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And he is sitting here, completely serious, holding out his hand so I can paint his nails.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“You’d actually let me?”

“I’m asking you to.”

“Why?”

Adrien looks toward the box. “Because if part of you still thinks polish means something bad happens afterward, maybe it’ll help to see it on me first.”

I stop breathing for a second.

The simplicity of it hurts.

He continues, “You paint mine, then we’ll sit here, maybe color afterward, maybe eat something. Tomorrow the polish will still be there, and I’ll still be fine.” His palm remains open between us, calluses visible along the heel of his hand. “And if you decide that’s as far as you ever want to go with it, that’s fine.”

I look down at his fingernails—short, clean, and utilitarian.

“Um… Which color?”

“You choose.”

A nervous flutter stirs in my stomach. I slide off his lap but keep my side pressed against his as I lean forward to retrieve the box. The glass bottles clink softly against one another as I lift it.

I breathe.

The colors are even softer up close. My fingers hover over them as I think about which to choose.

I pick up the lavender. “This one, maybe?”

Adrien glances at the bottle. “Lavender it is.”

“You’re really going to walk around with lavender nails?”

“I’ve walked around with worse.”

“Like what?”

“Blood, mostly.” He says it flatly, like noting the weather.

I stare at him.

He shrugs. “Sorry, that was supposed to lighten the mood.”

My face scrunches up. “It did not.”

Adrien smiles.

I ignore him and focus on twisting the bottle open. My hands shake a little as the seal breaks with a small pop.

Adrien spreads his fingers across my thigh, giving me a flat surface to work on.

I wipe the brush against the glass neck, excess polish sliding back into the bottle like I remember doing as a kid.

“Nervous?”