Page 385 of Immune

My scent floats through the breeze every time the wind changes direction, wild honey and rain freely floating aroundme now. Not buried and not panicked. Not hidden under crappy blockers, Betastink, and fear.

It’s still pretty weird, though. Obviously.

Maine dips the brush again. The polish is black, glossy, and perfect. Annoyingly perfect, but the asshole keeps trying to ruin it with glitter.

“You got better at this,” I comment quietly, holding my breath while I keep perfectly still while he’s painting a line of polish at the corner of my nail. One mistake and I’ll have more of it on my skin than nails.

He gives my hand a very careful turn, mindlessly muttering, “Had practice.”

My eyes move to the roses lying beside my boots. They’re not fresh, but they’re not dying either. They’re pressed. Preserved. Seven of them in total, all sealed in a thin wooden frame he built himself. Dark red petals behind glass, soft as a memory that finally learned how not to cut.

The roses he never got to give me.

The ones he carried his guilt in for seven years.

He gave them to me this morning without a speech. Just stood in the doorway of my room, looking like he might flee his own emotions, and held it out to me. I called him an idiot, then I cried into his shirt for fourteen minutes like I was sixteen again and needed my brother more than anything in this world.

It was very undignified. Super embarrassing. Would not recommend.

“You’re staring at them again,” he points out a little distractedly as he tries painting my nails without adding more splotches to my skin.

I nod seriously. “I’m checking for spiders.”

“In pressed flowers? Behind glass? Really?”

“Spiders are tricky fuckers, Maine. They adapt,” I tell him like I’m sharing state secrets he should already know.

His mouth twitches. “You like them that much?”

I eye him, then the flowers, then him again. With a nonchalant shrug and a cool once-over, I mutter, “Eh, they’ll do.”

“You sobbed,” he volleys, calling me out for no good reason.

“I was actually dehydrated, you inconsiderate asshole. Have some compassion,” I retort dramatically, shaking my head at him like I’m disappointed.

He pauses his painting. “You bit me when I tried to hug you tighter.”

“Affection dehydration. No cure for it, sorry.”

He laughs, and I love the sound before I can stop myself. A year ago, that laugh would have hurt me too much to hold even with gloves covering my hands. It still hurts now, only differently. Like a healed bone before it rains, or a scar that remembers but doesn’t reopen every time you breathe.

Maine paints my thumbnail next with a ridiculous amount of care.

“You know,” I mutter quietly, trying not to ruin his focus. “You used to do this faster.”

“You used to move less,” he argues.

“I was twelve.”

“You were feral.”

“I was a delight and you know it,” I shoot back, playfully glowering at the dick.

He pauses his painting once more to give me a disbelieving look. “You glued a bottle cap to my pillow.”

“Yeah, and? It gained emotional value,” I point out.

A pale eyebrow raises on his forehead. “It had milk in it.”