Hector's House Arts Tour

Silence had become a second skin.

It lingered like sea mist in the corners of Hector’s bedroom—vast, expensive, and too pristine to feel lived in. The kind of room designed to impress, not comfort. Yet it had become her sanctuary. Or at least, a holding cell with better linens.

Jeanne stood by the glass wall that overlooked the ocean, barefoot on cold marble that stretched wide beneath her. The late morning light poured in, all gold and blue, illuminating the world beyond. Waves rolled against jagged stone below, hurling themselves toward the cliffs with endless, futile determination. The sea didn’t care who was watching. It just moved—loud and alive and indifferent.

She hadn’t moved much in the last hour. Maybe longer.

Her arms curled around her midsection, not protectively, but like she was holding something fragile inside—something that had barely begun to mend. The oversized T-shirt clung to her frame in places, soft cotton catching the breeze from the open balcony door, but she barely noticed.

All she could hear was the ghost of her own voice echoing back through memory. “I need you to care. Just this once, Edgar—can’t you care?”

But Edgar had looked through her the way cops sometimes looked through crime scenes—detached, methodical, too busy deciding where to begin documenting the damage to acknowledge the body on the floor.

She closed her eyes, and the image of the sonogram flickered behind them. That tiny, flickering heartbeat. A second chance. A betrayal of her own grief. It should’ve brought relief. Instead, it deepened the hollow.

She hadn’t told Hector much. Not about the fight. Not about the aftermath. Definitely not about the past that made her hands shake in the dark. She didn’t owe him that. He hadn’t asked.

Then, the door opened quietly, almost like it feared intruding.

No knock. No announcement. Just the soft, controlled entrance of a man who knew how to slip into silence without breaking it.

Hector stepped in with a calm that felt practiced—like everything about him was deliberately smoothed over, sharp features worn into something gentler by the way he carried himself. His dark shirt hung loose over lean lines, and his sleeves were pushed up, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint scars and veins. He looked effortless, the kind of man who always seemed to be walking out of a magazine spread or into trouble.

He carried two mugs—steam curling from them—and set one down on the nightstand without saying anything. The scent of coffee drifted between them, mingling with the salty air.

He didn’t try to talk to her like a therapist. Didn’t ask if she’d slept. Or eaten. Or felt like talking.

Instead, he stood a few feet from her, hands in his pockets, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go.

And then, in that low, easy voice that always made her stomach tighten for no good reason, he said,

“I was gonna show you some dumb arts I put in the hallway. Want to come judge it with me?”

No pressure in the words. No pity. Just a nudge toward something ordinary.

Jeanne didn’t move. Not at first.

Her arms tightened around her middle. Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came out. She glanced over her shoulder—not fully turning, just enough to see him.

He wasn’t looking at her like a man waiting for a decision. He was looking at a painting on the wall behind her, already playing it off like it didn’t matter either way. Like it was just a way to kill time.

But that was Hector, wasn’t it? Always pretending his offers weren’t invitations.

She turned back to the ocean. One breath. Two.

And then slowly—hesitantly—she peeled herself from the window and took a step toward the doorway.

The hallway was wide and sun-drenched, lined with tall windows on one side and textured concrete on the other—cool gray that made every splash of art on the walls feel intentional. Jeanne walked slowly beside him, her steps almost soundless on the polished floor. She didn’t try to catch up. She didn’t need to. Hector adjusted his pace to hers without a word.

They passed a statue first—an abstract thing made of iron and bronze, vaguely shaped like a bird mid-flight but warped, twisted into something almost violent.

Hector stopped in front of it, tilted his head like he wasn’t quite sure why he bought it in the first place.

“This one’s called Ascension. Or maybe Anxiety Wearing Wings. Depends on which way you squint.”

Jeanne didn’t laugh, but her lips curved slightly. The first expression that wasn’t numb in hours.

“You bought it?” she asked, her voice low from disuse.

“Auction. Had a little too much bourbon. Got into a bidding war with some guy who said it looked like ‘freedom personified.’”

He lifted his hand and made air quotes, exaggerated and slow.

“I just wanted to make sure he didn’t get it.”

A breath escaped her. Not quite a laugh. But close.

Hector glanced at her briefly, then moved on, hands still tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t in any kind of rush.

Next was a large canvas painting—thick strokes of red and gold exploding out from a dark, stormy center. It looked like a sun giving birth to chaos.

“This one’s supposed to be ‘emotional rebirth.’ Artist said it was about becoming a better version of yourself through suffering.”

He paused.

“I mostly see fire and anger. Also, it cost more than a yacht.”

Jeanne’s brows lifted slightly. “You own a yacht?”

“God, no. Too obvious.” He smirked. “I just like burning money more creatively.”

Again, her lips twitched. A ghost of amusement.

The corridor opened wider, past glass rails that overlooked the living area below. A black and white photograph caught her eye next—small compared to the others. A street corner in Naples. Empty, save for a red balloon tangled in wires above.

“This one I actually like,” Hector said. “It’s from a real moment. No edits. Photographer said it reminded him of missed chances.”

Jeanne lingered there longer, her eyes on the balloon. It looked like it was caught mid-escape. A piece of joy lost in the noise.

“Looks lonely,” she said.

Hector didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

And then the moment passed, gentle as the sea breeze that followed them down the curved stairwell to the first floor. They moved in rhythm now, no pressure between them, just space filled by his voice and her quiet attention.

The corridor curved gently, warm sunlight stretching long across the floor like lazy fingers. They moved slowly, Hector never pushing the silence to do anything more than breathe around them.

Past the abstract sculpture and the riotous sunburst painting, they reached a recessed nook near the center of the hall—dimmed slightly, like the lighting was unintentional. That’s where Jeanne stopped. No, froze.

The painting was unlike the others—no fire, no chaos, no explosive commentary. Just a meadow, dusted with soft purple wildflowers. The strokes were delicate, almost shy. A breeze was caught in the curve of a tree’s branch. A blue ribbon fluttered from it, tied loose, as if someone left it behind in a hurry.

Jeanne’s breath caught. Something in her chest twisted—not in pain, not quite. Just an ache. A yearning. Like her heart had recognized something her mind couldn’t name.

She stepped closer. Not touching. Just watching.

She didn’t know this painting. She was sure of it. And yet it felt like she’d stood in front of it before. Felt the hush of that wind. Felt the hand that might’ve tied that ribbon.

Her lips parted, her brows furrowed slightly, confused by her own stillness.

That was when Hector noticed.

“Huh,” he said lightly from behind her. “Didn’t think you’d pause here.”

She glanced at him, startled—then back to the canvas, still caught.

“What’s it called?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

“Promise.” Hector stepped beside her, folding his arms, gaze fixed on the meadow.

Jeanne swallowed. Something heavy lingered at the back of her throat.

“It’s… familiar,” she murmured, barely audible. “But I don’t know why.”

Hector didn’t press. Didn’t ask. He just nodded like he understood without needing the story.

“Yeah. Some pieces do that.”

He gave a small shrug.

“Like they’re not just painted, they’re remembering you back.”

She didn’t respond to that—but her eyes stayed on the ribbon for a few more seconds, as if daring herself to trace whatever thread of memory had been left behind.

Finally, she stepped back. Looked at Hector, not quite smiling, but something softer than before.

“You have a strange taste,” she said.

He arched a brow.

“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“It was,” she said. “You collect more than just art.”

Hector turned his eyes toward her—just a flick of a glance—and in that second, something shifted between them. A moment of quiet resonance. Of recognition.

She didn’t realize how much lighter her chest felt until she took a breath and it didn’t ache.

Hector didn’t point it out. He just gestured toward the kitchen and said casually,

“Want something sweet to balance all that symbolism? I've got muffins that may or may not be edible.”

The kitchen was brighter than the rest of the house, washed in white tiles and gentle light pouring through the open patio doors. The scent hit first—warm vanilla and dark chocolate, thick in the air like a memory.

Hector all but jogged to the microwave, a childish excitement shadowed beneath his usual calm. The machine gave a soft ding as he opened it, releasing a small puff of steam.

Inside sat a tray of perfectly rounded muffins, their tops cracked just slightly—like they had risen just right. Golden-brown with dark spots of chocolate and a faint dusting of powdered sugar, they looked straight out of a magazine.

Jeanne blinked, genuinely surprised. It wasn’t just that they looked good. It was that they looked intentional.

“You… made these?” she asked, stepping a little closer.

Hector glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “Technically? I made them yesterday. Just warmed them now.”

He plucked one from the tray with a practiced ease, then set the rest aside.

“Had a midnight itch to bake. You were already asleep when they were done. Figured you might like chocolate in the morning.”

Jeanne stared at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something tenderer. Then, the corners of her lips pulled upward—not forced. Small. Real.

“You baked for me?” she murmured, almost laughing.

That smile—Hector stilled for half a beat longer than he should’ve. Like he didn’t mean to look at her that way. Like he didn’t mean to let it land.

But he cleared his throat and turned quickly, like it didn’t faze him. “Don’t get too impressed. I was still half-drunk off the smell of cocoa powder.”

He stepped back from the counter and gave a light nod toward the stairs.

“I left the coffee upstairs. Be right back. Put those on a plate for us? You pick the best-looking ones.”

Jeanne nodded, eyes lingering on the tray.

As Hector disappeared up the sleek staircase, she let out a soft exhale. The kitchen was quiet again, but it didn’t feel suffocating this time. She reached for a plate from the cabinet—guessing where it might be—and gently transferred the muffins, one by one.

And then—

“Oh!”

A voice—sharp, lilting, soaked in amusement.

Jeanne turned.

A woman stood by the archway. Barefoot. Her heels clicking softly as she stepped in from the hallway like she owned the damn marble. She was dressed in silky loungewear too luxurious to be accidental, her hair in that slept-on-purpose way that only women with generational money pulled off.

Eyes sharp. Lips curled.

“I didn’t expect to see another woman here.”