THE FIRST KISS I CHOSE

Adrian didn't move.

For one terrible second I thought I'd made a mistake. Then he lifted his hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from my forehead.

“I want you to be sure,” he said.

“I'm sure I want to try.”

“Then come here.”

I stepped into his space. He rested a palm against my jaw and gave me enough time to move away. I didn't. His mouth touched mine gently, warm and careful, and the entire world seemed to slow.

Julian had always kissed as if a kiss were a way to win an argument. Adrian kissed as if he were asking me a question.

I answered by catching the front of his shirt and drawing him closer.

He made a quiet, startled sound. The hand at my jaw slid into my hair; the other settled at my waist. When we broke apart, his forehead rested against mine.

“Was that all right?”

I laughed breathlessly. “Adrian, if you ask me that again, I might have to kiss you just to make you stop talking.”

“That sounds promising.”

I kissed him again.

I slept in my own room that night, not because I was frightened but because I wanted to take my time. In the morning, Adrian was at the stove making eggs with the grave concentration he usually reserved for acquisitions.

“Good morning,” he said. “May I kiss you again?”

“Do you really ask permission for everything?”

“Only when the answer matters.”

“Then yes.”

He turned off the burner before kissing me, which made me laugh into his mouth.

We agreed to date. The word sounded almost old-fashioned. We also agreed to make our relationship public only when I felt ready. Adrian never tried to hurry me. When I told him I wanted to keep my job and eventually buy my own apartment, he said he'd help me look at places if I wanted, and would otherwise stay out of the way.

“You're not disappointed?” I asked.

“That you have ambitions?” He raised an eyebrow. “Elliot, that's one of the reasons I like you.”

At the end of the month he took me to a private viewing at the Crown Museum, which was preparing to restore a collection of delicate nineteenth-century drawings. He introduced me to the curatorial director as an art conservator, not as his guest or someone he was protecting.

The director asked about my work. I spoke for twenty minutes without once worrying whether Julian would call. Adrian listened as though every word mattered.

Afterward we stood before a painting of two men crossing a bridge in the rain. Adrian's hand brushed mine.

“You were extraordinary in there,” he said.

“I talked too much.”

“You were enthusiastic. There's a difference.”

“You might be biased.”

“Wildly.”

For the first time since my awakening, I could imagine a future that wasn't defined by escaping someone. I could imagine a home with unfinished canvases, music playing in the kitchen, Adrian arguing with me about which mugs belonged in the cupboard.

Then a message lit up my new phone.

Unknown Number: I know you're alive.

Another arrived before I could breathe.

I know who you're with. We need to talk, Elliot.

A third message followed.

Don't make me come find you.

It was signed Julian.

I showed Adrian immediately. He read the messages, his face growing still.

“We can report this,” he said. “And we can leave if you want.”

I looked across the gallery at the painting of the rain-soaked bridge. I had crossed too many bridges only to turn back at the first sound of Julian's voice.

“No,” I said. “I'm done hiding from him.”