When I was five, I broke my wrist by falling off my bike. It still had its raining wheels, but I’d turned the handlebars too sharply and it flipped me onto the pavement. I’d reached out to catch myself when my wrist popped, twisting at an angle. I didn’t scream—I should’ve screamed. My dad didn’t even know anything was wrong as he watched me right my bike and pedal further down the road. He only noticed that something was wrong when I finally rounded the cul-de-sac and he saw that my wrist wasn’t holding the handlebars right.

I didn’t scream. But I should’ve. Breaking a bone hurts like hell. I remember it hurting like hell. But I never screamed. I never cried. I just got back up and kept pedaling.

Moral of the story: I was an insane kid. An insane kid with a high pain tolerance, apparently.

“True story, it was like I was hopped up on sugar 24/7. Or, like, cocaine. I went a mile a minute, all the time. My parents had no idea how to handle me. Looking back, I kind of feel bad for them.” I looked up at him, aware I’d been rambling, aware that I was probably talking too much, but I couldn’t get myself to stop. It was like he pulled out the stopper that kept everything from draining out, and it came rushing all at once. “Have you, uh, ever broken any bones?”

Beck’s resting face was a contented mask, a contented line tipping at his mouth, eyes resting and a smoldering gunmetal gray. I tried to find any trace of purple in it, but it was too dark out for me to be able to see clearly. I convinced myself that it was just me, my mind playing tricks.

“Bones…no, I don’t think I have.” He shifted a little closer to me as we walked along, the hand closest to me out of reach in his jeans’ pockets, the other holding a plastic bag full of take-out food from the diner. There’d be no hand holding as we walked along. I couldn’t tell if he’d done that on purpose. Stop overthinking. I glanced to the side, recognizing the landscape. “Where do you live, again?”

“On Fletching Road. Just on the edge of town. In one of the apartment houses.”

Apartment houses. Cute. But despite that, my pulse launched into a quick beat. We’d been dating for almost two months now, and this was the first time I would be seeing his apartment. He hasn’t seen mine. But there seemed to be a weight associate with going home with him, even though nothing would happen.

“I walk by Fletching Road all the time,” I told him, crossing my arms over my chest. “I babysit a kid on the road next to it. Probably like a five-minute walk.”

Beck glanced at the yellow house with the purple mailbox as we wandered past, and I pointed it out. I told him about Cassian, about how he liked to paint his nails and like it went I braided his hair, still loved action figures and playing baseball, and always made me read one of his adventure chapter books whenever I came over.

I could still remember the first time Mrs. Michaels hired me to watch Cassie, when he was three. Mom didn’t want me babysitting so young—thirteen—but Mrs. Michaels was desperate. He seemed so little—he was still so little—and after a year of knowing him and learning his mannerisms, it made me feel like a big sister. And now, even after my parents were gone, being a big sister made me feel warm.

Beck reached over and pried my arms apart with his free hand, curling his fingers around mine. It was a quiet movement, almost silent, except for the rattle of the take-out bag. I leaned against him, leaned my head against his shoulder, walking along with a sprint to my step. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Oh, gosh, two brothers. The worst kids in the world, and I’ll swear by it.” His words said one thing, but the affectionate glint in his eyes made me think otherwise. “One’s older but he doesn’t act like it. The other is a few years younger.”

“You don’t talk much about your family.”

“Not much to talk about.” He let out a sigh. “We weren’t close. Not really. We grew up apart from each other, mostly because I…I can’t think of the word. What’s it called when you join the military?”

I looked up at him in surprise. “You enlisted?”

“Yes, that. I enlisted at a young age. Where I’m from, the enlistment age is lower than it is here. Just by a few years.” Beck glanced down to his boots, then over to my sandals. “And then my younger brother enlisted, too, and we were all just separated. Which is all right. Where I’m from, the military becomes like a second family.”

We walked along in silence for a while after that, unsure what to think. It seemed strange that Beck would’ve been in the military—I just couldn’t picture it. Sure, he was built for it, with wide shoulders and muscle, but I never would’ve imagined it. Everything about him seemed more athletic than warlike.

And the information about his brothers made me realize how little we’d shared about each other, or, at least on his end. I mean, I knew he was from a city called Luyah—I kept forgetting to look it up on Google—but where was that? If the enlistment age was lower there, was it a country? Was it an island? In Europe? Asia? With his pale skin and reddish hair, I had no idea. And those purple eyes—what was up with that?

I glanced out of the corner of my eye to find Beck watching me, gaze soft and a little curious. I looked back, and we were trapped in a moment. At least for a couple seconds. “Why is one of your eyes a different color than the other?”

I blinked, closed my eyes. “It’s called heterochromia iridium. For me, it’s genetic.”

“Genetic,” he echoed, and then smiled. “It’s pretty. Very unique.”

“Fits my name,” I huffed. “What about your eyes?”

“My eyes?”

“Well, when you came by after my shift your eyes were this dark purple color. But now they look…”

“Gray?”

I nodded, wincing as a car drove by us, their headlights flashing across our bodies. Beck didn’t even wince; he stared into the bright lights with an expression I couldn’t decipher. It looked almost like longing, which didn’t make any sense. “It’s just a trick of the light, is all.”