Page 47 of Heat Clickbait
The projection shut off without warning, plunging us into complete darkness before the gallery's regular lights slowly rose with the programmed precision of museum automation. The transition felt symbolic somehow, like emerging from one world into another.
"Come," he said, taking my hand for the first time all evening. His fingers were cool despite the warmth of his body, steady despite the vulnerability he'd just shared. The contact sent a small thrill up my arm.
He led me through the gallery with purpose now, past abstract sculptures that looked like frozen music and photography exhibits documenting urban decay, navigating with the confidence of someone who'd scouted the entire space beforehand. We passed a small group of art students sketching frantically in a corner, their instructor speaking in hushed tones about composition and negative space.
The room he brought me to was smaller, easily missed on a casual circuit of the gallery. Inside was a single installation thattook my breath away: hundreds of small screens arranged in a perfect grid pattern, each showing different moments of human connection captured in brief loops. A couple laughing over coffee, their faces bright with genuine joy. Friends embracing after separation. A parent lifting a child toward the sky. An elderly woman touching her own reflection in a mirror, smiling at something only she could see.
"This is why I brought you here," Ghost said, his thumb tracing careful circles on my palm. The gesture was unconscious, soothing, like he was grounding himself through contact. "The artist lost her pack in a fire. Spent five years documenting moments of connection to prove to herself they still existed in the world."
We watched the screens flicker and change in their endless cycles, hundreds of tiny proofs of human bonds playing out simultaneously. The effect was overwhelming and comforting at once. A visual reminder that connection persisted despite loss, that love found new forms even after devastation.
"I thought I'd never have this again," he admitted, his voice so quiet I had to lean closer to hear. "The shorthand. The understanding. The existing in comfortable silence with someone who gets it without needing explanations."
"And now?"
He pulled me closer, not quite an embrace but more contact than we'd had all evening. I could smell his scent more clearly now, winter pine and black coffee with those underlying notes of leather and something indefinably protective that made my hindbrain relax. "Now I have you researching the acceptable decibel levels for your streaming setup because you don't want to send me into an anxiety spiral. You understand that sometimes hands need to be busy for minds to be quiet. You see me. Actually see me. You don't try to make me talk more or be more social or match some Alpha stereotype about dominance andleadership." His free hand came up to cup my face with the same careful precision he used for everything, gentle as breathing. "You match my silence without making it feel like absence or something that's strained between us. You make it feel full."
The screens around us kept changing, an endless kaleidoscope of human connection, but I only had eyes for him. The sharp planes of his face, the way his dark eyes held mine with unwavering focus, the small scar on his chin that I'd never noticed before.
"Ghost—"
"Theodore," he corrected softly, the name carrying weight between us. "In here, with you, I can be Theodore."
When he kissed me, it was quiet like everything else between us. No dramatic passion or overwhelming heat that would have felt wrong in this contemplative space. Just a gentle press of lips that somehow said more than words could ever convey. I tasted mint and something darker, like the strong coffee he lived on during streaming marathons. His hand in mine tightened almost imperceptibly, and I could feel his pulse against my palm, rapid despite his outward calm, betraying the courage this moment required.
"Your turn," he said when we separated, only inches between us, his breath warm against my lips. "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
I thought about deflecting, making a joke to break the intensity, but the gallery's contemplative atmosphere and his steady, patient gaze demanded honesty. He'd given me something precious; I owed him the same vulnerability in return.
"I have a playlist," I admitted, heat creeping up my neck. "Of rain sounds and omega comfort frequencies. Hidden on my phone under a fake podcast name. I listen to it when theindependence gets too heavy. When I need to remember it's okay to have needs, to want comfort."
"What's it called?"
The heat spread to my ears. "Definitely Not A History Podcast."
His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile I'd seen all evening. "Mine's called Technical Documentation Archive. Forty-seven hours of alpha grounding tones and nature sounds."
"You listen to alpha grounding tones?"
"Started after the accident. Only thing that helped with the panic attacks when grief made everything feel too loud, too bright, too much." He pulled out his phone, showed me the playlist with its clinical title hiding hours of comfort tracks. "Want to trade? Seems fair."
The gesture was so simple but so intimate, sharing our secret coping mechanisms in a gallery dedicated to processing loss and finding connection again. Two people admitting they needed help sometimes, that strength came in different forms than the world expected.
"There's another room," he said after we'd exchanged playlists, our phones now holding pieces of each other's vulnerability. "If you're ready."
The last room was interactive, designed for participation rather than passive observation. Visitors could write messages on small pieces of paper and attach them to thin wires strung across the space in complex patterns. Thousands of notes created a constellation of human thoughts, hopes, fears, and revelations suspended in mid-air. The effect was like walking through a physical manifestation of collective consciousness.
Ghost handed me a pen and slip of paper without speaking, his movements economical and purposeful. Around us, other visitors wrote their own messages, some laughing softly, otherswiping away tears, all of them adding their voices to the installation's growing chorus.
I wrote,
Found my ghost. He speaks in silence and builds homes out of Legos and makes me feel seen in ways I didn't know I needed.
He wrote something quickly, his handwriting sharp and precise, then folded it before I could see the words. He clipped it next to mine on the wire, our messages hanging together among hundreds of others. Then he took my hand again, leading me toward the exit with the same careful attention he'd shown all evening.
"Thank you," I said as we stepped into the night air, the sudden temperature change making me shiver slightly. The city sounds felt harsh after the gallery's hushed reverence. The air suddenly filled with car horns, distant music, the rumble of late-night traffic. "For showing me this. For sharing..."
"Theodore," he supplied, squeezing my hand. "Thank you for seeing him."
