I close the door and shove him against it. “My cat’s shy,” I say, then stick my tongue in his ear.

He cups his hands under my ass, hoists me up, and carries me over to the bed. I am surprised he can do this given his slim frame. He isn’t muscular, but he is strong. Natural Aries strength. Exalted strength.

Beau throws me on the bed and climbs on top of me. He pushes his knee between my legs and I moan. I am exactly where I need to be: under the weight of Beau’s body, arching my body, howling into the dry night.

Soon we’re naked and I have no specific memory of undressing. I’ve entered a new dimension where the typical rules of time and space no longer apply. Beau and I are two Pisces rockets launching into outer space. I feel myself on the ceiling, watching us. Streetlights pour in through the venetianblinds and make our skin glow orange. Our bodies writhe in waves, like snakes.

When Beau finally enters me, I am every single being in the universe all at once. I am me, and I am Beau, and I am Lydia, and I am this apartment, and I am Los Angeles, and I am the earth, I am the sun, and I am the tides, and I am every star in the sky. And we are all warm and cold and dancing and swirling and still and kinetic and quiet and screaming. My body stretches into something inhuman, and I screech, not just my sound but everyone’s sound—we are all one and we are all on fire. And I come, and Beau comes, and we collapse onto each other, and we laugh. I laugh so hard it starts to sound hysterical, like a banshee. Something has been unleashed in me, and in Beau, and in the universe, like everything is open and possible and there are no boundaries or limits.

Exalted.

Afterward, I pour us both glasses of Gatorade with ice and put on The Bends.

“We need to hydrate.”

Beau takes a big sip of his. “This is incredible,” he says. “I haven’t had Gatorade in so long.”

“You’re probably dehydrated,” I say. Then I just look at him for a second, drinking the blue Gatorade in my bed, and feel a glimmer of that thing my therapist used to call “gratitude.”

My phone lights up with a text from Cinnamon. It says, Fucked the prof.

I write back, Fucked Beau.

She responds with three flame emojis and then, Meet us at the Mirror Box?

I look at Beau, who is looking at my Girl, Interrupted poster and clutching the blue Gatorade in his lap, which is among the more beautiful sights I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Want to go to Mirror Box?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says.