He’s seen me. Just like I’ve seen him. Like I’ve always been able to see him.

For a little while we both stand there, looking into each other.

“You told the truth,” he says. “You really were just trying to protect me.”

My heart moves. Lightens. “Yes.”

He steps closer. I hear his boots crunch. “You saved me.”

I shake my head at this, pointing at his hand. “You saved yourself.”

He’s quiet for a moment. So am I.

“Do they think you’ll be able to play again someday?” I ask.

“The doctors?” He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably not. I’m not sure if I want to.”

“You should,” I say, without hesitating. “You’re wonderful. Without anything from them.”

He takes another step. He’s looking at me in a strange way, like he’s spotted something he recognizes but can’t quite name down at the bottom of my eyes.

“I was wrong about you,” he says softly. “I’ve been wrong about a lot. But with you—I don’t know how I couldn’t see it.”

He’s so close, I can smell him. I can feel his voice on my skin.

This is not for you.

But I want him to go on.

“See what?” I ask.

“What you really are.”

He looks at me for another long moment.

Then, before I know what’s about to happen, he leans forward and kisses me.

I’m almost as tall as he is, so I don’t have to move, and he doesn’t have to stoop. He just leans in until his lips meet mine. His eyes are partly closed. His eyelashes are so close I could count them. His skin brushes my skin. His cheek. His chin. His lips are warm and soft, with the roughness of shaved stubble surrounding them, making them seem even softer.

No one has ever kissed me before.

Maybe my mother, when I was small.

No one since.

I’m not ready for the way it shifts everything inside me. The thunder of my heart.

He hasn’t put his hands on me. There’s something shy, or polite, about the way he stands, like he doesn’t feel like he should hold on. It’s only our lips that touch. One bright, warm, living spot, with everything around it dissolving into nothing.

My eyes slide shut. In darkness, I feel everything. Every twitch of motion, every strand of his hair brushing softly against the side of my face. The way he catches his breath, like he’s surprised by this, too. The warmth. The light.

And I know this isn’t about attraction, or even about love. Not really. It’s another thank-you, another apology, another question. It’s him wondering what else could be real.

But this time, it can’t be.

I pull back.

Anders’s eyes flick open. He blinks at me, startled. And an instant later, ashamed. “Oh. God. I’m sorry.”

“No,” I blurt. “Don’t be sorry. I—”

I want to tell him. I want to explain. I want to thank him for this moment of pretending that I am anything like him. But I am not. I am not meant for this.