Rex’s hand is around my hip and I’m floating. Dreaming. I must be dreaming. Sleepwalking. I must be about to fall flat on my face. But the strength of Rex’s hand holding me up, the light grip of his fingers pushing into my skin, the tingles moving up and down my left side and through my body, tells me I’m not. Tells me this is real, just like I thought.

“Hi,” he says, in a low voice, his smiling eyes wandering across my face.

“Hi,” I say in return, and let my eyes travel, too. From the tight, spiraling curls in his high-top . . . to his thick brows . . . to his hooded eyes . . . to the mole on the right side of his nose . . . to his big, curvy lips. I can’t help but pause there for a bit. They look so soft.

“Is here good?” he asks, and points to the opening on the first row we’re standing in front of.

“Perfect,” I say, thinking about how I’m going to get my butt all the way down to the wooden bench without ripping my stomach open. He must read my mind because as we turn to sit down, he pulls my body closer to his until he’s taken almost all of my weight and our bodies are sitting down as one.

After we sit down, we hold hands, interlocking our fingers. It’s automatic. Like we’ve done it a million times.

My hand is on top—his long, brown fingers reaching over my knuckles showing his short, shiny nails. Not just-got-them-buffed shiny, more like really clean shiny.

Looking over my left shoulder, I take in more of him—the way his strong neck eases down into his collarbones, the way his chest bulges underneath his dark green uniform, the way he smells like a pine forest. It’s making me want to lean in, put my nose right up to the crook of his neck, and take a sniff. Or maybe even kiss his chin or bite his cheek or eat him up or have him eat me up or bury myself forever inside his earthy-sweet-smelling uniform. Clearly, I’m losing my mind being this close to him.

REX

My nervousness makes me start bursting with words, spitting them out right and left. “It’s crazy you’re here. Man, that surgery had to be no joke. How are you feeling? I can’t believe you’re actually here . . . sitting next to me. Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me . . . it’s just that I’ve been dreaming . . . nah . . . never mind. You healing okay, though? Cole said you’ve been feeling better every day.” This is not me. This is not how I talk. It’s like some whack, diarrhea-of-the-mouth dude has invaded my body and won’t shut up.

“Cole, my brother?” Carli asks, sparse eyebrows scrunched together.