He laughs, then flashes the thermometer at me.

“I’m kidding. It’s ninety-seven point nine. You’re hotter than me. Typical.”

“Very funny.”

I know one of us could still be sick and asymptomatic, but at least we are taking every other precaution.

“Okay, pull up your shirt,” I say. “Let me check your stomach.”

Wes pulls up his shirt, and I am both stunned by his abs and relieved there is no rash on his belly. I pull up my shirt to prove that I am also symptom free.

We stare at each other for a second, and, as I suspected he would, he asks if he can kiss me. I remember being in trig and overhearing Lizzy complain to Cornelia Martin that Andrew asked if he could kiss her, and she thought that it was so wimpy and unromantic.

I wish he had the balls to just do it instead of asking first, she complained.

I thought she was being unfair then, and right now, I stand by that assessment. Under the circumstances that we are living in, I respect the fact that Wes is asking for my consent, even though it’s obvious kissing is why we came up here in the first place.

“Yes, you can kiss me,” I reply.

He gently brushes my hair aside, then lets his lips travel from my cheek to my mouth. There are no words in the English language, or any language for that matter, that can properly describe what it feels like to have someone touch me. It’s been so long since I’ve received any form of affection from someone outside my house. The last guy I made out with was a bartender at a corporate event that I helped my moms cater right before the pandemic. We flirted in the kitchen, and by the end of the night, we were kissing in the coat closet. And yet this kiss feels much more illicit.

We keep making out till we land on my unmade bed in the living room. I am suddenly self-conscious of my breath and if I put enough deodorant on today. Aside from washing my hands, I’m not used to worrying about hygiene anymore.

“Sorry if I smell bad.”

“You smell amazing,” Wes says.

I was wrong when I thought it would feel awkward to have Wes’s gangly body pressed against mine. He is careful not to dig his elbows or knees into me. He places his hand near my belly, and I lift up my T-shirt, inviting him to touch what he wants.

“I don’t want to have sex,” I whisper.

“I know. That’s okay.”