You were standing in Gallery 7—the Contemporary Abstraction wing, according to the plaque near the entrance. The air smelled like fresh paint and aged paper. Somewhere, a guard cleared his throat.

A laugh.

It came from behind you. Close.

Seven men stood about ten feet away. One of them—the one with deep brown skin, sharp cheekbones, and hair swept back like he’d just run his fingers through it—was failing to hide his grin behind his hand. His shoulders shook quietly.

Beside him, a pale man with cat-like eyes and dark hair watched you with an unreadable expression, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was holding back his own smile. Another—younger, with wide doe eyes and a fitted black shirt—was looking at his shoes, his ears red.