Chapter 115 Garrett
Garrett
I ignored the surprise in his voice and looked at the page.
“No,” I said after a second, pointing at one of the notes. “That attribution is wrong.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
I leaned closer. “The brushwork on the drapery folds is too controlled for early Florentine workshop style. This is later. Probably transitional High Renaissance influence.”
He stared at me, but I kept going. “And this provenance note—you’re missing the seventeenth-century private collection transfer. That estate mark belongs to the Bardi line.”
Silence.
I glanced at him.
He was openly staring now. “What? How the hell do you know all of this?”
For a second, I felt an honest price I’d never felt before. “I like art.”
His expression did not change. “No, seriously.”
I hesitated. Then decided, fuck it. “Renaissance art is kind of… my thing.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Kind of?”
I let out a breath. “I run an art blog.”
He blinked. “You?”
“Ouch.” I pulled out my phone and turned the screen toward him.
His eyes widened as he saw the page. The follower count. The posts. The analysis threads. The millions of subscribers.
His mouth actually fell open. “Sorry, I just… Wow, you’re kidding.”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
For a moment, he just looked between the screen and me, like he was trying to reconcile two entirely different people.
Then he looked back at the blog. The astonishment on his face almost made me grin.
“You wrote all of this?”
I nodded.
His voice dropped. “This is brilliant.”
Something in my chest tightened because no one had ever said that to me.
“Why wouldn’t you pursue this?” he asked.
I looked down. “Because my family doesn’t exactly consider art a respectable career path.”
He frowned.
“My mother wanted business management.” I gave a humorless laugh. “Corporate books. Financial oversight. Eventually, the family empire.”
His face softened. “But that’s not what you want.”
“No,” I swallowed. “Even if I did, I had a hard time studying the way they wanted.”
I looked away. “I’m dyslexic.”
There. Said. One more truth out in the open.
For a second, he just stared at me. Then his expression changed completely—not pity. Understanding.
“Oh, Garrett…”
I shrugged, trying to play it off. “I don't get the embarrassment. Einstein had dyslexia!”
"So does Spielberg," Aslan touched his heart. "It's fine."
“Not to them, so they shifted expectations onto sports.” I looked down at the crutches. “Wrestling. Horsemanship. Football. Anything physical. But it turns out horses hate me and wrestling…well—”
His face fell with guilt.
“Jesus, Garrett,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
I shook my head. “No. Don’t. You deserved that win 100%.” I looked back at the screen. “This?” I tapped the blog. “This is what I actually love.”
A small smile pulled at my mouth.
“My family may think art is for children, but apparently a few million people disagree.”
That got a laugh out of him.
I looked back at his work. “At least now I know it means something.”
His eyes met mine.
“If I can help you with your dream…” I paused, then smiled a little. “…then maybe all those sleepless nights obsessing over dead Italians were worth it.”
I could've sworn he blushed at that, and holy shit, he was so goddamned cute when he looked all flustered…
Hours slipped by without either of us really noticing.
Between the quiet rhythm of work, occasional comments, and shared snacks, something about this evening had settled into an unexpected, normal connection.
Or as close to normal as anything in my life ever got.
When Aslan finally checked the time on his computer, his brows lifted in surprise before he saved the files and closed the laptop.
“We should probably get some rest.”
He smiled at me—tired, warm, beautiful.
I smiled back. “You’re right.”
What I wanted to say was, Please don’t go. Stay with me tonight…
Because I knew what came next—loneliness, my room, my head. The nightmares.
We walked slowly, neither of us rushing it.
As we got to my dorm, he stepped closer to help me open the door, and our hands brushed over the knob. We both froze. His eyes lifted to mine, and there it was again: that thing, that pull.
That unbearable awareness of how little space there was between us.
Neither of us moved.
For one suspended second, it almost felt like one of us was waiting for the other to say something else.
Ask something. Offer something. Stay.
But neither of us did.
“So… I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said, a little too quickly. “Tomorrow.”
He nodded.
My fingers tightened slightly on the crutches.
Say it. Just ask him. One more night, nothing romantic at all. Just safety, sanity.
But the words wouldn’t come. Because what if he said no? What if last night had been a one-time thing? What if I pushed too far and broke whatever fragile ground we had just managed to rebuild?
Aslan’s eyes searched mine like he was picking up on something I wasn’t saying.
“Sure you don't need any help?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a small smirk. He didn’t look convinced. “Thank you,” he said after a second.
“For what?” I asked, caught off guard.
“For today.” His voice softened. “For helping me. For… that whole art genius thing you’ve been hiding from the world.”
I let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh.
“I mean it.” His gaze held mine a second longer than it should have. “That really helped.”
Something in my chest pulled tight again.
“Anytime,” I said. “You know that.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Too long.
“Goodnight, lion.” The nickname slipped out softer than usual.
His expression changed at that. “Goodnight, wolf.”
And just like that, the moment passed. He turned and walked away.
I stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the empty hallway before finally pushing my door open and going inside.
The room felt colder without him. Quiet. Still.
I tried holding on to the day as I moved around, dropping my crutches by the bed, sitting down slowly, replaying the way he had smiled, the way he had looked at me like I wasn’t just… all the things I’d always been told I was.
For a few minutes, it almost worked.
Then my phone vibrated. The screen lit up, and everything inside me tightened. The many notifications, the missed calls… and my most recent text.
Graves.
Reluctantly, I unlocked it, and there it was.
Graves:
“I missed your email today.”
Shit.
My chest went cold. Saturday. I had completely lost track of the days.
Of course, he hadn’t.
My fingers moved quickly over the screen.
Me:
“So sorry, I’ve been a bit out of it with all my medication and such. I’ll send it soon.”
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
Graves:
“I expect the files tonight. Once I’ve reviewed them, we’ll go over them together on a video call.”
My stomach dropped. A face-to-face conversation—even through a screen—was something I didn't think I could handle. He could see through me all too well.
I typed back quickly, my fingers unsteady.
Me:
“It’s a bit late, sir. I’m still on medication and honestly pretty exhausted. Could we review them tomorrow morning?”
The reply came so fast it felt like he had been waiting with the phone in his hand.
Graves:
“Tomorrow is unacceptable. If you’re too tired for a video call, I have no problem driving over tonight and reviewing them with you in person.”
God, no.
Panic hit sharp and immediate, crawling up my spine and settling tight in my chest.
Not here. Not Crownwell. Nowhere near my lion.
The image of Graves walking into my room, his voice, his eyes, his presence anywhere near this place—anywhere near Aslan—made my pulse spike so hard it hurt.
I swallowed and forced my fingers to move.
Me:
“It’s okay, sir. I’ll send the entries right away, and I’ll be available for the video call.”
The message showed sent and read, but no reply came in.
The fragile calm of the day shattered, gone just like that.
I set the phone down for a second, breathing through the panic, but the leash was already there again, tightening around my throat from miles away. Control. Expectation. Fear.
I reached for the drawer and pulled out the journal—the one he expected, the one I hated, the one I had forgotten to complete today.
Sitting there on the edge of the bed, pen in hand, I stared down at the blank pages, already knowing I would lie, because the truth was never what he wanted.
Tonight, just like every other night, I would give him exactly what he needed to hear before facing him through that fucking screen, even if it meant facing my demons and fighting the monsters in my head afterwards, one more night.