Page 137 of Immune

“He’ll bleed on you,” she tells me.

I huff playfully. “Bit dramatic of him, if you ask me.”

“He’s a dramatic guy,” she mutters under her breath, like she’s sharing state secrets.

Kaito opens one eye from across the room before he says, “I can actually hear you. The room isn’t all that big.”

Dakota doesn’t even look at him when she snaps, “Bleed quieter.”

He closes his eye again, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Laughing will absolutely get me murdered, and while I’ve had a pretty good run, I’m not really ready to go out yet just because Dakota decided to weaponize bedside manner.

Her gaze drops to her nails, only for a second, and then she looks away again. The black polish is chipped to hell. She keeps noticing it and then not noticing it. Kind of the same as the hat. Same as the way her hand shot up to the brim of it earlier when I said she had dust on it.

The hat matters. The nails matter. And the way she keeps pretending like they don’t matter definitely matters.

I shouldn’t say anything. In fact, this is the part where a smarter man would leave it. It’s the most tragic character flaw of mine that I’m only smart in random bursts. I mean, I’m not stupid, but I didn’t once claim I was a genius or anything.

That’s why I end up saying, “Black suits you.”

The entire corner turns as still as stone.

Brilliant. Well done, Ewan boy. You just go ahead and find the landmine, step on it, and then admire the way your body pieces scatter across the fucking ground.

Dakota’s voice turns flat. “What?”

“Your nails,” I tell her, keeping my voice light, but not too light. Too much of a joke here and she’ll think I was trying to avoid the tough shit. Too little and she’ll hear pity. But I’ve dug my grave now, so I might as well jump in and make myself comfortable. “They suit you.”

“They’re practical,” she tells me emotionlessly.

“Are they?”

“Yes.”

“Tactical nails?” I push, eyeing the chipped paint. I’ve never known anyone whose stare could peel paint the way hers can, and so I nod solemnly. “I guess that makes sense. Classified equipment.”

“Incredible,” she mutters.

“Government issue?” I ask nonchalantly.

“There’s no government,” she points out, as if she thinks I’m actually that level of stupid.

I counter it. “Then stylish rebellion. Anarchy. I like it.”

For a second, there’s nothing.

But then she breathes out of her nose. Not a laugh, but the cousin of a laugh. Twice removed. Raised absolutely feral. The kind the family avoids. And I’ll take it.

Her thumb rubs over the chips in the polish. Once. Twice. Hard enough that I think she might be trying to scrape some kind of memory off them. Then, very quietly, she says, “My brother used to paint them.”

My brain shuts its mouth with a snap of teeth, which is a rare occurrence. We should mark the calendar.

I don’t ask her brother’s name. I don’t ask where he is. And I definitely don’t ask if he’s dead, because I’m not an idiot and her voice has already given me enough of an answer to physically hurt.

Her brother.

The cap. The nails. The hand flying to the brim. The way she guards that hat like it’s got her heartbeat stitched into the seams.

Right.