But he looks away. “I’m scared.” He’s so quiet, I barely hear him.

“Of what?”

“You.”

I suck in a breath and hold it.

Jack looks at the sky, which feels impossibly clear, the constellations closer than ever before. He doesn’t look at me when he continues; it must be easier not to. “It’s not just about the poem. I mean, it is, but it’s not.” He’s got clouds in his eyes.

“You’re talking in riddles,” I say. “Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Then he does something I wasn’t expecting.

He grabs my hand.

Did that really just happen? Or did I fall, hit my head, and slip into a fever dream? I look down and, nope, there it is. His fingers intertwine with mine. His palms are sweaty, but his grip is strong, really strong, and I squeeze back to match it. His thumb starts to gently stroke mine. I’ve never had someone hold my hand like this, tender and sweet.

“I’m good with words,” he says. “But some stuff is impossible to say out loud.”

I need him to say what he means. “Like what?”

“What I only think about in the dark when I’m alone.” It trickles out slowly at first, like water through a hairpin crack in a glass. “It’s not that I don’t have accepting parents, but …” His voice trails off. “But it’s always, ‘Those people can have whatever rights they want, just so long as they don’t force it on me.’ That sort of thing. My dad is a guy’s guy, you know? God-fearing and all that. He has certain … expectations for his sons, you know …”

Jack doesn’t have to finish. I know the story. It’s the same one every person faces when they realize they’re not straight.

“That’s why I came here, so I could figure out who I am. I didn’t expect you.”

He looks at me, his beautiful face, and I’m done. I want to kiss him. To hold him and never let him go. He moves closer, and I feel his warm breath on my face.

“What are you saying, Jack?”

I don’t need him to come out and label himself. Not for me. But I do want to know how he feels about me. I lock eyes with him again and decide it’s time to take the plunge: “Because I’ve never felt like this before. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up, and you make me smile as I fall asleep. I read that poem every single day, and the spark I held in my hand that night is still burned into my skin.”