Page 106 of Vital Signs
I shrugged, still staring at the urn. "Nothing. That's the problem."
Misha was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he stood, moving to a closet I hadn't noticed before. He pulled out a leather portfolio, thick with papers and photographs.
"I want to show you something," he said, sitting back down. "But first, you need to know this stays between us. Always."
I looked up. "I swear," I said, setting my hand over his. "Whatever it is, it stays with me."
He opened the portfolio, revealing professional photographs. Misha was in every one. But not the Misha I knew.
The first spread showed him in a midnight blue velvet jacket draped open to reveal his chest and silver chains. His hair was longer, styled in waves that caught studio lights like spun gold. His eyes stared into the camera with an intensity that made my breath catch.
I turned the page to a fragrance campaign depicting Misha emerging from a marble shower, water clinging to his skin, a white towel slung low around his hips. He looked over his shoulder, lips parted, with that same devastating stare.
More pages: Misha in a burgundy suit against a motorcycle, watch catching light on his wrist, every line calculated.
Another: black leather pants and suspenders crossing his bare chest, sprawled across silk sheets, throat exposed, diamond earrings catching light.
High fashion spreads, runway shots, editorial pieces. Misha as art, commodity, object of desire. Couture suits. Jewelry sparkled against his skin like some mythical creature.
"Paris," he said simply. "Before Roche. When modeling was still just a job."
I stared at the photographs, throat tight. The technical skill was undeniable. The lighting, composition, styling. All of it perfect. But underneath the polish, I caught glimpses of the person I knew. A certain angle of the jaw. The way his eyes held the camera.
A strange mix of emotions churned in my gut. Pride, because this beautiful creature had chosen me. Protectiveness, because I could see the vulnerability he'd hidden beneath all that polish. And something darker swept through me, a possessive anger at everyone who'd seen him like this before I ever existed inhis world. All those photographers, designers, magazine readers who'd consumed his image without knowing the person behind it.
This was Misha before Roche broke him. Before trauma carved lines around his eyes. Before he learned to weaponize his beauty instead of just wearing it. The man in these photos was stunning, but he was also just an image. A commodity.
The real Misha—the one who held me through withdrawal, who fought his family for a junkie he barely knew, who killed his abuser with his own hands—he was infinitely more beautiful than anything captured in these pictures.
"You were incredible," I said, voice barely above a whisper.
"I was a product," Misha corrected. "Something pretty to sell clothes and perfume and fantasies. This is what Wright was talking about when he mentioned my experience with photography. These existed. In magazines, on billboards, and in ad campaigns across Europe."
Something shifted between us. The grief was still there, but underneath it was something fiercer. More demanding. The need to claim each other before we walked into whatever darkness waited at The Factory. The need to prove that Wright's corporate masters couldn't touch what we'd built together.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.
Misha's hand covered mine on the urn. "Because you're drowning in grief, and I want to give you something else to think about. And because..." He paused, swallowing hard. "Because I trust you with all of me. The broken parts and the beautiful ones."
My chest constricted, but not with pain this time. With something bigger, warmer. Something I'd thought was dead after years of addiction and loss. Something that terrified me almost as much as it amazed me.
I'd been in love before with men who couldn't handle stress, women who'd left when I started using, people of every gender who'd found reasons to walk away. But this was different. This was Misha showing me his most vulnerable pieces, trusting me with beauty and trauma in equal measure. This was him fighting his family for me, saving my life, holding me through withdrawal. This was him seeing me at my absolute worst and choosing to stay anyway.
"I love you," I said before I could stop myself.
Misha went still beside me, eyes wide, the portfolio sliding from his hands. "What?"
The word came out breathless, like he couldn't quite believe he'd heard correctly. Like maybe he'd been waiting to hear it as much as I'd been waiting to say it.
"I love you," I repeated, more certain this time. The words were strange on my tongue, foreign after so many years of feeling nothing. "I'm in love with you. Completely. Dangerously. I didn't think I was capable of this anymore, but you..." I swallowed hard, throat tight. "You make me want to be someone worth loving."
His breath hitched. "Mon dieu," he whispered. "I love you too. I've been falling for you since that first night, when you broke into our funeral home like some beautiful, dangerous ghost. I didn't know if you'd ever..."
"Ever what?"
"Ever choose me back," he said quietly. "Ever want someone as fucked up as I am."
"We're both fucked up," I said, leaning closer until our foreheads touched. "But maybe that's what makes this work. Maybe we're exactly broken enough for each other."
