I tighten my arm around his waist. “You’re all I want,” I say. It comes out softer than I mean it to, like my lungs are more insecure than my head.

Simon closes his eyes and drops his forehead against mine. He’s breathing hard through his nose. I keep rubbing his tail, reminding myself not to be gentle.

“Okay,” he says, “fine, I’ll stop bringing him up. It up. America.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “If you need me to keep saying all this out loud, I will.”

He shakes his head, like he’s irritated—possibly with me, possibly with himself. “You keep telling me everything is all right, that whatever I need is fine…”

I nod. “That’s correct. I’m glad you’re finally hearing me.”

He twists up his face and throws his head back, so that his throat is a mile long. “I just don’t think it’s true.”

“Simon—” I pull him in closer, I wish he’d open his eyes. “—of course it’s true. All you’ve asked of me so far is kindness.”

He groans and buries his grimace in my shoulder. His arms are still around my neck. His tail is still undulating through my fingers. Is it wrong that I like him like this? Afraid, insecure, worried—but turning to me for comfort? Letting me hold on?

I rub my nose into the hair at his nape, still short from that haircut in Las Vegas.

His voice is muffled: “What if I asked you to be less kind to me?”

“What?” I draw my head back. “Why?”

He’s slumped into me, his forehead on my shoulder, whispering harshly into the space between our chests: “Because it makes me feel mental. It’s like being touched too lightly. Makes me feel like I’m being turned inside out. Like I need to get away.”

I pull his tail through my hand, firmly. I press my other hand into his back. I push my nose hard into his ear. “No,” I say. “I won’t do that.”

Simon shrinks from me. His hands fall to his lap. He looks anguished.

I loop his tail around my hand again and hold him everywhere tight. “No,” I repeat. “I can touch you less gently, but I won’t love you less kindly.”

He exhales roughly, and his head sinks onto my shoulder again, his back still tense, his hands still clenched on his thighs.

I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next …

I’m more used to guessing what Simon is thinking—what he’s feeling, what he wants. Bracing myself against his silence, wave after wave of it. That’s how our relationship has worked so far.