They ended up on the floor with their backs against her bed, shoulders touching, the remains of the takeout beside them, and at some point the talking tapered into a comfortable quiet that neither of them rushed to fill. Outside the window the campus had gone dark and still, the hour somewhere past nine, and Zara was aware of the warmth of him beside her steady, present, the realest thing in a week that had contained very little that was real.
“Can I ask you something,” he said, eventually.
“You always can.”
“The first night. The rooftop.” He tilted his head slightly toward her. “When Amara dragged you there. Were you angry at her for it afterward, or”
“Genuinely furious,” Zara said. “For about three days.”
He laughed. “And then?”
“And then the drink happened, and the video, and ever
