“Relax. I’m not going to tell on you.” I roll on the floor, mid-yawn, hitting the door. I can still taste his salty flesh. My mouth feels full of him. “Besides, we’ll have an ocean separating us, remember? Who will I tell? My pet fish?”

“You have fish?” He looks startled, like it hurts that he doesn’t know everything about me.

“I’ll get some to make you feel good about yourself.”

“Just admit that I can kill you, too,” he says from across the room now, both of us lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“Why?”

“Because you’re stealing my breath, so you’re already halfway there with the killing part.”

I shake my head, zipping my mouth with my fingers.

He grabs a guitar pick from the floor and throws it at me. “I’ll let you hold on to your heart for a little longer. Just don’t get attached.”

I laugh, but then he stops and looks at me, and I swear there’s regret etched on his face.

“Forgive me?” he asks.

“For what?” I scrunch my nose.

He looks away, swallowing. “Good question. For not giving you what you came here for, I suppose.”

4:00 am

“Sometimes you make music. Sometimes the music makes you,” Mal explains. We sit on his bed, sharing a pack of something he calls candy rolls, drinking milk from the carton. “And when it makes you, it changes you, and when it changes you, you never know how you’re going to come out of it.”

“Same with photography.” I nod. “I feel like a director, showing you what I want you to see. I can make the field behind your house gorgeous or creepy, sad or happy. It’s all in the angles, and filters, and composition.”

“I don’t want to sing. Attention doesn’t get my dick hard.”

“I know.” I smile. “That’s why I hide behind a camera, too. It doesn’t…make me wet, I suppose, either.” I blush.

“So you understand.” He smiles, relieved. “I won’t sell my songs. They’re mine.”

“Do what makes you happy. The world will understand. If it doesn’t, it’s the world’s problem, not yours.”

Silence.

“Marry me, Rory.” He turns to me. “Let’s just stay here and feck and make music and take pictures.”

I laugh and pop another candy into my mouth. But he seems serious, waiting for an answer.

“Mal…” I say.

Jesus. He’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“I have school. I’m going to college in a few weeks.”

“We have colleges here.”

“I’ve already enrolled. Paid. I have a dorm room. My best friend, Summer, is coming with me.”

“I have some savings,” he insists. “I’m good at what I do. I can provide for us.”

“You’re insane.”