1.
Christine
The gallery smelled like old varnish, sweat, and clove cigarettes. I had never felt more out of place in my life.
Underground or not, this crowd reeked of curated grunge—rich girls in “vintage” Chanel, dudes who only spoke in metaphors like they were auditioning for a poetry slam, and influencers holding their wine like it was part of the outfit.
“I swear to God, if I meet him tonight, I’m gonna scream,” Ashley whispered next to me, practically vibrating in her slingbacks. “Can you imagine? Benicio del Toro. The Benicio. I’d let him paint on me.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my past lives. “You said the same thing about that TikTok dude who made cereal sculptures.”
Ashley smirked. “This is different, Chris. He’s a legend. He’s like... the Prince of Paint.”
But I’d already stopped listening. Something had pulled me in—this one painting on the far wall, half-hidden behind a couple talking about “postmodern grief.”
I stood in front of it, letting the noise fade. It was dark, layered like it had secrets. Rusty streaks, flashes of gold that looked like hope gasping for air. A woman, folded into herself, barely visible. I felt her—pain, shame, beauty all wrapped together like a prayer with a cigarette burn in the middle.
I didn’t know someone was standing behind me until a man’s voice spoke —low, smoky, like gravel warmed by the sun.
“You see her too?”
I froze.
“Huh?” was all I could manage when I turned around.
He nodded toward the painting. “The woman in the canvas. You see her. Most people don’t.”
My brain tripped over itself. “I—I mean, yeah. I just... I liked the texture. Not because it’s yours—I mean, I didn’t know it was yours. I knew, but I didn’t, like—look, I’m not saying I like it because of you.” I blinked hard. “God, I sound like an idiot.”
He laughed—quiet, genuine. “No. You sound like a painter.”
And that’s when I really took a deep breath and looked at him.
Benicio del Toro was ZADDY with capital letters. Salt-and-pepper hair on his head and face, cheekbones sculpted by time and tragedy, a mouth that probably said beautiful, dangerous things in at least three languages. His eyes... they held something ancient. Like he’d lived ten thousand lives and barely made it through each one.
No entourage. No big moment. Just a quiet man in a weathered leather jacket. He didn’t strut. He didn’t need to. He moved like someone who already knew he belonged.
I clutched my purse like it could save me.
There were influencers two steps away taking selfies like their lives depended on it. Ashley was ready to melt into a puddle just for eye contact. And still... he was looking at me.
Not the way men look. Not like I was something to conquer or curate. He wasn’t assessing me like I was competition in an art scene I never signed up for.
He just... saw me.
Me. Christine Davis. Paint-stained hoodies. Brooklyn pharmacy counter girl with half-finished canvases under her bed and a dream called Goats Goats Goats.
And that scared the hell out of me.
My heart did a weird little flutter. Like, actual wings-in-my-chest kind of flutter. My lips parted, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
I wanted to say something. Just a whisper of a compliment, something real. Something that might matter to someone like him.
“I really... I mean, your brushstrokes. They reminded me of—”
“Oh my God! Benicio!”
Ashley exploded out of nowhere like a trendy, over-caffeinated banshee in heels. One second, I was in a moment with this man, and the next, she’d body-checked the vibe completely. She wedged herself between us like she had a VIP pass to interrupt my life. “I loooove your work. Like, I have your calendar from 2009!”
He blinked.
I blinked harder.
He looked at her like she’d just screamed directly into his ear. “I didn’t make a calendar.”
Ashley giggled like facts weren’t important. “Oh, well, you should. You’re such a vibe. This whole thing? Gorgeous. I just told Christine how obsessed I am.”
And then he turned back to me.
“Is that true?”
I didn’t even have to speak. My face said it all: No. She dragged me here. I didn’t want to come. But now... now I’m glad I did.
Something shifted in his eyes. He didn’t smile, but there was this flicker—recognition. Like he saw past the noise and the gallery full of posturing and wine-soaked egos. Like he saw me again.
Then, his voice low, steady: “You were going to say something... about the brushstrokes?”
I froze.
Ashley looked at me, all confused like what brushstrokes?
But I felt the moment. It landed heavy and important in my chest.
I swallowed. “It reminded me of my father. He used to paint women like that. Hiding, but still... strong. Like they were saving a part of themselves.”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t rush me. Just listened.
And I could feel it—this quiet, magnetic shift between us.
He was hooked.
And God help me, so was I.
Ashley rolled her eyes so hard I was half-expecting her to go blind.
I didn’t have to hear her thoughts to feel them: He didn’t even want to talk to me? After all that flirting? All that effort? And now he’s locked in on her Black ass?
I kept still, rooted in place like marble, unsure whether to step forward or melt into the damn floor. The heat coming off her was volcanic. She didn’t say anything, but I felt every bit of that sting. I knew that look. I’d lived that look.
But Benicio didn’t seem to notice her tantrum. Or if he did, he didn’t give a single damn. His attention never strayed. His eyes were still on me—soft, steady, like I was the only thing worth looking at in a room full of loud distractions.
Our eyes locked again. There was something in it—something deep and unsaid. I didn’t know what to call it, didn’t know if I trusted it yet, but it stirred something in me. Quiet. Real. Like the flutter before a storm.
Ashley cleared her throat with so much drama I swear it echoed off the gallery walls. She delivered her next line like she was on stage in front of a sold-out crowd:
“Well, I’ll be waiting for you.”
Slow. Sweet. And sharp as hell—like she’d dipped the words in syrup just to hide the blade underneath. Her heels clicked away like thunderclaps, her strut saying I’m choosing to leave, even though we both knew she wasn’t.
Benicio didn’t even glance in her direction. Not once. And when she was gone, his eyes returned to me—warmer now, a little more curious. A little less guarded.
“You can tell who’s really here for the art,” he said quietly. “And it’s you.”
Then he extended his hand toward me. Long fingers, rough with paint, but his touch didn’t feel dangerous. It felt... intentional. Gentle.
“I’m Benicio del Toro,” he said, voice like smoke and velvet. “And you are?”
My nerves scrambled all over themselves, but I managed to find my voice—small at first, but real.
“Christine,” I said. “Christine Davis. From New York.”
And just like that, I existed. In his world. In this moment. And damn it... it felt like the start of something.
He smiled—slow and sincere, like it actually meant something.
“Nice to meet you, Christine Davis from New York.”
And then he said my name again, like he liked the way it tasted in his mouth. “So, Christine,” he asked, folding his arms all casual and tilting his head, “what do you paint?”
I blinked, caught totally off guard. That question? Way too direct. It didn’t feel small-talk-y. It felt... intimate. Like he’d asked me what my heartbeat sounded like.
I tucked a twist of hair behind my ear and let out a soft sigh, like I was about to confess something sacred.
“Just about anything,” I said quietly. “Especially when I dream.”
I felt my smile creep in as the memory came back. “When I was little, I had this one dream—super weird—where these herds of micro goats were chasing me through a grocery store.”
His eyebrows lifted like, Go on.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “No, seriously. They were cute, like, pocket-sized. But aggressive as hell. And they kept baa’ing at me like I owed them money or something.”
Benicio grinned, his amusement shining through. “Micro goats?”
“Mhm,” I nodded, fully in it now. “I told my dad—he’s a painter too—and he was like, ‘Well, paint them so they can’t chase you anymore.’”
So I did. I painted the dream. And I titled it Goats Goats Goats."
I giggled as I said it, a little embarrassed but also low-key proud.
And then he laughed. Not some fake, half-smile laugh either. A real one. Full-bodied. Threw his damn head back.
“That’s the most ridiculous and brilliant thing I’ve heard in weeks,” he said, eyes sparkling like he genuinely meant it. “I would love to see it.”
My eyes went wide. “Wait, really?”
He nodded, still smiling like he was already picturing it. “I don’t care how ridiculous it looks. I want to see what your imagination looks like. That’s what art is, isn’t it? A doorway into someone’s world?”
My face flushed all over again, but not from nerves this time. It was that warm, fizzy kind of feeling. Like maybe it was okay to let him see a little more.
To talk a little longer.
To let the door crack open, just enough to invite him in.
As flustered as I felt, part of me curled in on itself—tight, cautious. That old voice in my head whispered, Don’t be too much. Don’t be too weird. Don’t embarrass yourself.
Ugh. That voice.
I looked up at him, eyes soft but guarded. “You promise you won’t laugh?”
God, I hated how vulnerable that sounded. But I needed to hear it. Needed some kind of reassurance, even if it was just a polite lie.
Benicio didn’t even flinch. His smile didn’t fade—it got warmer, like he understood exactly why I asked.
“I promise,” he said, his voice low and gentle. Then, like he was letting me in on a secret, he leaned in just a little and added, “And trust me—my first was weird too.”
I blinked, caught off guard again, but this time it made me lean in too.
“Back in 1985...” he started, like he was setting the stage. “I painted my crush and me as a couple. With kids.”
My eyebrows jumped. He wasn’t kidding.
“Full-on little family portrait,” he continued. “She barely knew I existed, but there we were—living in Tuscany or some shit. Bowls of fruit on the table. Baby in her lap. Me with a goatee I definitely didn’t have.”
That was it. I lost it. I burst out laughing, not at him, but with him. That image? Too vivid. Too specific. Too ridiculous and sweet to hold in.
“Oh my God, not the goatee!” I snorted, actually snorted. “You painted yourself like a sexy Italian dad?”
He gave me a smug little shrug. “Manifestation. Ahead of my time.”
I laughed harder, the nerves slipping off me like an oversized coat I didn’t need anymore. And just like that, I wasn’t worried about who was watching or if I belonged. It was just us now.
“I guess Goats Goats Goats isn’t that embarrassing after all,” I said, grinning up at him.
“Exactly,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Art’s supposed to be personal. A little strange. Honest. If it’s not a little embarrassing, you’re doing it wrong.”
I nodded slowly. Damn. He was right. Maybe it was okay to be weird. Creatively weird. Me weird.
And maybe—just maybe—I’d actually let him see the painting one day.
“You got any pets?” He asked, and I said no because my pet cat just died last month, Pearl. I had her for 13 years since I was 16 years old. I wasn’t about to tell him that, this ain’t about me.
“Oh, OK, I thought you would, cause we don’t have a pet these days?” He said, chuckled, and I forced a smile. I’m the one without a pet these days.
“Well, I have two dogs, a golden retriever and a Bullmastiff.” When he said that, my jaw dropped. “Whoa, aren’t you afraid of the Bullmastiff one, I mean the golden retriever is angel, but Bullmastiff nuh uh,” I said, and he smiled.
“I’ve had them for years, so I’m particularly like their dad, guys love me.” He said confidently.
Benicio handed me his phone with that soft, slow smile of his. “I’d like to see your work sometime. Can I have your number?”
I stared at the screen like it had grown fangs. My heart did this weird little hop-skip thing. Was this real?
I took a deep breath and typed it in, hoping my fingers didn’t look as shaky as they felt.
“Christine Davis,” I said as I hit ‘save,’ trying to sound way cooler than I felt.
He looked at me like I’d just given him a gift. “Thank you, Christine Davis,” he said, velvet-smooth. “I’ll be in touch.”
Whew. Jesus.
Of course that’s when Ashley stomped back over, heels clacking like war drums. She’d been fake-studying some sculpture made out of spoons—looked like an angry octopus in therapy—and now she was marching straight for us, eyes narrowed.
She caught Benicio looking at me like I was the only one in the whole damn gallery. She blinked once. Then again. Like she was trying to reboot.
“Well,” she snapped, “I called us a cab. You coming?”
I nodded, giving Benicio one last bashful smile before I turned to follow her. My whole body felt electric—like I’d been plugged into a socket, but the good kind. The kind that zaps your soul back to life.
Benicio del Toro just asked for my number.
MY number. Not Ashley’s. Not the girl in the red heels by the champagne table. Mine.
The cab ride was dead quiet at first. Ashley didn’t say a word—just scrolled on her phone like it owed her money, thumbs smashing the screen like it insulted her mama. I stared out the window like it might start snowing in April.
And then—of course—she broke the silence.
“You were real chatty back there.”
I didn’t even look at her. “He asked me about my art.”
She scoffed like that was the funniest thing she’d heard all year. “Sure he did.”
We pulled up to her place, and she muttered, “Thanks for coming,” before hopping out like I was the Uber driver.
As soon as the door shut, I slumped back in my seat and let out a scream that had been building in me since the moment he said Goats Goats Goats.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
I scrambled for my phone, nearly dropping it twice, and stabbed at Tanya’s name.
Me: GIRL I MET BENICIO DEL TORO AND HE WANTS TO SEE GOATS GOATS GOATS
Tanya: ...WHAT
Me: LIKE HE ASKED FOR MY NUMBER, HE ACTUALLY WANTS TO SEE MY ART
Tanya: You lyin.
Me: I swear on micro goat #3′s life.
Tanya: I knew it. I TOLD you to stop hiding your weird paintings. Look at God 😭
Me: I was so awkward tho omg. Like. Blushing. Tripping over my words.
Tanya: That’s your charm, boo. That’s what got him. Not fake gallery girl. You real.
By the time the cab pulled up outside my apartment, I was still buzzing—heart doing backflips, thoughts racing. I stepped out, phone pressed to my chest, and looked up at the stars above my building.
Something had shifted. I could feel it.
My life might just be changing—and it started with goats.
