Chapter 4: Celestial Revelation
The heavy door groaned shut, swallowing the distant sounds of campus life. The air in the observatory was still and cold, smelling of dust and old metal. Moonlight poured through the vast domed windows, painting everything in stark shades of silver and charcoal.
“Hana, we really shouldn’t be in here,” Ken whispered, his voice tight. His eyes darted around the shadowy forms of dormant telescopes and control panels. “This is seriously off-limits. If campus security—”
She didn’t let him finish. She moved into his space, a sleek, black silhouette against the star-flecked windows, and kissed him. The taste of latex was sharp and industrial on his lips, a shocking contrast to the soft warmth of her mouth. It was a quick, sealing kiss that stole his breath and his protest in one go.
When she pulled back, her glasses were faintly fogged. “Then you’d better be very quiet,” she breathed, her voice a low thrum that echoed in the vast, silent room.
His argument died in his throat. He was transfixed.
She turned, presenting her back to him. The full-length zipper of the catsuit gleamed in the moonlight, a single, dark silver track running from the nape of her neck all the way down. She reached back, her gloved fingers finding the pull at the top. With a slow, deliberate motion, she began to tug.
The sound was not a zip. It was a long, slow tear, like the most expensive silk being ripped in two. It echoed faintly in the cavernous space, a blatant, vulgar noise that made him flinch and glance nervously towards the door.
But he couldn’t look away for long. The zipper parted, revealing a sliver of moon-pale skin. Inch by agonizing inch, the suit peeled open. The shadow of her spine became a tangible groove down her back, a delicate pathway his eyes traced down to where the suit still clung stubbornly to her hips. The cold air hit the exposed skin, and he saw a fine ripple of goosebumps rise in its wake.
She shivered, a full-body tremor that was both vulnerability and power. She let the top of the suit fall forward, caught in the crook of her elbows, baring her back completely to him and to the moonlight. The contrast was breathtaking: the severe, high-gloss black framing the soft, living canvas of her skin.
“Well?” she said, not turning around. Her voice was a little unsteady now, the confidence laced with a raw nerve. “Are you just going to stand there?”
That broke the spell. He closed the distance between them, his footsteps unnaturally loud on the concrete floor. His hands, when he placed them on her bare shoulders, were trembling. Her skin was cool, but the heat of her radiated from beneath. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the space between her shoulder blades. She gasped, a sharp intake of air that seemed to be swallowed by the domed ceiling.
He kissed a trail along the line of her spine, his hands sliding down from her shoulders, following the parting of the suit. The rubber edges were sharp against his palms, the skin beneath impossibly soft. He felt the compact strength of her, the quiet diligence of the study partner he’d known for months, now unleashed in this terrifying, glorious form.
“The custom suit,” he mumbled against the small of her back, the words dawning on him. “You took my measurements… for this?”
She glanced over her shoulder, a wicked glint in her eye. “A girl has to be prepared.” She slowly turned to face him, holding the front of the suit up against her chest. The open back made her movement a new kind of seduction, a controlled unveiling. “Your turn.”
He blinked. “My… what?”
“Your jacket. Your shirt.” She said it like it was the most obvious next step in a lab experiment. “I want to feel it. The rubber. Against my skin. Against yours.”
His hands fumbled with the zipper of his own coat, his fingers suddenly clumsy. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud. He pulled his sweater over his head, then his t-shirt, the cold air raising goosebumps on his arms and chest. The vulnerability was acute, standing half-naked in this forbidden, monumental space.
Hana stepped forward into his arms. The second she made contact, he understood. The cool, slick rubber of the suit’s open back pressed against his bare chest. It was a shocking, electric sensation. The unyielding material molded the shape of her shoulder blades, her spine, into his skin. He could feel every breath she took, every shift of muscle, transmitted through the glossy membrane.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her gloved hands in his hair. The latex squeaked faintly against his scalp. “See?” she whispered, her mouth close to his ear. “Better than a movie.”
He laughed, a choked, breathless sound. “God, yes.”
They stood like that for a long moment, entangled in the moonlight, two bodies sharing heat and a secret. The city hummed far below, a distant galaxy of its own. Up here, they were the only two people in the universe.
Then, a sharp, metallic clang echoed from somewhere deep in the building below. A door slamming.
They froze.
Ken’s eyes went wide. Every muscle in his body locked. Hana’s grip on his hair tightened.
Footsteps. Heavy, measured, and undeniably coming up the spiral staircase that led to the observatory deck.
“Shit,” Ken breathed, the word barely audible.
Panic flashed across Hana’s face, erasing the dominatrix, leaving just a terrified college student caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. Her eyes darted toward the discarded telescope covers, the deep shadows in the corner.
The footsteps grew louder, closer. A beam of light—a flashlight—bounced off the curved walls of the stairwell.
“Quick,” Ken hissed, grabbing her hand and his pile of clothes. He pulled her toward the largest telescope, a monstrous thing pointing at the moon. They ducked behind its massive, counterweighted base, squeezing into the narrow, dark space between cold metal and the cold wall.
It was a tight fit. The open back of Hana’s suit pressed fully against his chest now, the rubber a cold, continuous shock. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a glossy black cage. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to still his own breathing.
The observatory door swung open with a long, weary creak.
The flashlight beam swept across the room, slicing through the moonlight. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, glinted off a brass fitting, and passed directly over their feet. Ken held his breath. Hana had gone completely rigid in his arms.
The beam paused, scanning slowly. They heard a grunt. The security guard was old, his movements heavy with boredom. The light swept away, toward the control panel.
For a full minute, there was only the sound of the guard’s slow, shuffling steps and the hum of the city. Ken’s mind raced. What was their story? Studying? Stargazing? They were half-dressed, hiding behind a telescope. There was no story.
Then, the footsteps began to recede. The guard muttered something to himself, a grumble about “kids and their damn parties.” The door groaned shut again. The heavy bolt on the other side slid home with a definitive, echoing thunk.
Silence. Deep, profound, and absolute.
They stayed frozen for another thirty seconds, listening to the footsteps fade down the stairwell.
Slowly, the tension leaked out of them. Hana let out a long, shuddering breath, her head falling back against his shoulder. Ken rested his forehead against the latex between her shoulder blades, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Oh my god,” Hana whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and delirious relief.
He couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled up from his chest, quiet at first, then gaining strength until he was shaking against her. The absurdity of it—the terror, the intimacy, the sheer, stupid risk—was overwhelming.
She turned in his arms, her face pale in the moonlight, and then she was laughing too, a silent, breathless shaking that made her glasses slip down her nose.
“We are never,” he gasped, “doing that again.”
“Liar,” she whispered, her eyes bright with adrenaline and triumph. She reached up and adjusted her glasses, her latex-clad finger leaving a smudge on the lens. She looked at the smudge, then back at him, and her expression shifted. The fear was gone, replaced by a deep, simmering heat. The close call had stripped away everything but the raw need.
The locked door, the abandoned tower, the moon watching through the glass—they were trapped. And for the first time that night, there was no need to be quiet at all.
The echoing thud of the bolt sealing them in seemed to unlock something primal between them. Their relieved laughter died in their throats, replaced by the sharp, shared rhythm of their breathing. The narrow space behind the telescope hummed with a new, urgent energy.
He moved first. His hands, which had been clutching his crumpled clothes, let them fall. They found the bare skin of her back, his palms flattening against the warmth he had only just kissed. The cold rubber edges of the open suit framed his touch, a shocking border between the slick and the soft.
She gasped, her head tilting back against the cold metal of the telescope base. His thumbs pressed into the tight muscles flanking her spine, tracing the path his lips had taken moments before. This was different from the movie theater glove, different from her guiding his hands in his bedroom. This was his exploration, his claiming.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured into her shoulder, his voice rough.
“It’s the adrenaline,” she breathed, but her hands came up to grip his bare forearms, her latex-covered fingers cool on his skin. “And you.”
He turned her slowly in the confined space until she faced him. The open front of the suit gaped, held up only by her clenched arms, revealing the pale, vulnerable curve of her breasts. His gaze was a physical weight. He didn’t speak. He simply looked, his eyes dark and serious in the moonlight, and the intensity of his silent study made her feel more exposed than the unzipped suit ever could.
Then he touched her. Not with hunger, but with a reverence that stole her breath. His fingertips brushed the line of her collarbone, then drifted lower, tracing the sensitive skin just above the bunched latex. The touch was feather-light, questioning. Her skin bloomed with heat under his trail, every nerve ending screaming to life.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low.
She could only manage a shaky nod, her own hands moving to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under her palms. He leaned in, closing the last inch of space, and his mouth found the hollow of her throat. The sensation was electric, a jolt that arced through her entire body. Her grip on the suit faltered.
The heavy material slid down her arms with a soft, rustling sigh, pooling at her waist and leaving her chest bare to the cool air and his heated gaze. He didn’t hesitate. His hands came up to cradle her, his touch firm and certain, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. A sharp, broken sound escaped her, part gasp, part moan, and she buried her face in his neck.
“You planned all of this,” he whispered against her ear, his hands still moving, learning the weight and feel of her. “The tower. The suit. Everything.”
“The measurements were the hardest part,” she confessed, her words muffled against his skin. “You fidget in your sleep.”
He laughed, a warm, delighted sound that vibrated through her. His mouth found hers again, but this kiss was different. It was deeper, slower, a conversation without words. It was full of the terror of almost being caught and the breathtaking freedom of being truly, completely alone.
His hands slid from her breasts, down her sides, coming to rest on the latex still encasing her hips. He hooked his fingers into the waistband. “And this?” he asked, his voice thick with wanting. “Can I?”
Hana leaned back, just enough to see his face. The moonlight caught the lens of her glasses, obscuring her eyes, but her smile was a brilliant, unguarded curve. She released her hold on the suit completely, letting her arms fall to her sides in silent, total surrender.
“It’s your turn to unzip me,” she said.
His fingers found the small, cool metal pull at the small of her back. The sound this time was not a slow tear but a quick, decisive series of clicks, like a lock disengaging. The suit, already loose, slackened completely around her hips.
It fell in a heavy, glossy pool around her ankles with a soft, definitive thump. She stepped out of it, a pale figure in the moonlight, and kicked it gently aside. The air was biting on her skin, but the heat in his gaze was a tangible counterpoint. She was completely bare, and for a heartbeat, she felt a flicker of the old Hana, the one who hid behind textbooks and silence.
Then he said, “Wow,” and the word was so simple, so utterly devoid of art, that it grounded her. He wasn’t looking at a fantasy. He was looking at her.
“Your pants are a problem,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
He fumbled with his belt, his coordination undone. She watched, a small smile playing on her lips, until his impatience mirrored her own. She reached out and helped, her latex-clad fingers making quick, efficient work of the button and zipper. The contrast of the slick black material against the denim was absurd and electric.
He pushed his clothes down, his skin prickling in the cold. There was no time for grace. He pulled her against him, and the feeling of her bare skin everywhere, after so much barrier, was almost too much. The cold metal of the telescope base pressed into her back as he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms locking around his neck.
There was no slow tease now, no controlled demonstration. It was raw need, a direct and urgent connection. He entered her in one fluid motion, and she cried out, the sound swallowed by the vast, starlit dome. The noise seemed to give them permission.
Their rhythm was frantic, a desperate counterpoint to the serene rotation of the planets above. The telescope, a monument to observing distant, cold things, became the anchor for their blisteringly close heat. Her glasses slid down her nose, fogged entirely. He pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in sharp, white clouds.
“I’ve got you,” he gasped, the words punctuated by each drive of his hips.
“I know,” she choked out, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
It was over quickly, a supernova of sensation that left them both shuddering and spent. He held her weight against the unyielding metal, his own legs trembling. They stayed like that, fused together, waiting for their hearts to stop trying to beat their way out of their chests.
Slowly, he lowered her. Her feet touched the cold floor and she winced. He kept his arms around her, his body curving over hers, a shield against the chill and the reality slowly seeping back in. The silence was profound, broken only by their slowing breaths.
A laugh bubbled out of her first, a disbelieving little hiccup of sound. “We just had sex on a million-dollar telescope.”
“I think it’s more of a multi-million dollar telescope,” he corrected, his voice ragged. He nuzzled into her hair. “And yeah. We really did.”
The absurdity wrapped around them, warmer than any blanket. They dressed in quiet, collaborative movements, their fingers brushing as he handed her the bundled suit. She didn’t put it back on. She simply held the heavy, slick mass against her chest like a strange trophy.
The walk back to his apartment was a world apart from the walk there. The cold was sharper now, gnawing at their overheated skin. They huddled together for warmth, their steps syncopated on the salted sidewalks.
“I can’t feel my toes,” Ken complained, his teeth chattering theatrically.
“Serves you right for wearing those thin socks,” Hana said, burrowing deeper into his side. The latex suit in her arms felt like a secret they were carrying through the night.
Back in the sanctuary of his bedroom, with the radiator clanking to life, normalcy tried to reassert itself. She carefully laid the suit over his desk chair again, the ritual now familiar. He made them both terrible instant hot chocolate, the powder clumping at the bottom of the mugs.
They sat on his bed, shoulders touching, sipping the too-sweet liquid. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving a deep, contented exhaustion in its wake.
“The security guard,” Ken said suddenly, shaking his head. “I almost had a heart attack.”
“You whimpered,” Hana said, a grin spreading across her face. “I felt it. A little, tiny whimper right before I kissed you.”
“I did not whimper,” he protested, but he was smiling too. “It was a strategic… exhalation of concern.”
She laughed, setting her mug on the nightstand. She leaned against him, her head finding its place on his shoulder. “It was the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“Even better than the library?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Especially better than the library.” She was quiet for a moment. “Thank you. For… going along with it. With me.”
He turned his head, kissing her hair. “Are you kidding? Thank you for the custom tailoring.” He felt her smile against his neck. “But, for the record, my heart can’t handle many more of those close calls. Maybe our next adventure could involve… a bed. With a locked door. That we have a key to.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she murmured, but her voice was sleepy.
He woke hours later to an empty bed. The grey light of a winter dawn filtered through the blinds. For a panicked second, he thought it had all been a dream. Then he saw the suit, a dark slash over his chair, and heard the soft sound from his desk.
Hana was there, dressed in her jeans and hoodie, her hair still sleep-mussed. She had his silver tailor’s tape measure in her hand. She was carefully, slowly measuring the length of the sleeve of the discarded catsuit, her brow furrowed in concentration. She noted something on her phone, then gently stretched the tape across the suit’s shoulders.
She was so focused she didn’t hear him wake. He watched her, the diligent student, already analyzing the data, already planning the next experiment. Her quiet intensity in this moment, surrounded by the evidence of their night, was more captivating than any dramatic gesture.
He cleared his throat softly.
She jumped, her glasses flashing in the low light. A faint blush crept up her neck. “I was just… checking the seams. For stress.”
“Of course you were,” he said, his voice warm with sleep and affection. He patted the space beside him. “Get back here. It’s freezing.”
She placed the tape measure down and slid back under the covers, her body cold. He wrapped himself around her, absorbing the chill.
“So,” he whispered into her hair, his eyes closing again. “What’s the verdict?”
He felt her smile. “The data is very promising,” she said, her voice a secret in the early morning dark. “But I think we need a larger sample size.”
The cold tip of her nose pressed against his collarbone. “A much larger sample,” she murmured, and he could hear the grin in her voice.
Morning arrived properly, insistent and grey. The radiator’s metallic clanking became impossible to ignore. They untangled themselves, the magic of the night receding with the practical need for coffee and the looming reality of a Wednesday schedule. Hana pulled on his discarded t-shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, and padded barefoot to his small kitchenette.
Ken watched her go. The sight of her in his clothing, her short hair mussed, felt more intimate than the suit ever had. He rose and followed, finding her staring blankly at his coffee maker. “It’s a ritual,” he said, gently moving her aside. “You have to commune with it. Threaten it a little.”
“My commune is the library espresso machine,” she said, leaning against the counter. “It’s a transactional relationship. This looks like you’re building a bomb.”
As he ground the beans, his eyes kept drifting to the chair in the other room. The black suit was a stark, silent presence. “So,” he began, trying for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. “The suit. Is it… going back into the closet?” He meant the literal closet. The question felt heavier.
Hana was quiet for a moment. She picked up the silver tape measure he’d left on the counter, running her thumb over its cool, coiled metal. “Do you want it to?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, raw. He busied himself with the filter. “God, no. I just… I don’t know what the protocol is. Is it a special occasion thing? A… secret identity?” He laughed, a short, nervous sound.
She moved to stand beside him, watching the dark liquid drip into the carafe. The rich, bitter scent filled the small space. “It’s not a separate thing, Ken. It’s not a costume I take off.” She paused, choosing her words with the same care she used on a complex proof. “It’s a part of me that finally gets to come out. The part that isn’t afraid to want something strange and take it.”
He stopped, his hand hovering over the coffee pot. He looked at her—really looked. At the tired, smart eyes behind her glasses, at the way his t-shirt hung on her frame, at the resolute set of her mouth. The woman who pinned his wrists and the woman who debated Kant with him were the same person. The understanding was a quiet earthquake.
“Okay,” he said, simply. He poured two mugs. “So, what does that part want for breakfast? Because my culinary range is toast or… slightly fancier toast.”
She accepted the mug, wrapping her hands around its warmth. “Fancy toast. With cinnamon.” A sly look crossed her face. “But I’m keeping the gloves on. My hands are cold.”
He nearly spilled his coffee. The casual domesticity of the statement, paired with the image, sent a jolt through him. She sipped her coffee, her eyes smiling at him over the rim, the black latex fingers stark against the white ceramic. It was a perfect, surreal moment.
The toast was indeed fancy, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. They ate at his small desk, the suit draped beside them like a third, silent guest. The conversation meandered—a professor’s annoying habit, a due date they’d both forgotten—but it felt new. The subtext had become text.
“I have that advanced algorithms lecture at eleven,” Ken said, glancing at the time on his phone. A knot of mundane anxiety formed in his stomach. “The one where Professor Higgins smells conspiracy in every line of code.”
“I have a shift at the archives at one,” Hana replied. She traced a sugar crystal on the plate with a glossy fingertip. “But I’m free after four.”
“Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you want to just… study? Here?”
She looked up. “Yes. But I want to do it while wearing the legs of that suit. Just the legs. Like very complicated, tight stockings.” The clinical precision of the request, delivered in her soft, matter-of-fact tone, was devastating.
He had to put his mug down. “You can’t just say things like that. I have to function in public today.”
“You’ll manage.” She stood, taking her plate to the sink. “I should go. I need a shower and my own clothes.” She began to carefully gather the suit, folding it with a tenderness that belied its severe appearance.
He walked her to the door, the apartment suddenly feeling too large and empty already. She stood on her toes and kissed him, a chaste, coffee-flavored kiss that somehow held the entire night within it. “Four o’clock,” she said. “Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late,” he said.
“You’re statistically late seventeen percent of the time,” she corrected, stepping into the hall. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with the scent of her, latex, and cinnamon.
His algorithms lecture was a drone. He took notes automatically, his mind replaying the sound of the zipper in the observatory, the feel of her cold, gloved hand in the theater. Higgins’s voice faded into a buzz. He watched the clock, the minutes dragging.
At 3:58 PM, he was jiggling his key in his apartment door, his heart doing a ridiculous patter against his ribs. He pushed it open.
The lights were off, but the grey afternoon light seeped in. The main room was empty. “Hana?”
“In here.”
Her voice came from his bedroom. He walked to the doorway and stopped.
She was at the foot of his bed, facing away from him toward the window. She wore the bottom half of the catsuit, as promised, the high-gloss material sheathing her legs and hips, cutting off just above her waist. The top half of her was bare save for her glasses and a simple, delicate silver chain he’d never seen before. Her textbook and notebook were open on the bed beside her.
She was looking at a problem set, one latex-clad foot resting on the opposite knee, a pen tapping against her lower lip. She didn’t turn around. “You’re two minutes early. Impressive.”
He couldn’t speak. The scene was so violently contradictory—the intense, fetishistic lower half paired with the scholarly, casual upper half—that his brain short-circuited. This wasn’t a performance. This was her studying. Like this.
“I… didn’t know you had that necklace,” he finally managed, his voice strange.
“Aiko gave it to me for my birthday. She said it was too plain for her.” Hana finally glanced over her shoulder. “Are you going to stand there all afternoon? We have sixty pages on multivariate calculus to get through.”
He moved into the room as if in a dream. He dropped his backpack, shrugged off his coat. He sat on the edge of the bed, close to her but not touching. The scent of her shampoo and the distinctive smell of latex filled his senses. He opened his own textbook, the words a blur.
For twenty minutes, they worked in a silence punctuated only by the scratch of pens and the soft creak of the suit when she shifted. It was the most concentrated, yet most distracted, study session of his life. Every peripheral glimpse of the sleek black material, every rustle, was a tiny electric shock.
“Problem twelve,” she said, her voice cutting through his trance. “I’m getting a contradictory derivative. Can you check your intermediate step?”
He leaned over to look at her notebook, his shoulder brushing her bare back. Her skin was warm. He traced her calculation with a finger, his focus forcibly narrowing to the numbers. “Here,” he said, pointing. “You dropped the negative sign when you applied the chain rule.”
She stared, then let out a frustrated sigh. “Of course I did.” She corrected it, her latex-covered fingers curling precisely around the pen. The contrast was mesmerizing. “Thank you.”
“Any time.”
She didn’t pull away. They remained like that, leaning into each other’s space, the calculus problem a fragile bridge between the academic and the intensely personal. He was acutely aware of the heat coming from her, the line where bare skin met gleaming rubber at her waist.
“This is nice,” she said softly, not looking up from her page.
“Which part?” he asked, just as quiet. “The calculus?”
“All of it.” She finally turned her head. Their faces were inches apart. “The normal and the not-normal. Together.”
He kissed her then. It was slow, deep, and tasted of pencil lead and potential. Her hand came up, the cool rubber palm cradling his jaw, and the sensation made him shiver. The textbook slid to the floor, forgotten.
This time, there was no grand setting, no risk of discovery. It was just his quiet bedroom in the late afternoon. The intimacy was different, deeper. It was in the way she helped him out of his shirt without breaking the kiss, the way she guided him onto his back and looked down at him, her glasses reflecting his own wanting face. It was in the practical, unromantic sound of the bedside drawer opening.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the fading light. The legs of the suit were still on her, a persistent, thrilling reality. He ran his hand from her bare stomach down to the tight rubber covering her thigh, marveling at the transition.
“You were right,” he whispered. “It’s not a separate thing.”
She hummed in agreement, snuggling closer. Her phone, on the nightstand, buzzed. She reached for it, the screen illuminating her face. It was a text from Aiko. Her expression shifted, a slight frown forming.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“It’s fine.” She put the phone down, but the relaxed ease was gone from her body. “Aiko just reminded me about the party at Sigma House on Friday. She’s insisting I go. She says I’ve been ‘socially dormant’ for too long.”
A cold knot formed in Ken’s stomach. The Sigma House parties were legend—loud, sprawling, chaotic affairs where the entire campus seemed to cram into a dusty, beer-soaked mansion. His idea of hell.
“Are you going to go?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.
“I told her I would.” Hana was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his chest. “I want you to come with me.”
The silence that followed was vast. He could feel her waiting, the tension in her fingertips. The thought of all those people, the noise, the judging eyes—it made his skin crawl. To go there with her, to be seen as a couple in that frantic, public fishbowl… it was a different kind of exposure altogether.
“Ken?” Her voice was small.
He looked at her, at the intelligent eyes behind the lenses, at the woman who had measured him in his sleep and unlocked a universe for them both. He saw the quiet hope there, and the fear of rejection. She had ventured into his deepest secret. She was asking him to step into the light with her.
The words stuck in his dry throat. He swallowed.
“Okay,” he said. The word felt like a cliff edge. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll go.”