“It’s a surprise,” he says back, before he beckons me forward with a finger. “Let’s get food.”

I sigh and resign myself to dealing with his clownery. “All right, let’s go. There are probably twenty halal carts right outside.”

He blinks. “What’s a halal cart?”

A smile flits across my face. There’s still so much of New York he’s yet to see. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Twenty minutes later, we sit in the park with two platters of street meat in our laps. Emmitt took way more hot sauce than anyone sensible would, and keeps staring at my platter—with only white sauce atop lamb and rice—wistfully.

“Here,” I say, rolling my eyes and offering him a cold water bottle. “I told you not to get that much.”

He sighs, uncapping the water bottle and tilting his head back to take a long swig. I try not to watch the way the moles on his throat shift as he swallows. “Maybe I should listen to you more often.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I agree, but offer him a forkful of my own food. He grins at me, opening his mouth accordingly. “So where are we going afterward?”

“Thirty-Fourth Street,” he says, which is more specific, but still not specific enough. “Near Penn Station. Are there any subway stations nearby that will take us there?”

“Wow, willingly seeking out the subway? I never thought I’d see the day.”

He grins and opens his mouth for another forkful of food. I snort and indulge him. Every minute we spend together, more of my defenses break down. One of these days, I won’t have any walls left at all.

I don’t know if I dread or anticipate it.

“No more,” I say, pointing a finger at him in warning, and take a bite of my own food.

Emmitt makes a low noise, and I look at him in question. He’s staring at my mouth. “You’ve got a bit of sauce on...”

I wipe my face, but he shakes his head. Then he moves forward on his own, his thumb brushing against the corner of my mouth, lingering a beat too long.

I clear my throat. My sweater feels like it’s overheating me to a crisp. Maybe the weather got warmer? “Did you get it?”

Emmitt nods slowly, lifting his thumb to his own mouth, licking the white sauce off it.

I stare at him wide-eyed, before quickly redirecting my gaze. Oh my God, what am I doing? I need to stop letting him distract me so easily.

The rest of our meal goes by quickly and without much of a conversation, an almost physical tension sitting heavy on my throat. From the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth when he thinks I’m not looking, I’m assuming he feels it, too.