Page 190 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“You brought extra reference material for that first-year last week.”

“He required it.”

“You remembered his thesis topic on amphibian venoms.”

“That is my job.”

“You’re soft.”

Camille turns his head slowly, the setting sun catching the silver in his eyes. I hide my grin behind another sip of overly sweet coffee.

“Say that again,” he demands jokingly.

“Tu es…” You are… I search for the French.

He waits.

Patient bastard.

“Doux?” Soft?

His eyebrows rise.

“What?”

“Technically correct.”

“But?”

“Depending on context, you have just called me soft, gentle, sweet, or possibly implied something about texture.”

I look at his chest. “Texture works.”

“Ryan.”

“French is a beautiful language.”

“You are corrupting it.”

“Colonizer.”

“I am French.”

“Exactly.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Neither does having masculine and feminine tables, but here we are.”

“Tables are feminine.”

“I know. I have suffered.”

Camille laughs, his head tipping back slightly, eyes closing. The scar at his temple catches the sunlight as I watch him, feeling so light.

There were moments when I thought we would never get here.

We didn’t magically become functional after Henri died.