Anthony came by the atelier the following evening without calling ahead.I heard his footsteps in the corridor before the door opened, that particular unhurried stride I had learned to recognise without looking up. I was at the far end of the workbench, finishing a setting adjustment on one of the exhibition pieces.He stepped inside, and I felt it immediately—that quiet shift in the air, like the room had adjusted itself around his presence.I glanced up once, just enough to meet his eyes, then dropped my gaze back to my work.You didn’t call,” I said, softer than I intended, a warmth creeping up my cheeks I couldn’t quite hide.“I was nearby.”His voice was low, effortless.He crossed the room slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction longer than necessary before drifting across the workbench. It was the way he always looked at things quietly,observant, deliberate.Then he stopped.I knew the moment he saw it. The slight pause in his movement. T
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