, curated tour — just for you."

His lips twitch. Behind his — entirely unnecessary — glasses, there's a flicker of something playful. Or maybe it's just a yellow glint of reflected light.

"Cute," he says, smiling like I'm entertainment.

"Let's go to the basement. There are lockers for our coats," I say, back to neutral.

We've barely crossed the threshold, and this guy is already getting on my nerves.

"Lead the way," he says, like he owns it.

I roll my eyes and start down the stairs, into the dim-lit space below — coat in one hand, chaos in the other.

The lockers are in the museum's basement — a repurposed holding cell from god knows when. Poorly repurposed. The air still hums with confinement, the walls too thick, the light too low.

I peel off my soaked leather trench coat and stuff it away. Classic Danish summer — rain with a side of mild existential dread. Perfect museum weather.

"All set?" I ask, turning toward him.

Underneath his black Burberry trench, he looks like a brooding museum critic in a Scandinavian noir — except hotter. Black turtleneck, straight-cut navy denim, loafers. Everything fits just enough to suggest he's genetically blessed and the type who actually works out.

Frankly, it should be punishable to look like that after showing up at Sascha half-dead and still managing to smirk.

I eye him up and down without meaning to. Brief. Efficient. Regretfully thirsty.

I could stow him away down here and no one would hear the screams. The acoustics alone are built for secrets.

"What?" he says, catching me mid-elevator glance.

"Nothing," I mutter, turning back to the locker and slamming it shut with just a little too much force.

"Well, nothing right back at you," he says, grin fully audible.

I refuse to look at him.

"Let's go," I say instead, too fast, too flat, hoping he doesn't catch the heat crawling up my cheeks.

***

I lead him up to the first floor of the cathedral-high entry hall and onto the gallery balcony. The architecture is a piece of art in itself — original stucco from the 15th century, mythic creatures tangled with angels, and too many types of fruit to count. Massive murals are painted directly onto the walls, only interrupted by entries into period-specific collections.

While he takes in the building, I guide us toward the entrance to Danish and Nordic Art 1750–1900. As we step inside, we're met with immediate silence.

I sigh in relief.

The quiet of a museum is honey for my mind — the works are loud in all the right ways. Loud enough to sometimes occupy me without much effort expected in return. I just look, feel, drift.

This collection, though, is heavy on religion — Danish heritage soaked in crosses and saints and ornate depictions of guilt. It's not for me. Too reverent. Too clean. I silently hope he finds it as boring as I do, maybe bored enough to cut this visit short.

Instead, he walks like a scholar — hands behind his back, inspecting every plaque, every brushstroke, as if he's being paid by the hour. I trail a few paces behind, pretending to care about plaques too.

We make it to the three rooms dedicated to Vilhelm Hammershøi — the patron saint of grayscale melancholy. Everything here lives in some shade of fog. Even on my good days, his work sinks me. On my bad days, I find solace. I measure my emotional state by how much I see myself in his subjects.

August somehow manages to slow his pace even more. He moves between the paintings like he's trying to absorb them physically. I stop pretending. I just stare at my favorite: Standing Naked Woman.

She's caught mid-moment, framed by a doorway, stuck between shadow and self. Her chamber is private, quiet — and yet here we are, intruding. One arm crosses her chest, the other rests on a table for support. Her body leans forward slightly, as if the weight of the day — or the decade — has finally tipped her off balance.

She looks like she's had enough. Maybe for years.

Sometimes I whisper to her, "How do I not end up like you?"
She never answers. Her face is smudged, head turned just enough to look blurred, like she's shaking it in slow despair. Her silence always feels like: "I fucking don't know."

To me, she's the most honest depiction of what depression does to a body. Not screaming. Not collapsed. Just... still fighting.

He notices my standstill. Silently, he walks up beside me. He looks at the woman, then at me, then back to her.

"You know her?" he whispers, like he's making a joke.

"Yep. Cellmate," I reply, matching his tone but not his amusement.

"What?" he whispers louder, confused.

"Cellmate. We're both serving life — no parole," I say, eyes never leaving her.

"I don't get it. What do you mean by cellmate?" he asks, leaning in like the answer might be hiding in my breath.

I finally face him, torn from my companion in grayscale. I lean in close and whisper, "Never mind. You wouldn't get it — and I wouldn't want to see a permanent frown on that pretty little head of yours."

I finish with a tight smile and a wink — part teasing, part warning — then turn to go.

"Wait, was that an insult or a compliment?" he calls after me, grabbing my wrist.

"Just pick the one you feel better about," I say flatly. He lets go, and I walk toward the next section.

The Skagen Painters.

Sunlight. Seascapes. Blue in all shades. If Monet had painted Danes instead of lilies. P.S. Krøyer, Anna Ancher — fan favorites. It's bright, romantic, full of salt air and optimism. I'm always mildly suspicious of it.

I glance at August. He seems like the type who would love this section. He walks through life like it's a summer evening painting — soft light, calm waters, hopeful skies. He's exactly the kind of man who'd fall for Skagen.

I settle on a bench, expecting him to linger. But to my surprise, he sits down beside me right away.

"I'm done with this era," he whispers. "Which is next?"

I blink, caught off guard. Mumble something half-formed as I rise. We head out together, stepping back onto the gallery balcony. I start planning my escape.

"Well, I think that's enough for today's tour," I say, already moving toward the stairs. "You've survived centuries of religious agony. It's a lot to take in. And everyone knows the golden rule of museums: stop before your brain leaks out your ears. Basement?"

"No."

Just that. Flat. Immediate.

I turn halfway, narrowing my eyes. "No?"

"Nick said you love the new wing. Surrealism. Expressionism. All the madness and dream logic."
He says it like it's an affectionate inside joke.
"I've always been more into cubism," he continues. "But I'm willing to be challenged."

I blink. Once. Twice.

Cubism. His favorite movement is cubism. And now I'm plotting to kill Nick the rat, and spiraling.

He says it like it's a worldview, not just a preference. And I hate how that lands—too hard, too deep. Like it bypasses all my usual defenses. The hypothetical tattoos now have a style, I definitely would be into.

It's not even his jaw doing the damage this time. It's the fact that he has thoughts. Opinions. Maybe even depth. It's terrifying.

I shove it down. Pretend I'm just reacting to the curve of his mouth, not the substance. It's not for me, so I bite,

"You've had this information the entire time and chose to waste an hour on martyr paintings?" I ask, arms crossed.

He shrugs, infuriatingly calm. "I think you'd be amazed by what I can keep to myself."

Of course he does. The smirk is unbearable. So I return the favor.

"This way, Dickasso," I say, sweet as acid, loud enough to turn heads.

He laughs, low and unbothered, and follows me — like he already knows I won't be able to lose him now.

***

Without waiting for a snarky reply, I push through the doors and lead us toward the glass bridge connecting the old and new buildings. It's one of the museum's architectural showpieces, but I barely notice it anymore. The entire floor and walls are transparent, giving an unobstructed view of the marble sculptures lining the "sculptural street" far below.

I don't realize he's no longer beside me until I hear nothing but the hum of air-conditioning behind me. I turn back.

He's frozen a few steps back, fists clenched around the railing. His knuckles have gone bone white. His face is still, eyes locked downward, jaw stiff.

For a second, I think he's just captivated by the view. But no—he's terrified.

And like the horrible person I clearly am, I chuckle. Instinctive, short, guilty. I slap a hand over my mouth the second it escapes.

I step back toward him. "Take my hand... Look at me... It's alright. Nothing's going to happen. Just—look at me," I say, gently but firmly, holding out my hand like he's the one about to fall and not me, emotionally.

He finally blinks and meets my gaze. Slowly—very slowly—he lets go of the railing and takes my hand.

Together, step by careful step, we make it across the bridge.

Inside the new wing, I guide us to the nearest bench. We sit. Say nothing.

Silence lingers until our exhales slow—less adrenaline, more oxygen. We're in one of the Danish Modern rooms now. Ten-meter ceilings. Towering paintings. A giant circular cushioned bench, like an art-world pit stop.

Most of the work here is by Edvard Weie—my actual favorite Danish modern painter. A hopeless romantic with a brush, all blurred light and quiet ache. My admiration knows no bounds.

Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. If asked, I'd say Wilhelm Freddie. Provocative. Actual prominent member of the surrealist movement. Cooler. Saying Edvard Weie is like confessing your favorite movie is Cinderella when Pulp Fiction is sitting right there.

We're sitting front row to Weie's Faun and Nymph. The backs of a couple at the center, the masculine figure carrying the feminine one—bold strokes, vivid color, all movement and longing. I always think this is how it should look. How love should feel. Like euphoria on a wedding day, painted in oil.

Reality cracks the frame.

Footsteps echo into the room—another visitor. I instinctively pull my hand from his, startled by how long it must've been resting there.

He leans in, voice low. "I'm still a little scared. Can you hold my hand?"

I shift back just slightly, matching his volume. "I think my time as interim support animal is up, don't you, colleague?"

He smirks, soft and maddening.
"Relax, Mona Lisa."

I raise an eyebrow in feigned offense. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He leans in, voice low and teasing.
"That deceitful smile? It's not 'come closer'—it's 'keep your distance.' You and Mona both. Masters of the almost. Let them circle, let them hope. But never let anyone in."

The silence that follows stretches a little too long. Something shifts. What was a joke now tastes like truth.

I stare at him. No words—just eyes that want to sear right through him. I wonder, briefly, if I'm capable of burning someone with a look alone.

He turns back to me, still wearing that maddening calm.
"You know I'm right."

Then, a beat too far:
"I bet you don't even know if you have a heart. You've maybe just... never needed one."

It's meant as a joke. But it lands like a brick to the chest. Cold. Heavy.

My throat tightens. I blink hard—too hard—and before he can see what's forming in the corners of my eyes, I'm already on my feet.

Flashes of her blue eyes. Her laugh. My lowest points of 2015. They hit like a cursed house of horrors reel someone pressed play on without warning.

I shift, instinctively. Deep breath. Then another. Anything to drag myself back into the present.

What's left of my emotional bandwidth pulls itself together—barely enough to get me through the rest of this godforsaken tour. There's no way I'm dignifying that joke with a reply. Not even a sarcastic one.

I pivot and head for the COBRA rooms. Loud, messy salvation. Most of the works here are by Asger Jorn—chaotic, unfiltered, unapologetic. He's like if Pollock and Damien Hirst had a love child that only painted in primary colors while screaming.

We roam one of the larger galleries and August trailing just far enough behind to feel like a shadow I didn't ask for. I know this place like the back of my hand - would live here if they allowed smoking, so I know to stick to the smaller COBRA galleries. Due to their popularity, they're not exactly a whisper-friendly space—and I plan to take full advantage.

Every time I pause in front of a piece, he edges closer. I can feel him gearing up—either to explain, clarify, or apologize. I cut him off with a shush before any of it turns audible.

His restraint frays. The noises he makes shift from attempts at speech to low, disgruntled grunts. I keep mimicking the other spectators—arms crossed, face tilted, reverent nods—as if performance will protect me. As if studying art hard enough might somehow drown him out.

As if I wasn't already simmering, a walking wool billboard steps right in front of me—just as I'm (pretending to) study a chaotic swirl of blues. His outfit is a forest of horse-themed logos, layered so thick they practically neigh. Too many designer names for someone trying to look casual. He's either new money or fake money. Probably both.

I give a polite, pointed cough to remind him of basic human etiquette. He doesn't flinch—too busy taking a picture, slapping on a filter, and captioning it "cleaning out the storage" before posting it to his Instagram story.

I. See. Red.

This—this right here—is the goddamn generational rot. I step beside him and keep my voice just under the museum whisper threshold.

"Hey, Bling Bling, can you move? Hate to break it to you, but there's a world beyond your reflection."

He turns, looks me up and down, unimpressed. Which, fine—my oversized navy-striped suit and baseball cap weren't chosen to impress a man dressed like the contents of a mall divorce. Still, his scoff? Unnecessary.

"Darling, you're out of your depth and out of your place," he sneers. "Try not to embarrass yourself thinking you can tell me where to stand."

Oh, no.

My cheeks flame—not from shame, but from the sheer audacity. I hold my whisper sharp as a blade.

"You walk into the National Gallery like it's a showroom. Block people, flaunt seven logos like a trust-fund tantrum, and post 'cleaning out storage' like anyone believes you inherited anything but insecurity. This place holds centuries. You? Just filters and fabric."

His jaw drops—equal parts confusion and ego bruised.

"Now, move, darling." I say, giving him the gentlest elbow possible that still qualifies as a shove.

He looks around in disbelief, gesturing at the nearest guard like I'd just broken the Geneva Convention. I glance over.

Richard meets my eyes from across the room. Slowly shakes his head. The referee has spoken. No penalty. Then—bless him—he winks.

Bling Bling reads the room and storms off, huffing something about philistines.

I straighten up, smug as ever, soaking in the subtle nods of silent applause. August's stayed wisely quiet, probably realizing the fire still smoldering inside me isn't ready to go out just yet. Maybe, just maybe, this is what he needs to run for the hills. If there really is a god, he will.

I can't help but think my parent's attempts to 'tame my temper' sometimes actually worked. Anyway, if it's alright with Richard, I'm okay.

In search of yet another COBRA gallery, I feel a sharp, twisted burn on my wrist—so sudden it takes a second to register.

It's not until I'm yanked into pitch black that I realize the burn was August's hand. He'd grabbed me—tight—pulling me in just before the door of what I now realize is a maintenance closet clicks shut behind us.

***

It's pitch black. My eyes strain to adjust as my hands fumble for a light switch—edges, buttons, anything.

But August must mistake the movement for an escape attempt. Instead of joining the search, he catches my wrists—gently, but firm enough to stop me. He guides my hands into his, threading our fingers together. His grip tightens just slightly, anchoring me.

They say when one sense dulls, the others sharpen. And it's true. In the dark, I can feel everything—his pulse, steady and slow, painfully at odds with the frantic rhythm in my own chest.

"Please," he says, voice low, hoarse, like every word is being chosen with care. "Just stay for a second. I'm sorry. Will you please just... listen to me?"

Each word lands softer, slower—like he's trying to hold the moment together before it breaks.

"Relax, no harm, no foul. Honesty suits you better anyway," I say, hoping the dark will mask the lie written all over my face. But he must sense it—something in the way I tense, or breathe, or falter—because he pulls me closer.

I feel him now. All of him. The warmth of his chest, the quiet way he towers over me, protective but unreadable.

"I know you have a heart," he says softly. "A soft one, even. I just... found a really awful way not to be funny."

His hands start moving—slow, gentle. Not greedy. Comforting, like he's trying to talk through his touch.

I let out a long exhale, part sigh, part surrender. Not forgiveness. Just space.

Silence stretches between us. Then, lower:

"I know you pretend not to have a heart," he says, like it costs him something. "But I've seen it. You only let it out when you think no one's watching. Like hiding it keeps you safer somehow."

I raise an eyebrow—pointless in the dark, but I do it anyway. A silent dare. Go ahead. Substantiate that.

"You've got a soft spot for your juniors," he says, like he's presenting evidence in a trial I never agreed to. "I saw it. The way you gave them your full attention—your patience. Like it didn't cost you anything."

"They're just scarred allies," I scoff, the words sharp and quick. "Codependency at best."

"Mm. Of course," he says, dry, already circling back for blood. "So when your eyes were sparkling—actual sparkles—while you were petting that labradoodle in the courtyard..."

I suck in a breath, but he doesn't let me interrupt.

"That was just another battle-scarred companion, huh? One of your broken soldiers?" His soft laugh cuts through the dark—warm, maddening. "You looked like you'd hit nirvana. I thought you were going to adopt it on the spot."

He's enjoying this. I can hear it. And worse—I can feel the heat crawl up my neck. Because he's not wrong. And I really, really wish he were.

"Dude, your stalking tendencies are really showing. And no, I work part-time undercover as Dr. Doolittle," I say, dry, a quiet laugh escaping before I can stop it.

"Sure you do," he replies, smug enough that I can hear the grin even in the dark.

I let the silence speak for me—sharp and deliberate. He's pushing. I'm done.

But he doesn't let it die.

"Okay, then," he says—too casually. The kind of casual that comes right before someone flips the table.

"Nick and you," he starts, and I already regret not shutting the door with his coat still outside. "Despite the twin toddler act, I know you're basically family. Someone told me you're the one who buys the pâté."

He says it like he's cracked a code. Like he's proud of himself for peeling back a layer I didn't give him permission to touch.

"Cool," I snap. "I've got a bad temper and a sweet spot for psychological warfare. No one's arguing that. Are we done here?"

I release his hands—clean and final. Or at least it should be.

But he doesn't step back. Doesn't move. His hands slip to my waist like he's rewriting the end of a conversation I didn't want to start. My arms land on his shoulders before I can stop them—traitors. He leans in, lips grazing my temple, voice soft enough to split me down the middle.

"I know soaking that asshole in red wine wasn't an accident," he murmurs. "You just couldn't stand watching the waiter get humiliated."

My stomach drops.

"Stop confusing an evil spirit with Casper the Friendly Ghost, will you?" I snap, sharper now. "Let it go."

My hands press against his chest—not quite a shove, not quite a touch—just enough to say: this line? You've crossed it.

He doesn't budge.

Instead, he makes it worse—or better, depending on how one defines emotional hostage situations.

"I will... when you tell me why you get sad when I say you don't have a heart, and mad when I say you do."

His voice is low, almost gentle. The kind of quiet that isn't meant to soothe, but to cut through noise. Like he's been carrying that line in his pocket, waiting for the perfect moment to ruin me with it.

His grip tightens slightly—not to hold me back, but to hold the silence, to keep it from running.

I don't answer. Not because I'm speechless, but because I genuinely don't know. That one sentence felt like a therapist's wet dream. A prompt meant to launch twelve to eighteen months of bi-weekly unpacking. And here I am, in a maintenance closet, without even a decent deflection.

His pulse throbs harder beneath his shirt. I can feel it—like a clock winding tighter by the second, waiting for my answer.

My hand drifts from his chest to his neck, then up to his jaw—fingertips mapping the outline like I'm searching for the escape route I know I won't take.

I don't have the words to shut him down. So I go for the next best thing.
Operation: Silence the target.
Successful.

What I hadn't realized? I'd signed up for a kamikaze mission.

He saw it coming—probably long before I did. So when I pressed my mouth to his, he didn't just meet me halfway. He claimed it. Like he'd been waiting not to collect my arms, but to steal my breath.

And it's fucking impossible not to let him.

Messy, deliberate kisses come one after another, too close together for air to bother getting in the way.

I feel his tongue brush my lower lip—asking, politely, though he already knows exactly where it belongs. I hiss, breath catching in the heat of it, as everything between us—every glance, every ache—finally snaps.

I tighten my grip, wanting him closer - his scent is intoxicating—sandalwood, something musky. It lights up my fingertips, dragging him closer like I could inhale him straight through my skin.

My hands slip under his shirt, greedy for more. He looks carved from marble, but nothing compares to the feel of him—skin soft, muscles unforgiving. He's David by Michelangelo—strength and beauty etched with care. Just... flesh and blood. On private display. Mine, for now, for just a little longer.

As my hands reach for some playful exploration of his shoulder blades, he suddenly pulls back. Not far, just enough to make it clear he's taking control. His hands grip my upper arms—like he's steadying me, or himself.

"Are you seriously kissing me just to shut me up?" he asks, voice half-incredulous, half-impressed.

"Sorry, who are you?" I shoot back, playful, still close enough to feel the soft chuckle ghost off his lips.

He hesitates, clearly debating whether to call it or keep going. "Are we going to talk about this some other time?"

I sigh, dramatic. "Does anyone ever tell you to shut up and just look pretty?" I ask, my palms finding his chest, pushing gently but pointedly—an attempt to reset the scene back to hands, not words.

He grins, entirely unfazed. "Do you ever finish a conversation? Like, have you ever actually done that?"

"I'll consider it—somewhere between never and not now," I mutter, and steal his lips before he can kill the moment completely.

***

My mind never fails to betray me. Just as I'm attempting to become one with August, a mental short film begins to play—Richard, furious, bursting in like a museum exorcist, hurling curses and throwing us out by the scruffs of our horny necks.

The inside of my eyelids is now a cinema stuck on loop: Richard confiscating my annual pass with a disappointed shake of his head. I pray—fervently, silently—to the gods of modern art for forgiveness and invisibility.

It's impossible to tell how long we've been in here. Time has gone off duty, too busy enjoying the spectacle to tick forward. I swear Richard has some sixth sense, and is probably already halfway to our door with a citation for indecent exposure.

I can't move. Can't speak in full sentences. So I resort to the most urgent keywords I can manage:
"Guards. Museum. Out."

It's just enough to stall August. I start to untangle myself from his grip—quietly, carefully—earning a low, disgruntled protest from somewhere near my neck.

He peeks out the door, scans the hallway like a getaway driver, then jerks his head: Go.

No words, no time to fix anything—just movement. In unspoken agreement, we take off, clothes crooked, breath held. We stride fast but fake-casual through the modern wing like nothing happened. Just two very cultured people definitely not sprint-walking away from a maintenance closet.

Only once we reach the far end—safely out of sight—do we pause, finally breathing again. I catch him looking at me, his eyes still adjusting to the brightness. It's unclear whether he's reacting to the lighting or to what I've become post-closet.

He looks exactly as he did when we walked in—annoyingly composed, not a hair out of place. If he got hit by wind on the way here, I wouldn't believe it. I'm stunned my hands haven't accidentally styled him into a tragic mohawk.

I glance down at myself. Wrinkled oversized blazer, t-shirt half untucked, collar bent. I look more like Danny DeVito in disguise than the off-duty plus-size Prada model I was going for.

To any random museum-goer: he's sleek, mysterious, hot.
Me? An aesthetic catastrophe with a museum pass.

We silently fix ourselves—smoothing, tucking, finger-combing dignity back into place. Once we're somewhat human again, our eyes meet.

A grin flickers between us. Unspoken, triumphant.
We made it, undetected, barely alive, still mentally asking Saint Richard for forgiveness.

In that very moment, my shoulders finally detach from my earlobes. A soft groan escapes me—half relief, half exhaustion—as the tension drains from every joint.

I've always thought I had the makings of a great criminal. But today taught me something new: I'd probably draw the line at art. Not murder, not theft—just anything involving a brushstroke. Turns out, I could kill a man in cold blood, but god forbid his blood splatters a Weie.

"Out of here?" I ask, yawning mid-sentence.

"Mh," he hums, checking his watch. "I think I've got just enough time to hit the shop. Then I should head to the airport."

I nod, no resistance left in me. I lead us back toward the grand entry hall, this time sidestepping any invisible pavement traps.

The silence between us has shifted—no longer buzzing with tension, but soft, like a shared exhale. Now that we're no longer fugitives, the post-heist endorphins kick in. My cheeks flush, my lips curl, and I catch myself smiling.

We're walking side by side, and August's hand keeps brushing against mine—again, and again, and again. Not subtle. Not even pretending. The third time it happens, I glance at him with all the force of a restraining order framed by lashes.

But he just blinks back, all faux-innocence and infuriating charm.

"What's wrong?" he asks, too smooth. "Is there something wrong with my hand?"

I give him the look. The one reserved for people who ask if almond milk comes from almond cows.

He grins like he's just discovered a new species of annoyed woman. "I asked you a question."

"And I answered with silence, which is generous considering the noise coming out of your mouth."

He's practically gleaming now, and God help me, it's working.

He wiggles his fingers in front of me, showcasing them like they just earned a Michelin star. "These hands, you mean? The ones that brought joy and cultural enrichment to your Sunday?"

"Joy?" I scoff. "You mean the criminal activity we just narrowly escaped with our dignity intact?"

"Oh, narrowly, he says. I seem to remember you being very committed to the crime."

I stop walking.

He does too—mid-step, brows raised, like he's genuinely curious whether he's about to be slapped or seduced.

I rise onto my toes, lean in close enough to let my whisper lace his breath.

"There's nothing wrong with those hands," I say, voice sugar-sweet. "In fact, they've proven themselves exceptionally... functional."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch. Just sucks in his lower lip—like that's fair—and waits.

"But that was then, and never again" I continue. "Now? Your hands can be anywhere but in mine."

I step back. He lets me go, smirking with all the calm of a man who's already won a game I didn't know we were playing.

"Anywhere else, huh?" he says, like he's choosing items from a menu. "Well then..."

His arm wraps around my waist and he yanks me flush to him in a single motion. I gasp—actually gasp—and his mouth doesn't even move an inch closer. He just hovers there.

His lips are close enough to kiss me. Close enough that I bite my own lip on instinct.

Then he says it, low and slow:

"Fascinating how you manage to look innocent mid-crime."

I blink up at him, brain blue-screening. He smells like warm skin and arrogance. I might combust.

"You're infuriating," I mutter, voice rasping like static.

"True," he replies. "But statistically speaking, still your best decision this week."

I wrench myself free, heat in my face and shame in my throat, and power-walk away like it'll somehow fix whatever just happened.

He follows at a slow stroll, hands in pockets, whistling Smooth Criminal like the smug bastard he is.

We reach the museum shop, along with what feels like the entire population of Denmark plus every Tinder date that survived brunch. I should've known. It's Sunday—Bling-Bling Guest Day. The sacred ritual of white lies and overdressed couples who can't bear actual conversation. It's in-law territory. Or worse—desperate "culture for clout" hunters looking to break their sixteen-Sunday hangover streak with a photo of a €10 postcard and half a thought about brush strokes.

The crowd is hunting. For souvenirs, evidence, a receipt of enlightenment. They'll need it—circumstantial proof that they really did show up. A paper trail of depth.

Compared to August's silence, the shop feels like a full-volume panic attack. Honestly, getting trampled to death by culture vultures sounds kind of peaceful in comparison.

The shop is a war zone of tasteless temptation. Scarves in shades only grandmothers understand. A dangling forest of 70+ ceiling mobiles no child has ever asked for. Toys disguised as "educational experiences" that are actually just bougie coloring books printed on artisanal shame.

I take cover by the books. Which, of course, is self-inflicted torture.

I'm officially banned from buying more books—by me, yes, but mostly by Marianne. My bank advisor. We're very close. Tragically.

She agrees coloring books are a scam. We part ways on the subject of €89 coffee-table monsters titled "Dreamscapes and the Dali Effect." I argued they're intellectual investments—like student loans, but prettier. She argued I can't pay both in the same month unless the Dali effect includes sudden professional success.

Rude, honestly.

I'm mid-flirt with a glossy hardback on surrealist dream motifs when I clock August out of the corner of my eye. He's hovering near the register, thumb tracing the edge of something small—maybe a postcard, maybe one of those overpriced magnets pretending to be ironic. I can't see what it is, and the fact that he shields it so naturally, without making a show of it, unnerves me more than if he'd flashed it with jazz hands.

He catches me looking and tilts his head, a question hovering in his smirk. I raise an eyebrow. He ignores it. Just offer a shrug, like it's nothing. Like the object in his palm isn't now driving me slightly mad with curiosity.

He pays for it in crisp silence and meet me without dignifying the act with even a nod.

If anything, that just piqued my interest. And then I remember, I'm not, I shouldn't. That I actually don't want to know, at all.

***

I tug my leather coat tighter as the wind outside the museum tries to wrench it off me like it's got something personal against layered women.

"You know you look at me like I'm a labradoodle?" he says, grinning like he just won something.

"Don't flatter yourself," I say. "Labradoodles can swim. You'd be an installation titled 'Man, Waaaay Out at Sea'."

He tilts his head in mock offense, like I've insulted his entire lineage. "Bold take—and wrong. Swim captain. Stellar in any sea and depth, actually."

I don't blink. "You get what you need for your little CEO review? Saw enough?"

He leans in, voice lower. "I lingered on one piece. Bold brushstrokes. Mysterious structure. Definitely surrealist... probably off-limits."

"No. You just didn't," I say. "Please tell me that line made you nauseous too."

"Oh, I almost vomited. I'll keep it classy in the write-up though. Highlights only."

My brow arches. "Like what?"

He leans slightly closer, dropping his voice. "Let's see... the scent of citrus-sharp in your hair, obviously. That deserves its own paragraph. Possibly a haiku."

I give him nothing. Not even a smirk. He grins anyway.

"Your eyes, too. That specific shade of blue they shift into when you're mentally firing someone."

I blink slowly. Still not giving him a thing.

He leans in again, conspiratorially. "And I guess I'll have to include how that dark-kind-of-berry taste from your lips is now permanently imprinted in my memory. Very unprofessional of you."

I raise my palm between us in a universal enough gesture.

"I'm down to fumes here," I say. "So do me one favor: write that I am your extremely competent, brilliant, and painfully professional colleague. That I hosted you like a seasoned diplomat—charming, efficient, emotionally detached. Send it to my CEO. Schedule it to hit his inbox by 7:00 Monday morning. Ideally while you're waiting at the gate. Can you handle that?"

He nods, finally, though his smile says he's not done being annoying.

He steps in for a hug—longer than it needs to be, warmer than it should be. His lips hover way too close to my cheek, like he's weighing whether to test his luck again.

I bite my lower lip without thinking. Rookie mistake.

His eyes flick down. Clocked.

"I'm serious," I say, stepping back, fingers now firmly tugging my jacket closed. "This was a hostage situation. Not a meet-cute. You'll see me in Amsterdam, strictly colleague-to-colleague. No lip balm references."

"Understood," he says, absolutely not understanding.

He lets me walk away, hands in his pockets, whistling Smooth Criminal like the smug bastard he is.

I don't turn around.

The wind nips at my face. I chew on my lip, taste like berry and regret.