Zack’s POV.
We walked slowly through the gallery, the polished wooden floors echoing lightly with each step. She moved with a careful grace, her eyes scanning every painting, every sculpture, her admiration evident in the small, appreciative noises she made under her breath. The gallery had always been my sanctuary, but today, having her here brought a different kind of tension—a mixture of pride, anxiety, and the gnawing need for approval. I was already aware that she had her own judgments, and my mind raced with a thousand small considerations.
Finally, she stopped in front of one particular collection. The one I had taken the idea from Eve’s book—the one I had promised myself I would someday deliver to her. Its bold colors and intricate shapes seemed to vibrate with the memory of her
