Chapter 15: Alone at Last
The heavy door clicked shut, sealing out the last murmur of the departing town car. The gallery was suddenly, profoundly empty. The silence felt like a physical presence, thick and watchful, after hours of curated noise.
Dasha leaned back against the cool concrete wall, letting her head tilt back. Her feet throbbed in her heels. The residual energy of the night—the deals, the handshakes, the performed enthusiasm—coursed through her like a dying current. She could still see the afterimages of faces against her closed eyelids.
A soft scrape of a lock. The security system beeped as Matt armed the perimeter lights, leaving only the pale glow from the streetlights filtering through the massive windows. He turned, his silhouette a dark cutout against the glass.
“Sofia took the leftover champagne,” he said, his voice low in the cavernous space. “Said you’d thank her tomorrow.”
“I’ll thank her with a bonus,” Dasha murmured, eyes still closed. She listened to his footsteps approach, a slow, measured tap on polished concrete. He stopped a few feet away.
She opened her eyes. He’d shed his suit jacket and loosened the top buttons of his shirt. In the monochrome gloom, he looked less like a photograph and more like a man. Tired. Real.
“You were brilliant tonight,” he said. “Watching you work that room… it’s its own kind of art.”
“It’s just talking. And remembering names. And pretending you don’t see someone spilling pinot noir on a six-foot canvas.” She pushed off the wall, wincing as her weight settled back onto her feet. “I need to get out of these shoes before I commit a crime.”
She bent, fumbling with the slender strap of her heel. The clasp was stubborn. She hissed in frustration.
“Here.”
He was suddenly kneeling before her, his hand outstretched. A simple, unthinking gesture. It stole her breath. The Matt Bomer, on his knees on a concrete floor in a dark, empty gallery.
“I’ve got it,” she said, but her voice was weak.
“I know you do.” His fingers were deft. He released the clasp, his touch cool and brief against her ankle. He did the same with the other shoe, then sat back on his heels, looking up at her. “Better?”
She wiggled her toes in the chill of the floor. “Marginally. Now I’m just barefoot and criminal adjacent.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were shadowed, serious. He stayed there, looking around the vast, hollow room. The ghost of the evening seemed to linger in the blank walls, the echoes of laughter and commerce now just memory.
“Can we stay?” he asked, the question so soft it was almost lost in the space. “Just for a little while longer. Before the world gets back in.”
It was the last thing she should say yes to. Her body was begging for her bed. Her mind was a checklist of unresolved tasks. But the rawness in his voice, the echo of their interrupted moment in the storeroom, the simple sight of him here on the floor… it unraveled her practicalities.
“There’s no art in here,” she said, gesturing at the bare walls. “Nothing to look at.”
“I’m not looking at the walls.”
Her heart did a slow, heavy roll. She nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of her chin.
He stood, and without a word, walked to the center of the room, directly under the vast skylight. A splash of faint moonlight silvered his shoulders. He just stood there, his back to her, head bowed, as if absorbing the quiet.
She followed, the concrete cold and smooth beneath her soles. She stopped beside him, not touching. They both stared at their long, distorted shadows stretching across the floor.
“Sometimes,” he began, then stopped. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sometimes after a premiere, or a big press day, I’ll sit in my car in the garage. For an hour. Just… listening to nothing. Leo thinks I’m on the phone. My publicist thinks I’m decompressing with a podcast. But I’m just… being still. Until the feeling of their eyes on me finally washes off.”
Dasha didn’t look at him. She watched their shadows, now blending into one dark pool at their feet. “What does it feel like? The eyes?”
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. “It’s a pressure. A constant, low-grade hum of expectation. You have to be brighter, funnier, kinder, more interesting than you are. You have to be a concept. ‘Matt Bomer.’ And he’s a nice guy. He’s charming. He’s grateful.” His voice grew quieter. “He’s incredibly lonely.”
The confession hung in the air, more vulnerable than a kiss. It was the core of him, laid bare in this empty room.
“You’re not a concept in here,” she said finally.
“I know.” He turned to face her. The moonlight caught the exhaustion and something else—a desperate, yearning honesty. “That’s why I don’t want to leave. With you, I’m just… the guy who showed up late. The guy who helped you with your shoes.”
She reached out then, not with the deliberate intent of before, but with a slow certainty. Her palm settled against his chest, over his heart. She felt its steady, strong beat through the fine cotton of his shirt. “You’re also the guy who kisses my palm in storage rooms,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that guy.”
He covered her hand with his, holding it there. His other hand came up to cradle the side of her neck, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. The world outside—the city, his career, her responsibilities—felt like a distant, faintly buzzing planet.
“Dasha,” he breathed, her name a prayer in the stillness.
This kiss wasn’t an interruption. It was a continuation. It was slow, deep, and devastatingly quiet. It tasted of champagne and exhaustion and the sweet relief of a mask discarded. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her against him, anchoring them both in the center of that vast, empty space.
When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling in the cool air, the silence had changed. It was no longer empty. It was full.
“It’s late,” she whispered, not moving.
“I know.”
“You have that morning show at six.”
“I know.”
He didn’t let go. He pressed another kiss, soft and final, to her temple. “Tell me to leave,” he murmured against her skin.
She didn’t. For a full minute, she didn’t say anything. She just listened to his heart, felt the solid reality of him.
Finally, she drew back just enough to see his eyes. “The storage room was a hiding place,” she said, her voice clear in the dark. “This… this feels like a choice.”
He searched her face, then gave a single, sharp nod. He understood. Hiding was a reaction. This, standing together in the open emptiness, was a deliberate step.
He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Then let’s go,” he said. “Before we choose something we can’t take back.”
He led her toward the back entrance, their shadows merging and separating with each step. She didn’t look back at the empty hall. The memory of the quiet, and the man within it, was already etched into her bones, more permanent than any art that would ever hang on those walls.