You and Rafe sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, an open bag of tongue-dye taffy between you. The wrappers were everywhere bright, crinkly, and loud, like confetti after a party. You popped a blue one into your mouth and let it melt on your tongue while Rafe unwrapped a red one with exaggerated care, like it was some rare treasure.

“These taste like melted crayons,” you said, half-laughing, half-gagging.

“Yeah,” he replied, “but like, the good kind of crayons.”

You rolled my eyes and stuck your tongue out at him. “What color is it?”

He leaned in, squinting like he was inspecting alien life. “Blue. Really blue.”

“Let me see yours,” you said, and he grinned wide, his tongue a ridiculous cherry red.

“You are red!” You giggle.

You stared at each other for a second his dumb red tongue, you dumb blue one and then, you smirked.

“Wanna make purple?”

Rafe blinked. Then his grin turned into something crooked and daring.

“Oh,” he said, “absolutely.”