his throat made a hollow before his collarbone and shoulder, looked so fragile. His lips were slightly parted, and we looked at each other for a long few seconds before he moved back slightly. “Sorry,” he half-whispered. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“It’s okay.” I stayed where I was. He was still inside the personal-space boundary, the one that even

friends don’t cross. “Look . . .” But I ran out of words and courage at the same time.

How did I get to be such a wuss?

“What?” He didn’t look irritated, just curious. And was he blushing?

He was. High flags of color stood out on his cheeks. The blush spread down his neck, and he went

still all at once, like a dog sensing something dangerous or interesting about to happen.

If I could draw him just like this, in charcoal maybe on good paper, catching the way the light slid

over his high cheekbones and touched his mouth, I would tear the picture out and keep it in my bag.

The one that I keep for emergencies.

I grabbed every last failing scrap of courage I had left and leaned forward. The last time I’d tried to

do this, I’d ended up plastering a kiss on his cheek. But since then, he’d admitted to being interested. Sort of.

I was about to find out.

Our mouths met. He was absolutely still, and a flash of hot embarrassment went through me. Oh,

crap. He didn’t mean it.

But then he moved, too. His arms came around me, and we sort of melted together. I’m no prude,

really, I’ve had my share of kissing behind bleachers or awkward snatched moments of makeout in

halls or band rooms, so I’m not completely hopeless. It was pretty quickly apparent Graves was a

novice.

He learned quick, though. Some people just get kissing; others never will. He got it. There was none

of the loose-mouth sloppy spit stuff some guys do, none of the mashing that happens when a guy

thinks girls like to have their lips crushed against their teeth. Which, you know, jeez. Let a girl

breathe, huh?

His arms tightened, and I was kind of worrying what to do about my arm, the one trapped under my

pillow. But then he really got the hang of it and leaned even further in, his tongue doing some really

interesting things I’d never even thought of, and I was feeling . . . was I? Yes.

I was feeling safe. Not the kind of safe where you know there are still bad things howling outside

the door waiting to get in. No, it was the kind of safe where you sink down in your bed at the end of

the day and know you can go to sleep and everything is going to be the same tomorrow.

He felt like home. Not like a scary roller-coaster ride, like Christophe.