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"Remember that time my mother caught us stealing cookies?" His laugh—that rich, warm sound—triggers a cascade of images I've spent years trying to forget. His hands on my waist, lifting me toward the highest shelf. The intoxicating mix of his scent and fresh-baked cookies that always meant trouble.

"God, she was so mad." A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "But she couldn't say anything without admitting two teenagers had outsmarted her."

"You were always quick on your feet." The warmth in his voice slides over me like honey, making my heart do that stupid little dance I thought I'd outgrown.

I can picture him now, probably pacing his hotel room, running those long fingers through his hair the way he always did during serious conversations.

My fingers find Evelyn's old throw blanket, seeking comfort in its familiar texture. "I shouldn't even be talking to you like this."

"Maybe not, but I like it, Red." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Don't you miss it? The way we used to talk for hours. How we could talk about anything to each other."

The nickname slides through my defenses like it always did. Heat blooms in my chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "Ares… Don't."

"Don't what?" There's an edge to his voice now, the one that always meant trouble. "Don't care? Don't try to fix this? Don't think about how good it felt having you in my life? Think about how good we felt together?"

My breath catches. Trust Ares to bulldoze right through my carefully constructed walls. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?" Fabric rustles on his end—he's definitely pacing now. "Because it makes it harder to hate me?"

"I never hated you." The words slip out before I can catch them, dangerous in their honesty.

I hear his sharp intake of breath, and for a moment, I think he might say something that will shatter what's left of my defenses.

Instead, he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is hesitant, like he's choosing his words carefully.

"Tell me what happened to Evelyn?" His request is gentle. "Please?"

"That's not a good idea." I press my hand on my heart, where a familiar ache is building. "Might trigger a migraine."

"Worth it." The conviction in his voice makes my heart stutter. "I need to know, Red."

My throat tightens as memories flood back. "She'd been complaining about joint pain for months." I curl deeper into the couch, pulling the throw blanket around my shoulders. "Kept saying it was just her arthritis acting up, that Boston winters were getting harder on her bones."

"But it wasn't arthritis." His voice is a whisper.

"No." The word comes out raw. "One morning, she was making breakfast, and suddenly she was coughing up blood. I'd never been so scared in my life." My fingers twist in the blanket's soft fabric. "The hospital ran tests. Stage four stomach cancer. It had already spread to her liver and lungs."

"Christ." His breath catches. "But treatment—"

"She refused." A bitter laugh escapes me. "Said she wasn't about to spend what time she had left hooked up to machines and feeling worse than the disease itself. She wanted..." My voice breaks, and I have to take a moment. "She wanted to be home with me."

The silence on the other end of the line is heavy with understanding.

"Three months." The words taste like ash.

"That's all we had. She tried so hard to stay strong, to keep smiling.

Even planned out her spring garden from her bed, telling me which bulbs to plant where.

" A tear slides down my cheek, and I brush it away angrily.

"The day before she... she made me promise to keep painting.

Said my art was my freedom, and no one could take that away from me. "

"That sounds like her.” His voice is thick with emotion. "Always thinking of others, even at the end."

"She mentioned you." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Said she hoped you'd found your way, that you hadn't let them clip your wings."

The sharp intake of breath on his end makes my chest ache. "I wish I'd known. Then I would have been there."

Another tear falls, but I don't bother wiping this one away. "Would you? Less than two weeks ago, you thought we were thieves and liars."

He sighs. "God, I'll never forgive myself for being so stupid."

"Well, it seems your brain's had quite the upgrade in thinking lately." My tone turns playful, trying to lighten the heavy moment.

"My brain's been doing a lot of thinking about you." His voice drops lower, rougher. "In many ways."

I close my eyes, teeth catching my bottom lip. Don't take the bait, don't take the bait. But God, the way he says it makes parts of me weak I thought I'd fortified years ago. "What exactly is your brain saying about me?"

"That you're even more beautiful now than you were at sixteen." The words slide over me like warm honey.

I should tell him to stop. Should shut this down before it gets dangerous. But shit, it feels so good, this easy back-and-forth we always had. Like slipping into a favorite sweater you thought you'd lost.

Silence stretches between us, comfortable yet charged, until Ares clears his throat. "How are you feeling about the upcoming show?"

My laugh comes out harsh. "Had an interview today. Turns out my art was less interesting than my connection to you." Heat creeps up my neck. "Then I lost it with the paparazzi—told them to ask your mother how many lives she's destroyed to protect her precious son and family legacy."

He chuckles. "Can't say she didn't deserve it. And don't worry, it will pass."

"Don't." My voice sharpens. "Don't tell me not to worry about it.

Your return to Boston. The photos of us, and these lies they're spreading—it could destroy everything I've built.

My career isn't backed by billion-dollar safety nets, Ares.

One whisper of scandal, one suggestion that I'm using you for publicity, and galleries will drop me faster than your mother drops her fake smile after those charity events. "

"Your talent stands on its own, Red. These ridiculous rumors can't touch that. Any gallery would be insane to let this affect their view of your work."

I let out a bitter laugh. "That's not how the art world works, Ares. Just like in business, talent isn't everything. Would you buy art from someone you despise? Or worse, someone you think is only successful because of their connections?"

"Your work is too goddamn good for that kind of small-minded thinking. Hell, Luminous hasn't dropped you."

"No, they haven't." I run my fingers along the throw blanket's soft edge. "But I'm terrified, Ares. Everything I've built, everything I've fought for. What if it crumble just because our paths crossed again."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with a vulnerability I've never heard before. "You're sorry we met again, aren't you?"

God help me, the pain in his voice reaches past all my defenses. My chest tightens as memories flood back—stolen moments in the garden, whispered promises under starlight, the way his eyes used to light up when he saw me.

"I never meant for you to get hurt," he continues, voice breaking slightly. "If I knew this would happen, I'd gone anywhere but to Boston."

The words hit me like a physical blow, but something else clicks into place.

"But then you wouldn't have known the truth.

" The realization comes unbidden, surprising even me.

"Maybe that's why it happened. Sometimes things need to happen without us knowing why.

" I pause, heart thundering against my ribs.

"Maybe our paths crossed for you to find out the truth. "

His breath catches audibly. "Red..."

I close my eyes, pressing my palm against my chest as if I could somehow contain the ache building there.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits softly. "Being around you again—it's like muscle memory. Everything feels familiar and foreign at the same time."

"I know." My voice comes out breathy. "It's like walking through a house you used to live in. You remember where everything should be, but nothing's quite where you left it or would want it to be."