Cyan
Noah was standing right between Cassian's knees, close enough that the fabric of their clothes were brushing.
There wasn't any room for interpretation, no way to misunderstand the meaning of the space between them.
Noah's hands were resting flat against Cassian's broad shoulders.
His face was bright red, his mouth moving rapidly as he spoke, his shoulders twisting in that familiar, flustered way he always did when he was embarrassed and couldn't stop his own tongue from running.
Cassian was just listening. His eyes were locked onto Noah's face, that rare smile never wavering, his features holding a deep, undeniable tenderness that made my own blood turn to ice water in my veins.
My hand stopped on the chrome. My boots went completely rigid against the linoleum.
Everything inside my head just died.
The relief hit me first, heavy and true. He's alive. He's sitting upright. His chest is moving on its own. He made it back.
