The compliment punches all the air out of my chest because she does not hand those out unless bribed, threatened, or worried.
“Oh,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Don’t cry. You’ll ruin the face paint.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
“Good. Save that for when he asks whether the sports bar has emergency exits before complimenting your dress.”
I laugh because she is almost certainly right.
A shadow falls across the awning.
Darlene’s mouth curves. “And here comes trouble with shoulders.”
I turn.
Kauss stands at the corner of Lark and Mercy, and for one shining second, my entire brain forgets language.
He is not wearing the battered hooded coat.
That should not be as devastating as it is. He has found, borrowed, bought, or somehow constructed actual date clothes, though calling them clothes feels inadequate. He wears dark trousers that fit his enormous frame, heavy boots cleaned until the black leather shines, and a deep charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms because apparently the universe wants me personally destroyed. The fabric pulls across his chest and shoulders in ways that should probably be illegal in several jurisdictions. His ebony scales catch faint red highlights beneaththe streetlamp, and the scars on his face seem harsher without the hood, but also braver, because he is not hiding them.
He sees me.
He stops walking.
Stops completely.
A delivery skiff honks two streets over. Rain ticks from the awning. Somewhere, Darlene makes a small satisfied sound that I will later deny hearing.
Kauss does not blink.
Heat rises in my cheeks, throat, and somewhere much lower that I refuse to discuss with myself in front of an elderly witness. “Hi.”
His mouth opens slightly.
No sound comes out.
Darlene leans toward me and murmurs, “Emergency engineering support.”
I elbow her without looking.
Kauss finally seems to remember that breathing is part of continued life. “Evie.”
“That is my name.”
“You look…” He stops.
I wait, smiling because he looks genuinely distressed by the inadequacy of vocabulary.
His hands flex once at his sides. “You look beautiful.”
The words are low and rough and simple, and I feel them everywhere.
“Oh.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. “Thank you. You look very handsome.”
His brow shifts as if the word has struck him from an unexpected angle. “I am not certain that applies.”
