A loud cough sounds nearby and we pull apart to see Hoffman glaring at us from where he stands with a clipboard, checking off departures as parents come to claim their kids. My cheeks are already rosy from the cold, but I can feel their color deepening and I bury my face in Salem’s shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he says, amused, but he holds me close anyway, keeping me warm in the crisp late-fall air.

“Ridiculously cute?”

He yanks my knit hat down over my face. “Sometimes.”

“Hey!” I swat his hand away and readjust the hat. “Don’t make me send you back inside.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

“Not in a million years. You kinda sorta like me, remember?”

“Oh, whatever. You kinda sorta like me too.”

“Kinda. Sorta.” He pulls me into another kiss, but we keep this one brief, for Hoffman’s benefit. “This is gross, right? Do we make you as sick as we make me?”

“Sicker,” I admit. “But I still like us.”

“Me too.” He squeezes my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “Hey, is that your car pulling up to the gate? Black SUV?”

“That’s them.” I hoist my duffel bag higher up, followed by my laptop bag. “If you wanna bolt in order to avoid a Meet the Parents scenario, you have about one minute.”

“Up to you.” He rubs a thumb over my jaw, and I melt into his palm. “You met Ted and Naomi. I can be charming for two minutes, if you want me to be.”

“Why do I have a feeling they wouldn’t come away from this conversation glowing about your social grace?”

“You’d be surprised,” he says with a smirk.

“You know, I do believe that.” His fingers are cold, but I take them anyway, and his strong arm curling me into his side more than makes up for the chill. “But given everything I already have to talk about with them, I’m gonna give you a pass. For now,” I add with narrowed eyes. “No promises come winter break.”

“Deal.” He rests his chin on my head. “Before you go, I just need to say something nauseatingly romantic, and then I need to retreat like a turtle into my shell for at least the length of Thanksgiving, but then maybe like an entire six weeks of winter.”

My stomach flutters gently in response. Forthcoming as he is with physical affection, verbally, “It’s cool that you don’t suck” is about as sweet as he gets. I’ve been waiting weeks for “nauseatingly romantic,” especially considering that’s a pretty good descriptor for how I feel about him. “You’re mixing up turtles and groundhogs, but okay, go ahead. I’m ready.”

He takes a breath and places his hands on my waist. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had that I also wanna make out with.”