Evan's pop-up gallery is the kind of place that smells like overpriced candles and ambition.
The bookstore upstairs has been transformed—white walls, string lights, soft jazz humming through hidden speakers. People mill around in boots that cost more than my rent, sipping wine out of compostable cups and saying things like, "His use of light is so vulnerable."
I don't fully understand what that means, but I nod along like I do.
Because I'm here.
For him.
Evan is talking to a small group near the back, half-smiling in that nervous way he does when people compliment him too hard. He catches my eye across the room and mouths, You okay?
I give him a thumbs up and a thumbs-down at the same time, which is our code for mildly overwhelmed but still functioning. He grins.
I wander the space, admiring the photos. Most are portraits—candid, intimate, often imperfect in the way real people are. There's one of a man laughing while holding a cat like it's a bottle of wine, and another of a woman asleep in a laundromat.
And then—there's the photo of me.
It's tucked into a corner. Not labeled. No placard. Just there.
I don't know if anyone else has noticed it, but the idea that someone could makes my stomach twist into a very tight little pretzel.
"You look different," a voice says behind me.
I turn.
It's Mason.
My ex.
Of course it is.
Because nothing says personal growth like being surprised by a ghost from your romantic past on the same night your not-quite-boyfriend is displaying his softest feelings in photographic form.
He's wearing that same stupid leather jacket and that same charming, condescending half-smile.
"Mason," I say, blinking like I'm trying to summon a better timeline.
"I heard about the gallery through a friend. Didn't know you'd be here."
I cross my arms. "Well, I didn't know you'd be here either. So now we're even in the mutual discomfort department."
He looks past me. "That photo. It's you, right?"
"Yes. And before you say something smirky, no, I did not ask to be a muse."
"I wasn't gonna say anything smirky."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Okay," he admits, "I was going to say it's wild that someone managed to make you look soft."
Ouch.
But before I can say anything sharp in return, Evan appears at my side.
"Hey," he says, slipping a hand lightly against my back. Just enough for comfort. For grounding.
Mason clocks the gesture.
He nods at Evan. "Nice photos."
"Thanks," Evan replies coolly. "This one's my favorite."
His voice is calm, but there's steel under it. The kind that says I know exactly who you are, and I'm not afraid of you.
Mason shrugs. "Well. I'll let you two get back to your night."
And just like that, he's gone.
I exhale. "That was… fun."
"You okay?" Evan asks.
I nod. "Yeah. Just... ghost of dating past."
He doesn't press. Just takes my hand—not a pinky hold this time, a full, firm grip.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "That photo of you. It is my favorite."
I look up at him. "Even after seeing my ex's smug face?"
"Especially after that."
And for the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
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