Page 60 of The Pucking Arrangement

And for the first time, I understand what it means to miss something you never really had.

We climb the museum steps in silence, but my insides are churning. I don’t want this day to end. I don’t want to let her go.

Even though I promised her brother.

Not when Erin looks at art the way she looks at music, like she’s hearing something the rest of us can’t. Not when her hand fit so perfectly in mine. Not when everything about this feels right.

The Met’s grand lobby hums with weekend energy—families corralling sugar-fueled children, elderly couples moving at their own unhurried pace, young lovers sneaking kisses in quiet corners.

A place where we could disappear into normalcy.

Where, just for today, I can pretend.

Ris bounces between us as we ascend the grand staircase, her small hands clasping ours, binding us together like an anchor.

We move through the galleries, pausing without purpose, letting the museum pull us where it wants. Until we reach the Greek and Roman hall.

Sunlight filters through the high windows, striking burnished bronze.

Erin slows in front of a statue—a man cast in motion, shoulders squared, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Strength and dignity sculpted into permanence, a remnant of a kingdom long gone. Scholars believe he could be one of the rulers of Pergamon—Attalus II, perhaps—his form preserved to outlast time itself.

She tilts her head slightly, studying him with the same quiet reverence she reserves for music.

My gaze drifts over the statue’s stance, the impossible balance of strength and grace.

I watch her.

Her expression shifts, academic interest giving way to something else entirely. A flicker of heat. A flush creeping along the line of her throat. Her breath, just a little too measured.

Ah.

I follow her gaze, tracing the ridges and planes of the bronze body—the broad sweep of his shoulders, the sculpted definition of his abdomen, the powerful thighs balanced in a contrapposto stance. One hand is raised to the sky, the other resting at his hip—a warrior frozen mid-command, as if he once held a sword now lost to time.

But that’s not where her eyes are.

She’s looking lower, her gaze lingering, her breath just a little too controlled.

“The Greeks really understood anatomy,” she murmurs, her voice even—too even. But the sharp inhale that follows betrays her completely.

“Da.” I bite back a smirk. “A very…accurate representation of the male physique.”

Her flush deepens, but she doesn’t look away.

“From an artistic perspective,” she clarifies, clearing her throat. “The proportions are—” She stops abruptly, realizing she’s only making it worse.

“Classical ideal,” I supply, amused at where this is going.

She turns, a challenge in her eyes. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I appreciate beauty,solnyshko.” My gaze drags over her, unhurried and deliberate, leaving no doubt about whose beauty I mean. “Don’t you?”

Her lips part, just slightly. But she recovers fast.

“Look at that stance,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “So powerful. The way he’s positioned, like he’s about to pounce…” She drags her teeth over her bottom lip. “It’s like watching…an athlete in motion. The control they have over their physical bodies.”

My pulse kicks. Without thinking, I step forward.

Close enough to breathe her in. Close enough that the heat rolling off her skin is something tangible, something I could reach for. Close enough that if she leans back even an inch, she’ll find herself against my chest.

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