“Smile again,” he whispered. I hadn’t smiled for him. Ever. Or laughed. Under the Mountain, I had never grinned, never chuckled. And afterward … And this male before me … my friend … For all that he had done, I had never given him either. Even when I had just … I had just painted something. On him. For him. I’d—painted again. So I smiled at him, broad and without restraint. “You’re exquisite,” he breathed.
