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“Conrad, man,” he says, clapping a hand on Conrad’s shoulder, “this is…it’s more than I expected. Thanks for bringing me along.”
I glance over. Conrad’s eyebrows lift, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. “Didn’t peg you for the type to enjoy a history lesson,” he replies, amusement lining his voice.
Grayson’s laugh is a low rumble, sincere. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I watch them, noting the way Grayson’s eyes shift, scanning the room until they settle. Not on an ancient artifact or a detailed sculpture, but on me. Heat crawls up my neck, but I pretend not to notice.
“Seems like you’re not the only one with hidden layers,” I hear Conrad say, his tone lighter than usual.
“Guess so,” Grayson responds, his gaze lingering before he offers me a small, knowing smile.
I turn away, feigning interest in a nearby vase, painted figures dancing around the circumference. But the clay feels cool under my fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through my chest, and I can’t help stealing another glance at Grayson.
Conrad follows my gaze, a shadow crossing his face. And in that brief moment, I see it—the realization dawning on him. He sees what I see, what Grayson’s eyes are saying.
Feelings. They’re messy, tangled. And now, there’s something new weaving into our already complicated tapestry.
I stop short in front of her—the portrait of Aphrodite. She commands the canvas, a vision of divine femininity that’s both ethereal and provocative.
“Stunning, isn’t she?” Conrad’s voice pulls me back to earth. I turn, finding him closer than I expect, his presence grounding.
“Absolutely,” I breathe out, my eyes lingering on the goddess’s form. “She’s…otherworldly.”
He steps up beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His gaze is fixed on the portrait, but there’s a playful tilt to his lips as he says, “My own goddess of beauty seems ensnared by another.”
A laugh escapes me, part nerves, part delight. “Hard not to be. She’s perfection captured in oils and canvas.”
Conrad leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Want to know her secret?”
“Tell me.”
“Chaos,” he begins, his finger tracing an invisible line from the painting toward the ground, “and beauty born from it. Cronus overthrows Uranus, casts his severed parts into the sea.” His hand motions mimic the waves. “And from the foam, Aphrodite emerges, naked, full-grown, and utterly captivating.”
I shiver despite myself. The story’s violence contrasts sharply with the serene beauty before us. Yet, there’s something enthralling about the raw mythology in Conrad’s retelling—something primal.
“Life from destruction,” I murmur, my thoughts echoing the paradox.
“Exactly.” He looks at me again, and our eyes lock. There’s a depth to his gaze, as if he’s sharing more than just a myth—a piece of himself, perhaps. “The Greeks didn’t shy away from the dark to find the light.”
“Neither do you,” I reply, recognizing the reflection of his own complexity in the tale he’s so fond of. I tilt my head, studying Conrad’s animated face. “Why Greek gods?” I ask. There’s a spark in his eye that ignites whenever he talks about them.
He shifts, leaning back against the cool marble pillar. His shirt stretches over his chest as he crosses his arms—a casual pose that doesn’t hide the intensity of his passion. “They’re timeless,” he explains. “Each god, each myth, it’s a piece of human nature, immortalized. Love, wrath, jealousy—you find the raw essence of life in those stories.”
“Sounds like you’ve dived deep into these waters,” I observe, noting the way his gaze drifts back to the painting, lost in thought.
“Deeper than most.” He smiles, but it’s a smile with edges. “And it still feels like skimming the surface.”
I nod, finding the layers of his interest as complex and compelling as the myths themselves.
“Your turn,” he says suddenly, bringing me back to our game. His eyes lock onto mine, challenging, expectant.
“Okay,” I start, bracing myself for something trivial, light.
“How do you feel about me? About Grayson, Levi?” The question hits hard, unexpected. It’s not playful—it’s potent, charged with an undercurrent I hadn’t anticipated from our flirtatious game.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. I’m caught off guard, emotions tangled. I search for words, for any anchor in the storm his question has stirred within me. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm, betraying my calm exterior.
“Conrad…” I begin, then swallow. “That’s not an easy answer.”
