Tristan burst into laughter, the sound ringing freely through the hallway, untouched by restraint or worry.
"Daddy paints once in a while," he said, almost conspiratorially. "But he doesn't let anyone see it. He says they're not good enough."
Cassie's brows lifted in surprise. She turned slowly toward Franklin, curiosity stirring. It was strange how every new piece of him she discovered felt like peeling back a carefully guarded layer.
"I'd actually love to see you paint," she said honestly. "I don't have that talent at all, but I admire art. Paintings feel surreal. Like emotions frozen in color."
For a moment, Franklin didn't answer.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. "I don't paint anything you'd admire," he said quietly
