“Trout loves you,” Ever said. She glimpsed a flash of dimples for the first time. The cat’s name almost made her smile, too. “Maybe he knew you in another life.”

“Was I a cat?” she asked the animal. He brought his nose to hers. “Or were you human?”

“Maybe you were both both.”

“Do you believe in other lives?”

“Maybe.” Ever crouched down near her, watching her face. His knees strained his jeans—the fabric would tear.

“I’m so tired,” she said again.

She and Ever looked at each other. Then he reached out and touched her cheek with one finger. It was what Cyrus would have done.

“Sleep here,” Ever said.

She wrapped her arms around herself, pressing her fingers into the notches of her rib cage, and closed her eyes tight to shut everything out.

◆◆◆

She woke in the night, leaned on her elbow, and watched him asleep beside Dog on the floor at her side. As if he’d sensed her gaze, he opened his eyes. Something glimmered in the dark between them.

“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.”