I narrow my eyes at Jack. “Sounds like you made a deal with the devil.”

He laughs. “Depends on who the devil is. I realized I was getting stuck on the prose, probably because I was being pulled toward writing in verse.”

“Make sense.”

Ever so slightly, Jack turns away. “Right? So even though it’s a creative writing fiction class, not a poetry class, my professor agreed that I could write my story in verse, assuming I still hit the same word count as everyone else. I’m not ready to give away any spoilers because, well, I have no idea how it ends, but that poem I read earlier tonight is sort of the basis. It’s about a kid who journeys his way out of the closet. I know coming out stories are passé—”

“Coming out stories matter,” I assure him. “They’re so important. If I didn’t have stories like Love, Simon and Love, Victor and Moonlight, and all the books I read and shows I watched in middle and high school, I think I might have had a really shitty time. Even though my mom is cool and my sister is everything. I don’t know. Coming out is one moment in our lives, but it’s a pretty big one. And I’ve been out for a couple years, but it’s not as if it gets easier when you go to a new place.” I pause, and he nods, deep in thought, concern creasing his brows. “Easier might not be the right word, though it does get easier. But there’s always this tiny peach pit of nerves in my stomach when I meet new people. How do I know if they’re cool or if they’re MAGA hat–wearing bigots? Or worse, secret MAGA hat collectors.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“That’s why I was worried I may have scared you off that night when you kissed me and I kissed you back,” I say. “Too much, too soon.”

Jack exhales. “Not enough, at just the right moment.” His words are gentle whispers that waver as he utters them—deep, dark, threatening secrets.

Though Jack hasn’t ever really talked about his family, what he has told me implies that they might not accept him. But that poem he recited. I don’t want to assume anything, but maybe that’s why he came to CIA, to live a life he’s always wanted but had been too afraid to pursue. There’s a pinch in my stomach that grows into a sharp pang, telling me that maybe I’m part of something he’s trying out, a sample in a store he never shops in, and though he might buy it, he’ll never actually use it.