CYAN
I would find myself back in that dim kitchen at three o'clock in the morning. I could hear the faint, steady hiss of oil on the stove, and the heavy, rich smell of garlic and butter warming the air.
I remembered the way the yellow light had been left burning in the narrow hallway, casting a long line across the floorboards so I wouldn't have to navigate the dark corners after my nightmares woke me.
I could see Nick's face clearly in my mind, the way he looked when he turned around from the frying pan, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion, wearing that particular, hesitant look of a man who was doing something kind but hadn't decided yet whether he was going to admit to it.
I remembered the smooth leather couch where he had made me lie down, and the rough, heavy green wool blanket that had appeared over my shoulders without any grand speech or acknowledgment. It had just been placed there, warm and real, while I shook.
