He almost said Raphael's St. George and the Dragon. It was on the tip of his tongue, poised to fall, before he stopped himself.

It was Kate's favorite. Not his. He loved Raphael, but that painting specifically, he loved because of her.

His favorite.

His favorite painting in the whole world.

Neal crossed his arms and braced them against the countertop, unaware of the dreaminess in his blue eyes.

"There's never one favorite," he said, finally. "There's Monet's Water-Lily Pond, Symphony in Rose seen at twilight in the Musée d'Orsay the first time you ever walk through Paris alone. There's Whistler's Nocturne in Black and Gold under your gloves a moment before you kiss your partner because it's too perfect of a chance to let pass." He smiled tenderly at the memories hanging invisibly in the air. "There's a Haustenberg returned to its heirs and a museum that can't admit they have a fake without revealing they stole the real one in the first place."

He made a tiny, amused noise, focus dropping to the countertop again. "There's Degas' The Entrance of the Masked Dancers, and being among the first to see it since it disappeared a half a century ago."

Neal shrugged helplessly. "There's never one favorite. It's impossible."