Yet unexpectedly and inexplicably, the hurt becomes mournful. An unbidden wistfulness stings my throat and extinguishes the heat. For the life of me, I can’t justify that. Cerulean’s finger perches beneath my chin and levels my gaze with his. “What is this expression you wear?” he asks. “I don’t understand it.” For once, he’s serious. I’d go so far as to say he’s being genuine, his gaze jumping all over my face, unspoken questions stacking like bricks. Whatever his reaction, it straddles the line between fascinated and troubled.
