Chapter 2: The Red String and a Racing Heart
The silence in her bedroom was thick enough to chew on. Lauren lay sprawled across her bed, still in her plaid skirt and thigh-highs, her phone pressed against her chest like a holy relic. The screen was dark, but she could still see the words burned into her retinas—his last message, the one where he'd said he wanted to hear about her red string, the one she'd replied to with a joke about debriefings.
That had been eleven minutes ago.
Eleven minutes and forty-two seconds, if she was being precise, which she was, because time had become this strange, elastic thing that stretched and compressed around the possibility of his reply. She'd checked her phone eight times. Maybe nine. She'd stopped counting after the fifth because it felt pathetic, and she was trying very hard not to feel pathetic tonight.
Biscuits sat on the windowsill across from her, a mountain of orange-and-white Maine Coon fluff, watching her with those unblinking golden eyes. His tail flicked once, twice, a slow metronome of judgment.
"Don't look at me like that," Lauren muttered. "You don't understand."
Biscuits blinked, which she chose to interpret as you're absolutely right, I don't understand why you're lying in the dark staring at a phone when you could be petting me.
She turned her head toward the window. The rain had stopped, leaving the glass streaked with thin rivulets that caught the streetlight and glowed like silver threads. Her reflection stared back at her—dark hair mussed, pink highlights looking almost violet in the dimness, cheeks still flushed from the coffee shop. From him.
His name sent a little thrill down her spine. Liam. Just thinking it felt like a secret. A violation of the natural order. Lauren Hartley, who had never been pursued, never been looked at like she mattered, was lying in her childhood bedroom waiting for Liam Carter to text her back.
Downstairs, she could hear her parents' low murmur drifting up through the floorboards. Her father's laugh, warm and rumbling. Her mother's voice, melodic, asking about dinner. The clatter of dishes being loaded into the sink. The mundane symphony of family life, unchanged, while Lauren's entire universe was spinning off its axis in this room.
She should get up. She should change into something more comfortable—sweats, maybe, or her worn-out pajama shorts. She should stop staring at the ceiling and pretending the weight of his potential reply wasn't pressing against her ribs.
She did none of those things.
Instead, she replayed the coffee shop for the hundredth time. The way he'd slid into the booth like he belonged there, like he'd always been there. The way his leather jacket had creaked when he leaned forward, water still beading on the shoulders. The way he'd looked at her—really looked at her—like she wasn't just the shy girl in the back of Medieval Lit, but someone worth drowning out the noise for.
Amy's words echoed in her skull. He's into you. Like, really into you.
But Amy was also the girl who had hooked up with him last year. Who had called him kind, decent, no games. Amy's endorsement carried weight, but it also carried a strange, uncomfortable edge of knowing. Amy had seen him shirtless and had decided he was worth the time. Amy knew things Lauren could only imagine.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the thought. It didn't work.
Her phone buzzed.
The sound was electric, arcing through her entire body. She scrambled upright so fast her vision swam, fumbling with the device, nearly dropping it twice before managing to unlock the screen.
Liam's message glowed up at her.
"You free tonight? I'm at my place—the Kappa house on Elm. It's loud sometimes, but my room's quiet. I'd rather not discuss Chaucer with half the football team in the background."
Her heart stopped.
Then it restarted at double speed.
Tonight. He wanted to see her tonight. Her—Lauren Hartley, who had never been invited to a frat house in her life, who had always considered them alien territory populated by people who had never read a book for pleasure. And he wanted to see her there.
She stared at the message until the words started to blur.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard before she could overthink it, before the anxiety could catch up and talk her out of it. "Tonight works. I can be there in—" she did the math in her head, "—twenty minutes? Give or take."
The reply came faster this time, within seconds.
"Perfect. Door's unlocked, but knock anyway. I'll come get you. Also don't let Marcus scare you—he looks like a bouncer but he collects vintage cardigans. Total softie."
She let out a sound she'd never made before. A sort of strangled squeak, high-pitched and ridiculous, that had Biscuits leaping from the windowsill with an indignant yowl. She clapped both hands over her mouth, but the grin was irrepressible, stretching her cheeks until they ached.
He'd replied. He'd invited her. He was telling her about his roommate's cardigan collection like they were already—already something. Already friends, at least. Already people who texted each other about vintage cardigans.
The address came through a second later, a string of numbers and street names that she committed to memory immediately. Kappa house. Elm Street. She could walk there in fifteen minutes if she hustled. Maybe twelve, if she ran.
She swung her legs off the bed, landing on the plush rug with a soft thump. Biscuits watched from his new perch under her desk chair, ears flat, affronted. She paused long enough to offer him a quick scratch behind the ears.
"You'll forgive me," she told him. "When you hear about this."
He did not look like he'd forgiven her.
Downstairs, her father was laughing at something on television, and her mother was still in the kitchen. The smell of something warm and savory drifted up—leftovers, maybe, that they'd offer her when she inevitably came down. She should tell them where she was going. She should say something, anything, not just sneak out like a teenager breaking curfew.
But the words felt impossible. How was she supposed to explain this? "Hey Mom, Dad, the hottest guy on campus invited me to his frat house to talk about my Medieval Lit project, and I'm pretty sure I'm having a heart attack, but I'm going anyway."
Yeah. That would go over well.
She grabbed her backpack from beside her desk—the sturdy canvas one with the faded pin of a sword and shield, a gift from her father's conference trip years ago. She shoved her conspiracy board inside without ceremony, the pushpins rattling against the sides. Her notes followed, a jumble of index cards covered in messy handwriting, annotations in four colors of ink. The edges of the board scraped against the zipper, and she had to wrestle with it for a moment before it closed. She didn't know why she was bringing all of it. Maybe as a shield. Maybe as proof that she'd had a reason to come.
She pulled on her canvas coat—the one with the fleece lining and the slightly-too-big hood—and toed into her boots. They were practical boots, scuffed at the toes, built for campus winters rather than frat house front doors. She didn't care.
The stairs creaked beneath her feet. She was trying to be quiet, trying to slip out like a ghost, but her mother's radar was infallible.
"Lauren? Is that you? There's leftover chicken if you—" Her mother's voice trailed off as Lauren appeared in the living room doorway, coat on, bag on her back, cheeks flushed.
"Going out," Lauren said, the words coming out too fast. "A friend's place. Study stuff. I'll be back late, probably. Don't wait up."
Her father looked up from the television, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "A friend? Should we get the shotgun ready?"
"Dad." The word came out strangled, embarrassed, affectionate all at once.
He laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm kidding. Mostly. Have fun. Be safe."
Lauren's mother wasn't laughing. Her eyes were doing that thing they did, that careful assessment that saw straight through the casual tone to the trembling underneath. Her mouth opened, ready to ask a question, to probe deeper.
"No time!" Lauren said brightly, already moving toward the front door. "Love you both, bye!"
The door clicked shut behind her before either of them could respond.
The evening air hit her like a clean slate. Cool, crisp, carrying the smell of rain-soaked pavement and cut grass. The streetlamps had flickered to life, casting pools of amber light along the sidewalk. She hugged her backpack straps and started walking, her boots whispering against the wet concrete.
The coolness felt good against her burning cheeks. She could feel her pulse in her throat, her wrists, behind her eyes. A nervous energy hummed along her skin. Every step toward the Frat house was a step into unknown territory. She was reminded of all the fantasy novels she'd read, the quests and the thresholds and the moments where the heroine had to choose: stay in the safe, known world, or step through the door into something that could destroy her or change her.
She was stepping.
Elm Street was a glow of lights and noise when she reached it. The Kappa house was a sprawling Victorian that had been painted a deep, peeling burgundy at some point in its history, now patched with beer posters and a crooked banner advertising rush week. Music thrummed from the windows—not deafening, but persistent. The kind of background bass that made conversation a challenge but didn't require shouting.
She hesitated at the front porch steps, her heart hammering.
The door was unlocked. He'd said it was unlocked. But she'd also said she'd knock, and she didn't want to just—walk in. That felt too bold. She rapped her knuckles against the wood three times, the sound swallowed by the music almost immediately.
She waited. Shuffled her feet. Checked her phone. No new messages.
The door swung open.
A mountain of a man filled the doorway. Muscular, bearded, wearing a faded flannel shirt and holding a book—actually holding a book, a fantasy novel with a dragon on the cover. He blinked down at her with the mild confusion of someone woken from a trance.
"You the one Liam's waiting for?" His voice was a bass rumble, not unkind.
She managed to nod.
"Good. He's upstairs. Third door on the left." He stepped aside, gesturing her in with a jerk of his head. "Name's Marcus, by the way. He said you might be nervous. Don't be. He's just a guy."
"Just a guy," she echoed faintly, stepping past him into a hallway that smelled of stale beer, pizza grease, and something floral—air freshener straining to mask the rest.
Marcus pointed up the stairs. "Third door. Left. He's probably got his headphones on, so knock loud."
"Okay. Thanks."
She climbed the stairs, the wood creaking in a rhythm that matched her pulse. Party noise drifted from somewhere in the back of the house—laughter, a shout, a thud that might have been a beer pong ball. But the second floor was quieter, the music a muffled presence through the walls. There were framed posters of classic movies, a dry-erase board covered in scheduling notes and a crude drawing of what might have been a moose.
Third door. Left.
She stopped in front of it. She could hear music through the door—something indie, mellow, a stark contrast to the rap blasting from the floors below. She raised her hand, hesitated, raised it again.
Knocked. Three times, quick and nervous.
There was a rustle inside. Footsteps. She braced herself.
The door swung open.
Her mind simply... stopped.
He was standing there in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. Low-slung, riding his hips with an almost deliberate casualness. His torso was bare, and it was—it was a lot. A canvas of toned muscle, shoulders broad and cut like carved stone. She catalogued automatically: the defined line of his collarbone. The swell of his chest, smooth and sculpted. The geometric pattern of his abs, a roadmap drawing her eye downward, trailing the faint V-line that disappeared into the waistband of his sweats. His skin was tan, still carrying the memory of summer, with a few faint freckles scattered across his shoulders. He had a small scar above his right eyebrow, a thin white line she hadn't noticed before.
Her body reacted before her brain could catch up.
A wave of warmth flushed through her, starting low in her belly and spreading outward, settling between her thighs with a sudden, surprising intensity. It was an unfamiliar feeling, a hum of heat that she couldn't name, didn't have a category for. It pooled there, strange and insistent, as her eyes drank him in like she'd just discovered a new species.
She'd seen shirtless men in movies, in magazines—but they were images, flat. This was three-dimensional. He was all sharp angles and soft shadows under the dim lamplight of his room, and the sheer raw reality of him was stopping her breath.
She couldn't form words.
"Lauren." His grin spread slowly, warmth in his eyes. He didn't seem to notice her acute standstill. "You found the place."
"I—" her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat, forced it down. "Yeah. The guy downstairs pointed me up." She clutched the straps of her backpack like a lifeline.
He was leaning against the doorframe, bare skin catching the light. His gaze flicked to her bag. "You brought the board."
She nodded, mute.
"So you're really doing it. You're going to show me the red string." He sounded delighted. He was raking a hand through his hair—dark, unusually tousled. "Come in. Sorry about the state of things, I didn't plan on hosting, but I'm glad you're here."
He stepped back, holding the door wide, inviting her into his space.
Her feet moved on autopilot, carrying her across the threshold. His room was chaos documented—clothes on the floor, textbooks stacked crookedly on a desk, a guitar propped against the wall. But it was also clean in the way that mattered, the bed made, the air smelling faintly of his cologne and clean laundry.
She turned to face him, her heart pounding. The warmth was still there, ghosting against her skin.
"Liam," she started, and the sound of his name felt like a dare. Before losing her nerve, she decided to lean into it. "You didn't mention you'd be lacking a shirt."
He let out a surprised laugh, that easy sound of his. "Honestly? I thought a t-shirt might be showing off." He winked at her, a playful glint in his eyes. "Didn't want to make you self-conscious."
Her face flushed hot. He was outrageous. He was charming. And the heat between her thighs was sharpening into something achingly present. She wanted to say something witty and confident, to match his banter. But all she could manage was laughing, a breathless sound, and hoisting her backpack higher on her shoulder.
"Right," she said, her voice gone a little dry. "Well. I guess we should talk about Chaucer."
She was still holding her backpack like it might save her from drowning. The strap had dug a raw line into her palm, and she loosened her grip only to find her fingers trembling. Liam watched her with an ease that felt almost unfair, like he'd been expecting her to be flustered and had prepared for it.
"Chaucer," he repeated, savoring the word like it was a punchline only he understood. "Right. The man, the myth, the guy who wrote a thousand pages about people going on a road trip to tell stories."
She laughed despite herself. "That's actually not a terrible summary."
"I have my moments." He gestured toward his bed, then seemed to reconsider, glancing around the room as if seeing it through her eyes for the first time. The clothes on the floor. The stacked textbooks. The guitar propped against the wall like a forgotten hobby. "Sorry it's a mess. I wasn't exactly planning on hosting a medieval literature summit tonight."
"It's fine. It's—" she looked around, took in the scattered belongings, the half-open laptop, the worn copy of a fantasy novel on his nightstand that she recognized, "—it's real. I like it."
His eyebrows lifted. "You like my mess?"
"I like that it's yours."
Something flickered in his expression. A crack in the easy confidence, a hint of something softer underneath. He recovered quickly, but she'd caught it. The realization made her feel brave, so she toed off her boots, one then the other, letting them thud against the floor.
He moved toward her, and her breath caught. But he only reached past her for her coat, fingers brushing her shoulder as he eased it off. He hung it on the back of his door, smoothing the canvas fabric with an unexpected gentleness. When he turned back, he made no move to pull on a t-shirt.
She tried to focus on his face. She really did.
His eyes were the kind of brown that caught the lamplight and turned warm, almost honeyed. There was a slight asymmetry to his features, a faint crookedness to his nose that suggested it had been broken once, maybe twice. He looked like the kind of person who'd been in fights and laughed about them afterward. Her gaze betrayed her, sliding down to his shoulders, his chest, the way his collarbones cast shadows in the dim light.
She forced her eyes back up. "The board," she said, her voice too high. "I should show you the board."
"Yeah." His voice was rough, like he'd been holding his breath too. "Show me the board."
She dropped onto the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. She pulled her backpack into her lap and wrestled with the zipper, fumbling with the clasp until it finally gave way. The conspiracy board emerged, a tangle of pushpins and string and index cards covered in cramped handwriting.
"I started this at the beginning of the semester," she said, laying it across her knees. "I was reading the Knight's Tale, and I kept noticing these parallels with the Miller's Tale, and then I found this academic paper from the eighties that mentioned a connection I hadn't even considered, and—" she looked up, caught him watching her with an expression she couldn't read, "—you're going to think I'm insane."
"I already think you're insane." He sat down beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin. "But I think it's the good kind of insane. The kind that reads academic papers from the eighties for fun."
She smiled despite herself. "The paper was actually really good. It argued that the structure of the Tales mirrors the medieval pilgrimage route, and that Chaucer was deliberately subverting the traditional order by having the lower-class pilgrims tell the more subversive stories."
He leaned in, studying the board. His shoulder brushed hers, and she felt the contact like a brand. "So the red string is mapping the thematic through-lines?"
"Yes! Exactly!" Her voice came out fiercer than she'd intended. "Like, the Knight's Tale is all about chivalric love, but the Miller's Tale immediately undercuts it with this crude, physical humor. They're in conversation. The whole book is a conversation between classes, between genres, between ideas of what love actually means."
She was rambling again. She could hear herself, the words spilling out in a rush, but she couldn't stop. Her index finger traced the string from one index card to another, explaining the connections, the patterns she'd noticed late at night when she should have been sleeping.
When she finally paused to take a breath, she caught him staring at her.
Not at the board. At her.
His eyes were moving over her in a slow, deliberate sweep. From her face—her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted lips—down to her collarbones, visible at the neckline of her sweater. Lower still, past her waist, settling on the strip of bare skin between the hem of her pleated skirt and the tops of her thigh-highs. He looked at that strip of skin like it was the answer to a question he hadn't yet asked.
Her pulse stuttered.
"Liam," she started breathlessly.
"You're really pretty when you're explaining things." He said it simply, like it was just a fact, like he wasn't turning her entire world inside out with the weight of it. "I mean, you're pretty all the time. But when you're talking about something you love, you—" he gestured vaguely, "—glow."
She should have deflected. Made a joke. Changed the subject. But the words settled into her chest like a warm stone, and she couldn't bring herself to push them away.
"I'm not usually this talkative," she admitted. "I'm usually the quiet one in the corner."
"I noticed." His grin widened. "Figured I'd have to earn the conversation."
"And did you?"
He tilted his head, considering. "Still working on it."
Somehow, they had moved closer. She didn't remember shifting, didn't remember closing the distance between them, but suddenly his knees were bracketing hers, and she could count the individual lashes around his eyes.
The music in his room swelled—something slow, something with a soulful guitar line that seemed to fill the space between them like a third presence. She wasn't sure if he'd changed the track or if it had just been building this whole time, waiting for this exact moment to crest.
"We're sitting on your bed," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"We're sitting on my bed," he agreed, unhelpfully.
"It's just—I'm not usually—" she gestured weakly, encompassing the bed, the music, his bare chest, the impossible fact that he was looking at her like she'd somehow wandered into his orbit by accident, "—this."
"Me neither," he said, and the confession sounded honest. "Not like this."
Before she could ask what he meant, he stood, extending a hand toward her. She blinked up at him, confused.
"Dance with me."
"That's not a real request."
"It is." He wiggled his fingers. "Come on. The music's good. You can't let it go to waste."
She should say no. She didn't know how to dance. She'd never slow-danced with anyone, never been held that close, never had someone's hand pressed against her lower back while they swayed together. But she took his hand anyway, letting him pull her to her feet.
They stood in the small clearing between his bed and his desk, the music wrapping around them. He placed one hand on her waist, his palm broad and warm through the thin fabric of her sweater. His other hand cradled hers, their fingers laced together.
She rested her free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid curve of muscle beneath her palm.
"This is ridiculous," she murmured.
"Very." He pulled her closer, until they were chest to chest, until she could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his skin. "But you're not running."
His thumb traced a slow circle against her hip. They swayed together, a rhythm that wasn't quite the music, wasn't quite anything, just two people finding a tempo that worked for them.
"I'm not running," she confirmed, and found she meant it.
He spun her once, gently, and she laughed—a bright, surprised sound that felt unfamiliar. She laughed at how ridiculous this was, at how she'd gone from sitting in a coffee shop to dancing in his messy bedroom to this song she'd never heard before.
"See?" His grin was smug. "You're a natural."
"I tripped over my own feet twice."
"No, you didn't."
"I almost did."
"Almost doesn't count." He pulled her closer still, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke. "You're doing great, Lauren. Better than great."
She was supposed to be teasing him. She'd wanted to tease him. But his voice had gone rough, soft, and his hand had slid from her hip to her lower back, pressing her against him. She could feel the heat of him through her sweater. Through her skirt.
"Liam," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I think—" she lost the thought. He'd started swaying again, leading her in a slow circle around the room, and the motion was doing something to her brain, smoothing all the sharp edges until there was only this: the music, their bodies moving together, the quiet intimacy of it.
"I think," she tried again, "that you invited me here for Chaucer."
"I did." His voice was ground in leaves, rough and low. "I'm a terrible host."
"You're not terrible." She leaned into him, resting her cheek against his chest. His skin was warm against her face. "You're actually pretty good."
"Yeah?"
"Kind of annoyingly good."
He laughed, and the vibration of it rippled through his chest and into her bones. When they came to a stop, they were beside his bed again, and he didn't let go. His hands stayed on her, and her hand stayed on his shoulder, and they looked at each other.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked.
"Anything."
"I didn't ask you here for Chaucer."
She wasn't embarrassed to admit that she already knew that. She didn't call his bluff. She didn't pull away. Instead, a slow smile spread across her face, and she looked up at him through her lashes, a flicker of boldness catching fire in her chest.
"Sure, you didn't," she said, the tease light on her tongue. "That's why you had that whole 'I'm falling behind' speech rehearsed in the coffee shop."
His laugh was surprised, and she liked the sound of it. "You got me."
"Mm-hmm." She dropped her hand from his shoulder, tracing her fingers down his bare arm. His skin broke out in goosebumps. "You had this whole plan, and I was just—" she gestured at herself, "—an afterthought."
"God, no." He caught her hand, pressing it against his chest, over where his heartbeat was racing—racing, she could feel it thudding against her palm. "You're not an afterthought, Lauren. You're the complete opposite of an afterthought."
"Then what am I?"
The question hung between them, shimmering with possibility. He looked at her with a hunger he hadn't let her see before. His hand tightened on hers.
"You're the reason I can't remember what the Knight's Tale was about," he said. "You're the reason I've been thinking about that coffee shop all day. You're the reason I'm standing here, hoping you don't leave."
She wasn't expecting it to hit her like that. The air left her lungs in a rush.
"Liam—"
"I know." He lifted his free hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, gentle, almost reverent. "I know this is fast. I know you probably think I'm just some frat guy who does this all the time. And I—" he paused, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, "—I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling. But I know it's real. At least, it feels real."
She searched his face. She was expecting irony, distance, the polished performance of a guy who'd done this a hundred times. But his eyes were open, steady, waiting for her to decide.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She reached up, covering his hand with hers. "I'm not going anywhere."
The smile that spread across his face was different from the ones she'd seen before. This one was soft, almost shy. She liked it. She wanted to see it again.
They sank onto the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. She was aware of every point of contact: his leg pressed against hers, his hand still cradling her face, the warmth of him sinking into her skin through her sweater.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked.
She opened her mouth. The word froze in her throat. She couldn't find the air to answer.
His hand slid from her face down her arm, coming to rest on her thigh. His fingers traced the seam of her thigh-high stocking, teasing at the hem where her bare skin began. The touch was featherlight, testing, and when she didn't pull away, his palm settled there, high enough to make her breath catch.
"Lauren." He said her name like it was the only thing he knew. "Tell me this is okay."
"It's okay." The words came out rough, almost desperate. "It's more than okay."
"Do you want this?"
She could feel it building—the weight of the moment, the heat of him close enough to kiss, the possibility of everything shifting. But she wanted this. She looked into his eyes.
"Yes."
He leaned in. His other hand came up, lifting her face to his with a delicate finger under her chin, tilting her toward him. Her eyes fluttered closed.
The door slammed open with a crack that split the room apart.
"Liam, man, you've got—" A figure stumbled through the doorway, a plastic cup in one hand, a puka-shell necklace swinging wildly around his neck. He froze mid-step, taking in the scene: Liam's hand still under her chin, Lauren's legs still touching his, the charged air still crackling between them. "Holy shit, dude. I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't know you had someone here."
Liam's eyes snapped to the intruder, a flush creeping up his neck. "Jake. Now."
"I said I was sorry—"
"Now."
The guy—Jake—backed out, his hands raised in surrender. The door slapped shut behind him, and the silence that followed was anything but quiet. It rang with everything that had nearly happened, everything that had been interrupted.
Lauren let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her heart was still slamming against her ribs.
"Well." Her voice came out thin, pressed, but she forced a laugh. "That's one way to kill the mood."
Liam ran both hands through his hair, a flush on his cheeks. "That was—"
"Your roommate. I figured."
"I should kill him." He dropped his head into his hands. "I should genuinely end him."
"Please don't. He might be the only thing keeping me from making a terrible decision." She was joking, but there was a truth to it. She straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair, tried to gather herself. "I should maybe go."
"No." He looked up, his eyes aching with something she couldn't name. "Stay. Please. We can—we can just talk. For real this time. No touching, I promise."
The offer hung in the air. She could leave, slip out into the cool night, nurse this near-miss in the safety of her own room. She could forget how his hand felt on her thigh, how his voice went rough when he said her name.
She wasn't sure she could forget. She wasn't sure she wanted to.
"Okay." She leaned back against his pillows, tucking her legs beneath her. "Tell me about you. The stuff that isn't the frat guy performance."
His smile was crooked, uncertain, and she found it irresistible. He settled beside her, close but not touching, like they'd crossed an invisible line and were now mapping its boundaries together.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything," she said, and meant it.