“Can you come over here?” she whispered. It almost felt like she was dreaming.

She heard the sound of his smile. “There’s not much room.”

“Then I’ll come down there.”

His sleeping bag smelled clean and warm—like lavender and camp fires. She lay beside him on the floor, staring at the ceiling, Ever’s hands folded on his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Dog jumped onto the couch and curled up, turning his back away, which made them both laugh.

“May I touch you?” she asked after a while.

“Yes.”

So, she laid her hands on him, one part of him at a time. And as she touched him, she asked him questions.

“Tell me about your eyes.”

He turned a little toward her, reached to brush a strand of hair off her forehead. “They like what they see.”

“Tell me a story about your mouth.”

She brushed her fingers across his lips. “I wanted to be a lead singer, but I can’t sing, so I learned to play guitar.”

“Tell me about your nose.” She ran her pinky finger down the little bump on the bridge.

“Kind of jacked. I broke it playing ball when I was twelve.”

She lifted his T-shirt and ran her fingers over his pecs. Almost hairless. No tattoos. A few faded acne scars shadowed the place where his chest subtly dipped.

“I have a heart in there,” he said. “What’s left of one.”

“Same,” she said. “Stomach.”

“I work on these abs, but—” he pinched a small bit of gut.

“I might need a microscope to see that.” She put her hand on his bicep. “Your arms.”

He flexed. “I work these arms.”

“Your legs.”

“Too skinny. But fast. Stronger than they look.”

“Your feet.”

“Kind of jacked, too. And big. I can’t find shoes that fit.”

“I like them.”

She took his hand in hers and examined it. The fingers were tapered, calloused from guitar strings, the lines so deep she could have read his palms by Braille.

“I broke that, too,” he said, moving his wrist in a circle, their fingers still interlocked. “Got a pin in it.”

“Me, too.” She held up her ankle and he let go of her fingers, sat up, and took her foot in his hands, ran a finger over the scars, massaged the back of her calf. “Does it still hurt?”

“No, it was a long time ago. Gets stiff sometimes. Does yours?”

“Sometimes. Luckily it’s my right.”

“You’re a lefty?”

He nodded, lay back down, and looked into her eyes, and she held his wrist, trying to sense the pain under the surface of his skin. Everyone had so much hidden pain; it made them more beautiful, she thought. Ever sighed and then, without thinking, she moved her hand between his legs. Her fingers grazed thick denim.

“Not much to tell about that part. I met a girl. We were eighteen. Together eight years. Haven’t been with anybody since.”

Izzy closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest. She could feel his heart beating—yes, it was still there. And now she felt his hands touching her eyelids with a tenderness that she’d already almost forgotten existed at all.