“The kind of blue that changes depending on what you wear.” His voice drops lower. “Sometimes light, sometimes darker. Never quite the same twice.”
His description feels… personal. I try to catch his eyes, but he keeps his gaze fixed ahead.
“You’ve thought about this color a lot,” I murmur, a strange warmth spreading through my chest.
He snorts. “Not really.”
“Liar.”
“Says the queen of ‘I’m fine.’”
My arms tighten around his neck—not enough to choke him, just enough to let him know I heard that. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his back and into my chest.
“It’s just a color.” His thumb draws circles on my thigh. “But it’s… complicated. Mysterious. You think you understand it, then the light shifts and suddenly you’re seeing something completely different.”
Is he still talking about a color?
“Sounds like you have a relationship with this blue,” I joke, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s done talking. Then: “Maybe I do.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a flip or skip or whatever hearts do when they’re trying to tell you something important.
“What’s your relationship status with midnight blue?” he asks, his tone lighter.
“Committed. Ride or die. That blue’s never disappointed me.”
“Unlike most things.”
It’s not a question, and somehow that makes it worse. I start humming softly, an old lullaby Rosa taught us, filling the comfortable silence.
“I know that one,” Julien says after a moment.
“Sorry. Just something Rosa used to sing.”
“Don’t apologize. I like it.” He gentles his tone. “Makes me remember good times.”
I continue humming, quieter now but deliberate, until the trees give way to a small clearing, and beyond that, I can make out rooftops.
A village comes into clearer view as we approach—small, modest homes arranged along what was probably once a street with kids playing or barbecue on Sundays. Now they stand in silence. Some with doors hanging open, others with windows shattered, cars abandoned in the middle of the road, driver’s doors ajar.
Julien slows his pace. “Looks empty, but stay alert.”
He moves cautiously toward a small yellow-striped two-storey with intact windows and a door.
“This one.” He sets me on my feet beside the porch steps. “Stay here while I check inside.”
“No.” I grab his arm. “We stick together, remember?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Stay behind me.”
SIXTEEN
DAKOTA
The front door is locked. Julien tries the windows next, finding one unlatched at the side of the house. He opens it, then helps me climb through before following.
We land in what looks like a small home office, desk still covered with papers and coffee mugs as if the owner just stepped out for a moment.
