“Skylar,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes my stomach flip, “you know this isn't a game you should be playing.”

There's a warning in his tone, but it only makes me want to push harder.

I tilt my head. “Who says I'm playing?”

He leans back against the couch, his gaze flickering over me, taking in the disheveled strands of hair that have escaped my chignon, the flush still coloring my cheeks, the way my dress hugs too tightly against my curves.

His throat bobs when he swallows and his grip tightens around the glass of scotch, betraying the tension he’s working so hard to keep hidden.

“You like testing limits, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice so low that it feels like a caress against my skin.

I bite my lip, sensing the flush spreading across my chest. “Maybe I'm looking for someone who won't be afraid to push back.”

For a moment, time seems to suspend. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he's wrestling with the invisible line between what's right and what's dangerously tempting. And for just that moment, I'm certain he's about to cross it.

But then, with a shake of his head, Garrett shifts, his posture straightening. The mask of the responsible adult slides back into place.

“You're a firecracker, Skylar. Your father used to worry you'd burn the house down one day,” he says, his tone shifting to something safer, yet still tinged with warmth. “But I have to say, you've definitely grown up.”

My heart leaps. He sees me—not fully, not yet, but it’s a start.

“Thanks,” I reply, my fingers absently smoothing the fabric of my dress, grounding myself in the moment. “I think.”

He chuckles, a warm, deep sound that sends a flicker of something through me, something I’m not ready to name. “It’s a compliment. Don’t worry.”

Garrett’s expression softens, a trace of melancholy settling in his eyes.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve really seen you. How are you coping with everything?”

The question touches a nerve, tightening my throat. I swallow, forcing the words out.

“I’m fine. I haven’t called this place home since I was twelve. It’s different now.” I hesitate, glancing away before letting more slip than I should. “Honestly? I’m ready for university. A fresh start.”

The regret is instant, a knot forming in my chest. I can hear my own privilege in the words, and it feels wrong to complain.

Garrett leans forward, his gaze steady and compassionate. “You've been through a lot of changes. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.”

Garrett doesn’t rush to comfort me or offer advice. For the first time in a long while, I feel seen and understood.

“Thank you. Most people tell me how ‘strong’ I am, or how lucky I should feel. But no one really sees it for what it is.”

The warmth in Garrett’s eyes and the gentleness in his voice make me feel safe in a way I haven’t in years. The tightness in my chest eases.

Sinking onto the couch beside him, I tug at my dress, my nerves settling. “Why are you hiding in here anyway?”

He lifts his glass, swirling the scotch. “Needed a breather. And your dad hides the good stuff in here.”

I laugh softly. “Don’t tell me Vanessa’s trying to set you up too.”

His smile fades, growing distant. “You should be out there, enjoying yourself. Not hiding away with me.”

The way he says ‘with me’ lingers between us. Part of me wants to press him on what he means, to see how far I can push. But the other part—the part that's still trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing—holds me back.

Instead, I lean back against the couch, mimicking his relaxed posture, and glance up at the Rothko painting above the fireplace. The colors blend together in thick, abstract strokes—deep reds merging with shadowed blues, creating a swirl of emotion on the canvas.

It’s a piece I’ve seen a hundred times, but tonight, it feels different. Maybe it’s the weight of Garrett’s gaze, or the way the room feels charged, like the air right before a storm hits.

“Do you ever think about what paintings are saying?” I ask, the art student in me taking over without thinking.