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“Yeah…”

“About hurting me?”

A weak laugh escapes me. “No.”

“Good. Because I think I can survive nail polish.”

I roll my eyes, then bring the brush down. The first stroke is clumsy. Lavender bleeds over the cuticle beside his thumbnail, a tiny river against his skin.

“Oh.” I pull back. “I messed it up.”

Adrien examines it. “Looks purple to me.”

“Lavender,” I correct. “And it’s on your skin.”

“I’ll survive.”

I bite my lip. “Hold still.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

I glare at him as he laughs—a low, rumbling sound that calms me.

The second stroke goes better, the third even better, and by the time I finish his thumb, my hand is barely trembling.

Adrien keeps still and quiet the entire time, letting me concentrate. I paint each nail carefully, correcting the edges with a tool Adrien produces from the box.

By the fourth finger, I realize I’m enjoying myself—not really because I’m painting nails, but because Adrien looks beautifully ridiculous. A hand that should be holding a gun or a knife lies trustingly across my leg, each broad nail gleaming soft lavender in the afternoon light filtering through the window blinds.

I smile without meaning to.

Adrien catches it. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Kammie.”

I shake my head, still smiling. “You look…”

He waits.

“Pretty.” The word comes out hushed, fragile.

My smile falters. But nothing happens. No flinch, no laugh, no correction. Instead, he turns his hand slightly, admiring the wet shine.

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes soften almost imperceptibly. “I’ll take it.”

My heart feels so light. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Nothing bad happened, no one is angry, no one is going to hurt me.

The little bottle of lavender polish is just a bottle—not a threat, not a promise of pain. Just color.

My gaze drifts down to my own hands, now resting in my lap. My heart begins beating faster. I rub my thumb over the nail of my opposite hand before my eyes slide toward the open box still beside us.