The room has gone soft with twilight, that blue-gray hour where everything feels suspended between day and night. Zeke's bedroom window faces west, and I can see the last streaks of orange fading from the sky.
His fingers are still tracing patterns on my shoulder, circles, figure eights, abstract shapes that might mean something or nothing at all. I'm hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch: my cheek against his chest, my leg draped over his, his arm wrapped around me.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, and his voice is different now. Softer. More careful.
"That this is complicated."
"Yeah." His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. "It is."
I shift slightly, propping myself up on my elbow so I can see his face. In the dim light, he looks younger somehow. Vulnerable. The coc
