somewhere in between-

7.

Por told himself he didn’t care. 

That was the only reasonable explanation for why, twenty minutes later, he was still at the reception desk, still flipping through the same set of paperwork, still *not* looking at Teetee. 

Not that there was anything to look at. 

Teetee was just sitting there, sketching. Doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. 

Which, for some reason, was worse. 

Por exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to focus. He needed to— 

“What’s your favorite?” 

Por blinked, glancing up. “What?” 

Teetee was watching him again, pencil tapping idly against his notebook. “In the gallery. Which piece do you like the most?” 

Por frowned, caught off guard. “Why does it matter?” 

Teetee shrugged. “I’ve never seen you actually look at them. Just wondering if you have a preference.” 

Por didn’t answer right away. 

Because truthfully? 

He didn’t. 

He had spent years around art, surrounded by it every day, curating pieces, organizing exhibitions. But looking at them—*really* looking—was different. That was for the visitors, the ones who wandered in and stared too long. 

The ones like Teetee. 

Por turned away, busying himself with stacking papers. “They’re all the same.” 

Teetee hummed thoughtfully. “That’s a very CEO answer.” 

Por narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” Teetee said, grinning. “Just that you sound like someone who talks about art but never actually feels it.” 

Por’s fingers twitched. “I don’t need to *feel* it.” 

Teetee tilted his head, like he was trying to figure something out. “That’s kind of sad.” 

Por bristled. “It’s *practical.*” 

“Mm.” Teetee’s gaze flickered toward the nearest wall, where the abstract painting—the one with the shifting blues and golds—hung quietly under the afternoon light. 

Por should have ignored it. Should have let it go. 

Instead, the words left his mouth before he could stop them. 

“You like that one.” 

Teetee blinked, surprised. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You noticed.” 

Por tensed. He hadn’t meant to say that. He definitely hadn’t meant to *admit* that. 

Teetee leaned forward, resting his chin against his palm. His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp, focused. “So you do pay attention.” 

Por hated this. Hated how the air felt heavier. Hated how, for once, *he* was the one being studied. 

And hated, most of all, how he had no idea what to say. 

Teetee didn’t press, though. He just sat there, watching. 

Waiting. 

Por gritted his teeth and turned away. “Get back to your sketching.” 

Teetee chuckled, flipping open his notebook again. “Yes, sir.” 

Por refused to look at him for the rest of the afternoon. 

But he *felt* him there. 

And that was almost worse. 

--