"What colors do you like," he asks.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because I don't know. I've never been asked. I've been handed things and told to wear them and the things were always grey or red and red is—
"Not red," I say.
Something in his face acknowledges that without making it a thing. "Not red," he says. "What else."
I look toward the window. Dark outside. Just the treeline against the Alaskan sky, the color that isn't grey and isn't blue, somewhere between them with no name.
"The forest," he says, following my gaze. "That deep green. Yes or no."
I think about the trees outside. Dense and dark and solid, the kind of green that doesn't apologize for itself.
"Yes," I say.
"The sky." He tips his chin toward the window. "That color on a clear, sunny day. Brilliant blue."
"Yes."
He nods. Takes it in. Moves on.
"What do you want to feel like when you're wearing it."
That one takes longer.
I think about Becky moving through that building like she owned it. The trainer in the gym who held my gaze a second too long. The table that went quiet.
"Like people think twice," I say.
His mouth shifts. "You already do that."
"I want to do it on purpose."
Something settles in his expression — not quite satisfaction, just the look of a man who has the information he needs and knows what to do with it.
"Strong," he says. "Not restricted."
"Yes."
"Comfortable enough you don't think about it. Not soft in a way that makes you smaller."
"Yes."
"Yours," he finishes.
That one hits somewhere I wasn't ready for. I breathe in.
"Yes," I say. "That."
A beat.
"I'll get you a few things to start," he says. "You try them. Keep what feels right. Toss what doesn't."
I look at him.
