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Remy flips through them, his face transforming from one color to the next. His forehead tenses, jaw tightening with each one. “Just colors,” he begins muttering. “Not feelings. Just colors. Not bad. Just colors.” Eventually, he glances up, noticing our confused expressions, and freezes. He looks uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just…. Vinny and Sy say I need to find the good in every color. But, like—” He flashes a neon yellow swatch at us. “A guy can only handle so much.”

“Not that one,” Pace says, snatching it out of his hand and throwing it onto the floor. “I prefer our eyes not to bleed.”

Remy exhales, shoulders loosening. “I’ll need my kit for the mural.”

“The mural?” I ask.

“Something right here,” he lifts his hands, fingers making a picture square, “over the crib.”

“How did you know the crib would be there?” Pace asks.

“Best angles for security, of course.” He shrugs. “And the natural light, obviously.” I’m starting to understand that Remy doesn’t just see things that we don’t. He sees everything all at once.

“That sounds good,” I tell him. “Is there anything else you’ll need?”

He rubs idly at his chest as he inspects the plaster. “I’ll send you a list, and then we can figure out a schedule.”

“Oh,” I grimace. “Yeah, we can’t do it on a schedule. It has to be on a certain day.”

“And finished on the same day,” Pace adds. “For the surprise.”

“One day?” Remy asks, gaze going back to the wall, like he sees something already there. “That’s going to be tight.” He thinks on it for a moment longer. “But yeah. Okay.” I’m not expecting his next question. “So what’s he like?”

“Who?” I ask, only because Remy looks straight at me.

“The baby.”

I give Wicker a confused look. “He’s, uhhh…”

“Cantaloupe,” Wicker drawls. “That’s about the extent of our knowing him asa fetus.”

But that’s not entirely true, is it?

“He’s really active at night,” I say, thinking of Verity waking up at two every night.

Pace adds, “And she says he seems calmest when he hears music.”

Remy’s expression turns curious. “What kind of music?”

“Classical stuff,” he answers, sliding his gaze to Wicker. “Cello.”

Remy follows his gaze to Wicker. “Oh,” he says, brow knitting together. “He’s yours.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Wick bursts with a flare of annoyance. “He might come out brown like Pace—you fuckers don’t know.”

Remy just snorts. “It’s like the molding. I know dibs when I see them.” But he freezes abruptly, all the blood draining from his face. “Wait, would that make me…?”

I watch Pace carefully, knowing this is a point of tension for him. We’re different from other people. To us, blood ties are a big deal. Sometimes they're dangerous and worth keeping secret, but other times, they’re enormous. Maybe, for once, theycan even be somethinggood. Something that doesn’t need to be hidden and whispered about in dark, quiet places.

To my relief, Pace just shoves two fists in his pockets, head bowed. “Biologically, you’ll be his uncle.”

Remy blinks furiously, scanning the walls like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “That’s… that’sheavy. That’s a lot of responsibility.”

Wicker looks like he’s about to lose it. “For you?! It’s not like you’ll be paying child support here.”

But Remy just shakes his head, and since I can see it coming from a mile away, I step out of the doorway, anticipating his next words.

“I have to go?—”