Beneath his damp shirt, my fingers trace the jagged shape of his spine, and I marvel at the surrounding muscle. A thousand warm chills rush across my skin until my knees get wobbly, and I don’t want to stand. He pulls me down with him to the dry floor.

Tick, tick …

I kiss the scars around his face until he shivers beneath me. He molds the ditch of my back, urging my hips toward his, and I’m achingly aware of the hard outline pressing against the place in my jeans where my seams converge. I think we should take more clothes off.

Tick …

“Josie,” he says to me, “what you told me that night in the police station?”

I already have skin exposed. I don’t want to talk about any of that. I don’t want to change my mind. “I want this.”

“Good. Me too.” He holds my face in both hands. “Just so you know, none of the rumors about me are true. We’re the same, Josie.”

My heart races. What is he saying? All the blood from my brain has shifted southward.

Oh.

Wait.

Lucky is a virgin?

LUCKY IS A VIRGIN TOO.

I listen for the ticking inside my head:

Silence.

“Do you have a condom?” I ask, a little shaky and awash in emotion.

He nods slowly, eyes hooded and lazy as he stares at me.

I’m not blushing now.…

As lightning flashes, we peel off the rest of our clothes as if we’re trying to race the storm, hungry and afraid we’ll lose each other. But we don’t, and it doesn’t take us long to figure out that losing your virginity isn’t a thing that happens all at once. It’s not part A inserted into part B equals done. It’s more of a multipart triathlon than a continuous sprint, and there’s no camera to hide behind, no program to digitally edit out the details I don’t like.

Everything’s there, for better or worse. Lucky can see all of me.

But it’s okay, because I can see all of him, too. Lucky 2.0 and every Lucky I’ve known.

I can see the scars on his forehead, and the way his hands tremble because he doesn’t want to hurt me. In his eyes, I can see the years of solitude, the resentment and bitterness, the scars from the fire, every rumor around town. I see it all. The good, the bad, and the lonely.

But the thing that surprises me most is the commentary.

The conversation.

All the honest communication that happens when there isn’t even a chance at an invisible wall …

The heated whispers—“Here.” Explicit directions, “Not like that—Jesus! Don’t ever do that.” Quick apologies, “Sorry-sorry-sorry.” And simple assurances: “You’re perfect. This is perfect. We’re perfect.”

And for one beautiful, gasping moment, we truly are.