The gallery lights were dim, casting soft shadows that danced over the faces in the crowd. Victoria Hayes stood at the back, her arms folded, watching as people moved from one canvas to the next. It wasn't her exhibition—no, she hadn't displayed her own work in years—but tonight, she was here for her students. Her own past, her art, all of it lived in the background now, replaced by the echoes of her lessons and the brushstrokes of those she taught.

As she surveyed the room, a particular piece caught her attention. It was bold and raw, colors splashed in deliberate strokes that felt too intimate for a crowded gallery. The image was unmistakable—her own face, captured in shadows and light, painted with a reverence that left her breathless. Victoria moved closer, the hum of voices around her fading into white noise.

The label read simply: Muse.

She knew before she checked the signature—knew who had created it with that singular intensity, that raw talent. Reese.

The piece felt like a confession, a declaration painted in pigments and light. She hadn't expected this, hadn't anticipated the depth of feeling her student had held just below the surface.

Victoria's fingers grazed her lips, the ghost of an old longing flickering through her. She'd spent years hiding behind the boundaries of professionalism, the comfortable distance between professor and student. But standing there, faced with her own likeness and everything it meant, Victoria wondered if that distance had ever truly been real—or if it had just been her last defense.

In the quiet of the gallery, under the watchful gaze of her own painted eyes, she allowed herself to wonder how things might have been if she hadn't kept Reese at arm's length.

It was too late now, she thought, but some part of her couldn't look away.