He give me a conflicted look and touches his lips to my forehead, right between my eyebrows. I close my eyes. I don’t understand this, whatever it is. But I don’t want to ruin it, so I say nothing. He doesn’t move; he just stays there with his mouth pressed to my skin, and I stay there with my hands on his waist for a long time.

I am aware of how little space there is between us—six inches at most. That space feels charged with electricity. I feel like it should be smaller.

I wish we were alone,” I say. “I almost always wish that.” she says.

“I might be in love with you. I’m waiting until I’m sure to tell you, though.
’That’s sensible of you. We should find some paper so you can make a list or chart of something.’
’Maybe I’m already sure and I just don’t want to frighten you.
’Then you should know me better’
’Fine. Then I love you.” 


I just wanted to thank you’ he says, his voice low. ‘A group of scientists told you that my genes were damaged, that there was something wrong with me - they showed you the test results that proved it. And even I started to believe it.’ He touches my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone, and his eyes are on mine, intense and insistent. ‘You never believed it,’ he says ‘Not for a second. You always insisted I was… I don’t know, whole.