When he finally escapes that stifling hospital room, there’s a lodestone weighing on his shoulders, on his heart, pulling his head down until his chin’s folded all the way into his throat. It makes it hard to breathe, his chest constricted by two steel bands cutting his airways off, squeezing tighter and tighter.

But Cassadines are made of sterner stuff than this. At least the face that they show to the world. Spencer clenches his jaw, glaring at the shiny linoleum tiles beneath his boots as he carefully calibrates his mask. One he's spent a lot of his life learning to perfect. He becomes stone-cold. Ice in your veins. He reminds himself of that with each trudge down the hallway, his gaze trained ahead of him, unseeing.

Spencer: Where are you?
Trina: Was at the hospital but I had to head to the gallery. Needed to sort out a few things for Ava 🥱
Spencer: Kay. On my way.
Trina: ❤️

“Spencer!” She clutches at her chest. “You snuck in here on quiet feet.”

He smiles. Or rather, his mouth twists into a semblance of a smile that very soon turns into a real one. He doesn’t know what to make of how just seeing Trina shifts something inside him. Fundamentally, so. It’s always been this way, really. From the moment he first met her, in this same gallery. She still arrests him in exactly that way. He has an inkling that he’ll be eighty years old, grey and wrinkled, stooped over a cane, and she’ll still make him feel this way—

—hungry. Happier. And so much more.

Under the gallery’s soft lights, she glows incandescent. A tiny sun trapped in bronze skin, every perfect inch of her gilded and precious. And warm.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

He drops a soft, greeting kiss to her cheek, but one whiff of her sweet, citrus-y scent with the elusive hint of jasmine tickling in his nose, and he has to burrow a little deeper. She tilts her head to give him access for a second or two, before she presses a quick kiss to his cheek and swerves back. Or tries to. “Oh, no, Spencer—no distractions. I have a bunch of stuff I have to get through since we’re leaving for France in a couple weeks. And Ava left before I even got here for some mystery reason, so I’m the only hands on deck—that’s why I couldn’t wait any longer at the hospital for you.”

He doesn’t let her get too far, snagging her hand as he volunteers, “Well, you’ve got two extra hands—I can help. Then we can grab dinner or something.”

“Aw, thank you—that’s so sweet of you.”

He offers a candid half-shrug. “Mostly selfish. I get to spend time with you, so it’s a win-win for me.”

The smile he gets for that comment is enough to light him up for an eon. The cold inside him starts to melt just from that alone.

Trina wanders to her desk where a tall pile of files and envelopes sits. He trails after her, and waits for instructions. She picks through a couple of them before she sighs, loudly and heavily and then turns to face him.

“I—missed you yesterday…?”

There’s a question in the statement, which, on its own, already makes his heart lurch ridiculously inside him. Because he’d missed her, yesterday. Every moment, he’d been seconds from calling her or finding his way to her, but something about the chaos of his own day and the knowledge that she’d spent much of hers tending to her best friend had stopped him. And then Cyrus’ call had made him that much more alert, as he wondered what his uncle could possibly have to say to him.

“I missed you too.”

She smiles then, and he can’t help but smile right back. The muscles in his face feel stiff doing it, and it occurs to him, just then, that he hasn’t let himself smile—really smile—in days. Not since the last time he saw his girlfriend, in person, in fact.

He studies her glowing face as he shuffles a little closer to her. “Yesterday was a nuthouse—I know I was supposed to meet you at the court but things kind of… ran away from me.” A mega understatement. Given he was busy being an accessory to a baby-napping, and then contending with a hysterical, criminally-inclined woman, followed by a late-night call, and then him worrying about it all before he passed out.

She winces a bit, the most adorable crinkle of her nose as she ducks. “Yeah… about that… so I may have told Esme about our trip. Us going to Paris for six months, I mean.” She peeks up at him before she rushes on with a nervous flutter of her hands, “It was—it just sort of came out. I was so frustrated by that entire stupid sham of a case hearing. And—seeing her get off without even a slap on the wrist despite everything she’s done, even knowing that she wasn’t being charged for her other crimes… ugh. And then I thought about how even that’s my fault, pretty much. I’m the one that convinced all of you to drop the charges last year! So, I stayed behind to… confront her. I don’t even know why I did it. But I did. And I … I just—I wanted to, I don’t know. Rub it in her face a little.”

He kind of loves the vicious little snarl on her pretty face right now.

“About going to Paris?”

“About us!” A cranky moue of her lush lips that makes him want to lean down to kiss her. “I just—sitting in that courtroom took me back two years. And it made me feel… it reminded me of what it’s like to feel like your whole life is going to be snatched away from you and there’s nothing you can do about it. And, I just—I wanted to make her feel just a little more of what that’s like.”

She shuffles to slouch onto a bench by the wall, still avoiding his gaze.

“It’s okay, Trina,” he says as he moves to sit beside her.

“No it’s not! I got real petty with it. I let her get to me in that way—even though I said I wouldn’t. I hate giving her, or anyone I can't stand, that kind of power over me.”

It’s one of those things that fascinates him about Trina—her singular conception of rage. The way she works so hard to keep herself contained and controlled. Cassadines aren’t exactly known for their moderate behaviour and level-headed tempers. As much as she’d love to deny it, beneath all that calm sense of responsibility and effortless elegance, there’s a passionate, fiery artist. He loves every facet of her in equal measure.

“Somehow, I’m certain that Esme doesn’t feel like she has any power over you.” He knows this for a fact if that deplorable begging is anything to go by. And, her running to Cyrus Renault of all people, tells the tale even more. Who runs to a vicious mobster, laid up in a hospital after being beaten up by some other mobster, for help finding their baby? Only someone desperate and blinded by it.

Then prove it, she’d said. Don’t go to Paris. He sneers just remembering Esme’s plea yesterday. The degree of delusion it’d require for anyone to ask that of an ex-partner, particularly with their history—which Esme one hundred percent remembers, he’s sure—is unfathomable. All he’d been able to do was glare at her, uninterested in even dignifying such a request with an answer.

“Anyway, let’s focus on something—anything else.” Abruptly, Trina stands up and grabs a huge book and a pen. “Wanna come with me down to the backroom? I have to log a few new pieces into the system, then bring them out for cleaning—so that my temp replacement sees how it’s done when I handover next week.”

He stands up, allowing her to change the subject for now, and walks to her side. Stripping off his coat, he tosses it over the back of her chair. “Sure! Use me as you will, Miss Robinson.”

In the space of a millisecond, a different electricity arcs through the room. Trina looks him up and down, admiring. And he can’t help swinging towards her to murmur, “My body’s at your service.”

Her eyes widen, before she slants another look down from his shoulders, to his torso, and lower still to his feet and then back up again before she blinks and shakes her head, a flustered wetting of her mouth. “I’ll—um, keep that in mind, Mr Cassadine.” She’s nibbling on her lip in the most diverting way.

After the morning he’s had, having this effect on Trina Robinson somehow makes him feel a thousand times better about life. It’s nice to be reminded that he’s not the only one that finds himself so easily disarmed and driven to the edge by the person he loves most in the world.

He hides his own grin as he, chivalrously, holds his arm out to allow her to lead them downstairs.

The Jerome Gallery backroom is a spot he’s only visited rarely. In fact, he could probably count on one hand how many times he’s been down here. The smell of musty, trapped air is familiar and slightly dizzying. As is the sharp, nose-biting mix of turpentine and various types of paint or, perhaps, polish? He’s not sure.

He ignores the heady olfactory stimulation to focus on the hypnotising sway of Trina’s hips a few feet in front of him. Does it make him an irredeemable horn dog that he can’t help but lick his lips at the way her crushed velvet skirt clings to her ass? Possibly, yes. But she’s his—so surely he’s allowed.

Once they’re inside, he sticks close to her, and follows her instructions. There are huge crates, each marked fragile in red and inky black, that need to be logged correctly in the gallery’s inventory book. He tackles the boxes and calls out numbers, while Trina writes them down. It’s nice to just lose himself in the simplicity of the task for thirty minutes, and enjoy the easy companionship with his girlfriend.

But then, out of nowhere, Trina bursts out, “All of it was just—too much, you know?”

He pauses. “Uhh… what was too much?”

“Your—,” she opens her mouth and then snaps it shut, biting on her lower lip as she veers from his gaze again, like she wishes she could swallow her words. With a sigh, she leans back against the wall beside her as if her entire being is exhausted. He sure as hell knows that feeling. “Your grandmother. She was there, too.”

Spencer frowns, dread creeping into his gut. Trina has no way of knowing what’s in his head or why. But just that one word further inflames his already volcanic ire at the mention of a woman that’s disappointed him in ways he never even thought possible. He’s mourning much more than the loss of his brother for an unforeseeable amount of time until his father returns and clears his name for good. With what occurred this morning at General Hospital, his grandmother’s shattered whatever few illusions he still had about family.

Family. Such a prosaic concept, apparently. Certainly not one that should be associated with his own, at least in the most pleasant sense of the word. A half-estranged father on the run, a bunch of criminals for uncles, a grandmother who’d rather defend a girl that ruined so many people’s lives than protect her infant grandson.

Don’t forget, a dear old grandmother who’d call the cops on her other grandson, and her own son to boot. Then look at him like he's a putrid stain stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

It almost bubbles out of him to tell her but he wants to give her a chance to share first.

He stands next to her, shifting his feet forward so he’s a tad closer to her height, and reaches for her hand, drawing it into his, and quietly asks, “What happened?”

Trina tilts her head back to rest it against the wall, and sends him a plaintive look. “She was there with your Uncle Martin—and it sucked. Watching her coddle and fawn all over Esme like that girl’s some innocent little lamb. I think—and Ava agrees—she even used her clout to get her off for those charges without even a slap on the wrist.”

The additional confirmation that his grandmother did, in fact, get Esme off and work a deal for her tastes bitter at the back of his throat. Today, she’d not even paid his suspicions—no, his certainties—any mind. It was like he was talking to an empty room with no lights on. There’s nothing quite like learning that the people in your life don't listen to you. No, worse, don't even care or respect what you have to say. Aren’t even hearing you. And it’s doubly-hurtful when it’s someone he used to trust as much as he did his grandmother. One of the few people he thought gave a shit about him in this world.

But Trina’s not done. “You know, she didn’t even look at me? Not once. She didn’t even stop to say ‘hello’ when she walked out. I might as well have been invisible. It felt like I was so insignificant—it was… weird. Like she sees Esme as her own family, while I’m this complete other…non-entity. And I get that but also, I don't.”

Spencer frowns again, and the lingering rage in his veins turns cold. Cassadine cool again.

He can deal with his grandmother’s dismissive cruelty towards him. Sure, it hurts. It hurts a lot. But any slights towards Trina are unacceptable. He’d noticed a few times that she had weird ideas about him making ‘commitments’ to Esme of all people as if that bitch didn’t ruin their entire family with her noxious existence. And now, when he—the only person who has the history and the wherewithal to recognise the real Esme—tells her what’s happening, she just acts like he’s crazy. Or stupid. Or both.

It strikes him, maybe for the first time, how this all must’ve been for Trina. Even way back last year, when she showed up at his grandmother’s penthouse to find Esme comfortably ensconced there as if she was an accepted part of the family. And he’d played a role in that mess for a whole summer, stupidly unaware of how it might be hurting the woman he adores. He’d been so stupid to let any of it fly.

Given that he’s now, for all intents and purposes, estranged from his grandmother, he’ll have to convey his feelings on her behaviour towards Trina at some point. In excruciating detail.

“Oh, and don’t even let me speak about your cousin Molly, telling me and Ava, to our faces, that ‘justice was served today.’”

For fuck’s sake, he curses in his head. And then out loud for good measure. And then he lets out a sigh as he slumps onto the nearest bench, which happens to be by the south-side wall of the backroom, cradling his head in his hands.

His shoulders start shaking and he just hears Trina gasp in concern, “Baby, are you okay?” and feels her drawing closer until he spots the tips of her boots in his sightline, and catches her scent, sweet, earthy citrus. His body unconsciously reacts to her proximity, as it always does. A fact that makes the laughter burst out of him, dry and a little bitter.

“What—is so funny?”

He sits back up to meet her gaze as he chortles, shaking his head. “It’s just the growing realisation that pretty much everyone in my family’s kind of an asshole—with the possible exception of Cam. And Ace, obviously. And maybe Sam, if you catch her on a good day.” He might’ve included Dante but after his cousin threatened to arrest him, he’s not feeling particularly cordial towards him. “My Aunt Alexis, too—although she’s also in the criminal coddling brigade… so perhaps not.”

Trina looks at him for a moment before a giggle peals out of her, the sweetest sound, tugging his lips even wider until they’re both laughing like a pair of lunatics.

“If it—” Trina says, in between breathy chuckles, “if it helps, my family’s not much better. I’ve got three people on my case doing the utmost to discourage me from going to Paris—with you.”

“Wow, only three? That’s some kind of record for me, though, right?”

“Ha ha. My dad had a few sideways comments about it before I distracted him. Aunt Stella started off being kind of ambivalent but then she told me to ‘follow my dreams’ and have a good time, so I think she’s at least eighty percent on our side.”

“Eighty percent of one person is a lot better than zero.”

“Fair point,” she concedes with an amused curl of her mouth. “It’s significantly better odds.”

Studying him closely, that mossy-soft empathy that always lights her gaze glowing at him, Trina steps forward until she’s standing between his legs. She reaches out to stroke a hand through his hair and then down along his cheek to his jaw, her fingers silky soft and soothing. He shuts his eyes, leaning into it. Into her.

Even her lightest touch makes everything in this whole messed up universe slot into place a little less painfully.

“So, I take it yesterday was a rough day for you?” He purses his lips to confirm her assumption. “Today, too?”

He thinks through it all—and yeah. It feels like yesterday and now, today, which isn’t even finished yet, have been a decades’ worth of emotional upheaval and bullshit from every damn direction. And he’s… well, he’s exhausted by it all. It’s crowding on his tongue, this urge to tell her all the grim details—starting with his assessment of Esme and her amnesia, and then his decision to protect Ace by handing him over to his dad, which wasn’t an easy choice by any means, and what’s just happened with his grandmother, and everything else in between. But it all feels like a lot for right now.

So, instead, he nods, a little wretchedly, and his hands scratch at her slender waist to draw her closer just so he can rest his forehead against her abdomen for a moment. She tows into him easily, and he lets himself nuzzle into her softness, breathing in that heavenly scent of hers, soaking in her warmth and light the way a wilting flower would sunshine.

“Me, too.”

For the first time in what feels like ages, he feels okay. Her fingers massaging the tension gathered at the nape of his neck, sifting through his hair so gently—as if he, too, is a fragile thing—undoes him.

He forces himself to blink away the tears prickling in his eyes. A lump that’s stalled at the back of his throat from the moment his grandmother ordered him to leave and never come back practically throttles him. But Trina’s hands are magic. Or something. Because the longer she comforts him—even without knowing what’s burdening him—the less choked up he feels.

A purr rumbles deep in his chest, and he smiles at the delighted sound she makes at it.

He tugs her even closer, so he can wrap his arms around the back of her in a hug. As far as cuddling positions go, it’s not ideal but he’s not picky—he just needs to be close to her. Needs it like he needs air, really. They stay like that for a while, lulled by the quiet, as his heart’s beat syncs up with hers, so that every time she exhales, he breathes her in, and vice versa. It’s nice, a bit like floating.

He knows his whole world’s on its ass but right now, he doesn’t much care. The only thing that exists is this woman and how she makes him feel.

Tilting his head up, he noses his way along her abdomen, the stutter-beat of her heart by his cheek before he brushes at her left breast. He can feel her nipples poking at him through the thin material of her blouse, and it occurs to him that she’s not wearing a bra. His mouth waters. And it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to open his mouth around the tip of one pert orb. Trina gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. And then he clamps his teeth down, worrying the pouty peak until the silky cloth’s soaking wet, and the taste of her is tantalisingly close yet still too far.

She outright cries out and her fingernails dig into his scalp as she pulls him closer still. “Spencer?” It’s a relief to know that she wants that as much as he does. That maybe she even needs it, too.

His wanting to taste her swerves very quickly into—he’s got to taste her. Right the fuck now.

“Yeah, baby,” he mutters even as he starts pulling at her shirt, blindly.

He expects her to censure him. Or stop him.

Instead, she yanks his head back, just far enough so she can lick into his mouth. A kiss that conveys the kind of senseless, needy lust that’s swirling in his veins. He matches her, a graze of her teeth on his top lip, and then him nibbling on hers with equal hunger. His tongue swipes at the roof of her mouth, as they both do their best to swallow each other whole.

He’s not sure how much time passes. Nothing else matters, really, except for Trina’s lush taste, the press of her lithe body against his, the heavy throb between his legs that’s going to make a mess of his jeans soon if he does nothing to address it.

They part, reluctantly, to suck in air.

She stares at him, dauntless, half-lidded eyes on his as she reaches down to inch her skirt up, slowly, inch by inch. He watches, licking his lips involuntarily as her shapely legs come to light, then her thighs until she raises it over her head and lets it flutter to the floor. That leaves her in nothing but thick-soled boots, her camisole, with the conspicuous wet patch over her left breast that’s turned the material see-through, and a flimsy green thong that he’s prepared to peel off with his teeth or rip off with his fingers.

Before he can follow through and do just that, Trina arches one sleek eyebrow at him in challenge as if to say, Your turn. “What was it you said earlier—your whole body’s here for my service?” Her gaze is focused on his groin, and the sight of her nibbling on her lower lip in blatant anticipation has his cock ready to split his jeans.

With a chuckle, he shucks his sweatshirt real fast and then makes quick work of unzipping, carefully freeing himself, without taking his eyes off her—not for even a second. There’s a glazed look in her eyes as she watches him fist himself. A dark, savage part of him really wants to guide her to her knees and press his length into her sweet mouth, weave his fingers through her hair to have her take him so deep that she feels him in her throat for days. The filthy image should make him ashamed maybe but the way she’s licking her lips right now, still unabashedly fixed on his hand moving over his dick, he has a sense Trina wouldn’t mind it.

But the scent of her arousal is a shade more enticing. Yet this backroom isn’t really built for him to spread her out on the floor and eat her with abandon, so that’s out. Most of all, he needs to feel her clutch him tight. So he situates himself in his seat, leveraging his weight against the wall, and crooks his finger at her.

She doesn’t wait for further invitation. Instead, she lifts first one leg, then the other, so she’s hovering over him in a straddle. One hand on his shoulder for balance, she reaches down to grasp his dick, taking over stroking it. He groans at the feel of her delicate, artist’s fingers wrapping around his girth—trying to, at least.

He yanks the gusset on her panties aside, just enough to give them room to work. And then, she’s notching him at her entrance.

He grunts—a loud, guttural sound that’s more beast than man. “Fuck.”

There’s a glint of mischief in her dark-honey eyes as she skims his dick along the seam of her pussy, his weeping cock-head pulsing against her sultry, slick heat. It’s the sort of temptation that’d drive a man mad. When she asks him, sly and so brazenly sexy, “You like that?”—he’s pretty sure he’s lost his mind entirely.

Swallowing thickly, he grips her thighs, digging his fingers into the giving flesh even as he shoots her a mock glare. “What do you think, princess?”

She laughs then, and it dapples the grey, pockmarked walls of this backroom like playful light. Amidst the musty smell of wooden crates and boxes, and pine, and the sweetness of Trina’s siren’s pussy, he knows he’ll go insane, if she keeps him on the hook even a second longer. He growls as she makes that teasing move again, soaking him in her dew. The heaven of being inside her so near and yet too far.

The sound of their heaving is loud, both of them teetering on the edge, on fire with lust.

All he can do is thank whatever gods are willing to listen to the blasphemous prayers of a sinner like him when she has mercy and finally—finally—slots him inside her.

They both curse at the sharp sensation. Her inner muscles spasm, working to take his cock, honeyed heat sucking-in and half-pushing at the blunt head. But she doesn’t complain. Instead, she whines his name as she sinks down another couple inches, impaling herself. If this is some form of torture, it’s the very best kind.

Another inch.

Oh, fuck. “Fuck—you’re tight.” It’s stating the obvious but, Jesus, he can’t help it. How does it feel this damn good every time?

By the time she’s fully seated, Spencer’s about to explode out of his own skin. She’s letting out those little wheezy pants she sometimes does, her eyes scrunched closed as she gets used to him filling her up. Her mouth’s round and open, practically begging for a kiss. Which he does. He can feel her smile into him as she kisses him right back, and then—

—she rides.

Slow at first. A sensual, syrupy twist and undulation of her hairpin waist. A lift off her knees on either side of him before she rocks back down on him so good they both moan. And then faster, and faster, her fingers clutching his shoulders so she can really move.

His greedy hands grip at her ass to help her with every sinuous bounce, every slippery grind, every swirl and swivel of her hips above him. She’s got her head thrown back at the ceiling, and there’s a sheen all across her neck that he leans forward to lap at like some ravenous wolf before he sinks his teeth into her clavicle.

She jerks, her pussy creaming around his erection, strangling him from the root. She yanks at his hair and shoves her mouth into his in a torrid kiss. In tandem, their movements get jagged and unhinged, as they keep crashing into each other, clinging and clawing like mad things. It’s a sprint, the two of them propelling the other forward, goading towards a mind-shattering climax. Her wailing cry fuses with his own brash shout to splinter the walls around them.

Afterwards, he can’t tell how much time’s passed with the both of them wrapped in each other, limp, sweat-drenched and satisfied. He’s still nestled in her snug heat, and, frankly, if he could just stay here—just like this—for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t complain one bit. She feels too good. Already, he’s twitching inside her, aching for another round.

He nudges a kiss behind her left ear, the coiling hair there, damp from perspiration and husks, “I love you.”

She says the words back, her voice muffled by the skin at his throat, before she laves at his pulse with a replete sigh.

***

“How d’you feel about all of it?”

“Hm?”

Trina chucks him under his jaw to draw his eyes to hers, perched as she is on his lap, their clothes sloppily repaired after another round of incredible sex. They’re put-together enough that if anyone walks in on them, they’ll mostly be none the wiser—apart from wondering why they’re cuddling in a cold, dank storeroom of all places. One that smells, he admits to himself with a smirk, conspicuously like musk and hot, heavy fucking. As far as locations go, this is probably one of their most comically mundane. But he’s not complaining. Not with the familiar liquid heat that’s turned every part of his body golden just from being with her.

Still, he’s surprised that that’s Trina’s first question about the entire messy situation he’s recounted to her of the last several days.

She’s got the gentlest look on her face. The kind that leaves him feeling tender and almost shy yet still pries the truth out of him.

“I-I don’t know. It was—intense. Two days ago, I hadn’t seen my dad in nearly a year. And I’d been essentially in some form of estranged from him for years before that.” He scratches the back of his head as shame curdles in his gut for his place in that entire sorry mess. “And yesterday, I opened the door—and there he was. And it was… a lot. I felt all sorts of things—scared, angry, joyful, relieved, guilty. Angry.”

“You said that one already,” she murmurs with a snicker.

He shrugs with a grimace. “Yeah—well, you know firsthand how pissed I’ve been with him. I’ve thought about how I’d be when I saw him again, and I used to think—I’d just punch him, y’know? Or yell at him.” The corner of his mouth lifts crookedly as he remembers how things actually played out. An echo of that burning heat stings in his eyes, and he’s forced to blink it away. “But instead, I just… wept. And so did he. Then I—told him I was sorry. And we just sat. And talked.”

“And how was that?”

“It was… amazing.”

Resting her forehead against his, Trina presses a kiss on his nose. When she draws back there’s pride beaming on her face. He’s not sure anyone’s ever looked at him quite like that—like he’s somehow special. Not for any reason other than being himself. He grabs Trina’s nearest hand, pulls it up to kiss at her palm in wordless gratitude.

“I’m so happy for you—I was… I’m just glad that you and your dad got to reconnect even if it was just briefly. I know how much you’ve missed him.” She makes it all so much simpler than it seems in his head.

Because that’s what it’s all about. It’s what it’s always been about.

He’d missed his dad. And it’s hurt to not have him in his life. Every single time, it’s hurt. And even though there’s still plenty of baggage between them—enough to fill a whole damn freighter or three—he gets now, that he’ll never not love Nikolas Cassadine. And it’s because of that love that he trusted him, above almost anyone else, to take care of Ace and keep him safe from a mother who saw him as little more than a pawn in her petty power games.

He’d been so angry for so long. Drowning in rage and cling to his hurt and abandonment like those emotions were his personal lifejacket. And yet, standing in the same space as his dad, after all these months, had felt … good. A little deflating, but not in an entirely negative way. He’d not suffocated in the face of it all. He’d hugged his baby brother goodbye, and shut the door behind them both, and still kept standing.

Trina’s fingers brushing at the hair on his forehead pull him from his deep thoughts as she says, “And I think based on what you told me about Esme and her memory—and I think you’re onto something. Because she was … there was something about her at the courtroom that felt different. I just didn’t know what to make of it at the time. I’m glad that you did what you had to, to make sure your little brother’s gonna be okay.”

He blinks furiously again, his jaw tight as he looks at her, hopeful. She’s a blur. His voice small and unsure, he asks, “D’you—do you really think so?”

“Yes.” When he still looks at her, doubtful, she shakes her head. “Baby, I know it couldn’t have been easy for you. But Ace’s wellbeing is the priority. Yours and mine. And I don’t think either of us could’ve left him in Port Charles knowing that his mother’s potentially back to being… herself.”

He bows his head, and absorbs her words. And this validation, plainly stated and frank as it is, feels like the last of the weight lifted off his shoulders. And when she hugs him, he falls into her sunlit embrace, breathing easy for once.

***

As Trina does her usual lockdown routine, drawing all the blinds in the gallery’s main rooms and entrance-way, he tracks her, unwilling to let her out of his sight for even a moment. Just like always, she draws him, moth-stupid, and makes it impossible for him to look away.

She’s put her hair, which he’d messed up with his fingers earlier when he tugged on it a little too enthusiastically, in a mussed bun at the nape of her neck. Her colourful, patterned skirt may be a touch wrinkled but it still looks elegant on her sylphic form, and she's covered her blouse with a purple sweater. Whatever lipstick she was wearing earlier, has long since been rubbed off courtesy of his own avid mouth. And she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

He came in here, hours ago, heavy-hearted and, honestly, miserable to his core. Yet just being with her makes him feel like a whole different man. Or, perhaps, it makes the world beyond them different. Bearable. Not so much a hellish place full of people who’re there to hurt and destroy him or the things he cares for, but like there’s a sliver of hope and good. Light in all this messy, roiling dark—Trina.

As she finally heads to her desk to grab her things, he’s not sure what comes over him to just blurt, “Come away with me.”

“What?” She looks at him quizzically. “You know we’re going to Paris in a couple of weeks, right…?”

“I know.” Part of him wants to take it back. There’s no way Trina would concede leaving early. She’s got so much going on in Port Charles anyway, with her family, and school, and professional demands. But, still, he finds courage in her whiskey-dark gaze, and asks again. “We could go early, just by a week or so. Then we could get acclimated before your classes kick off. Get to know the lay of things…. Spend time together without—everything?”

Trina tilts her head, her eyes that often see so much trained on him. There’s a long moment in which he waits, the plunging in his belly growing more dramatic by the moment, before she says, “Okay.”

Oh. He’d been expecting to be let down gently with a refusal. So her casual acquiescence has him reeling for several seconds. “Just like that? You don’t want to… I don’t know—ask any more questions or something?”

“Well, I’ve already mostly packed the trunks I intend to take with me. It won’t be hard to push my flight forward. So, I can be ready to leave sooner. And our bon voyage party’s already got a date set, so that won’t be a problem for us. Otherwise, I’m happy for you to surprise me—you’re pretty great at this trip-planning thing, so I trust you.”

“Huh….” He’s unsure what to do with this kind of faith simply thrust his way. It’s terrifying, and humbling and—wonderful.

Trina leans up on her tiptoes to kiss his jaw. Before she picks up her purse and coat. She notes his continued confusion with a bemused tilt of her kiss-plumped lips. As she walks by him, she murmurs, “I’d follow you anywhere, too, Spencer Cassadine—I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

The warm thrill that eddies outward from his heart to every part of his body, until he feels like he’s made up of nothing but sun rays—because of her—has him turning to trail after her with the goofiest grin on his face.