He laughs, low and beautiful and a little rueful. And after looking at me like no one else ever has before, what he says is, “Yes, Hannah. It is a yes on dinner.”

Um, I could make us a . . .” I scratch my head, studying the contents of my open fridge. Okay, so it’s full. The problem is, it’s full exclusively of stuff that needs to be cooked, chopped, baked, prepared. Stuff that’s healthy and doesn’t taste particularly good. I am now 93 percent sure that Mara was the one who went shopping, because no one else would dare to impose broccoli on me. “How does one even . . . I could boil the broccoli, I guess? In a pot? With water?”

Ian is standing behind me, his chin on top of my head, chest hovering right behind my back. “Boil them in a pot with water,” he repeats.

“I would salt them afterward, of course.”

“You want to eat broccoli?” He sounds skeptical. Should I be offended?

No, Ian. I don’t want to eat broccoli. I’m not even hungry, to be honest. But I have committed to this. I am a person who is capable of having dinner with another human. And I will prove it to you. “I could make a sandwich, then. There’s lunch meat over there.”

“I think those are tortilla wraps.”

“No, they’re— Shit. You’re right.”

I sigh, slam the door shut, and turn around. Ian does not take a step back. I have to lean against the fridge to be able to look up at him. “How do you feel about Froot Loops?”

“The cereal?”

“Yeah. Breakfast for dinner. If I still have milk. Let me check—”

He does not. Let me check, that is. Instead he envelops my face with his hands and leans over to me.

Our first kiss, five years ago, was all me. Me reaching out. Me initiating. Me guiding him. This one, though . . . Ian sets everything. The rhythm, the tempo, the way his tongue licks into my mouth—everything. It lasts for a minute, then two, then an uncountable length of time that blurs into a mess of liquid heat and trembling hands and soft, filthy noises. My arms loop around his neck. One of his legs slides between mine. I realize that this is going to end exactly like our afternoon at JPL. Both of us completely out of control, and . . .

“Stop,” I say, barely breathing.

He pulls back. “Stop?” He’s not breathing at all.

“Dinner first.”

He exhales. “Really? Now you want dinner?”

“I promised.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I’m trying to—to show you that—”

“Hannah.” His forehead touches mine. He laughs against my mouth. “Dinner is . . . it’s symbolic. A metaphor. If you tell me that you’re willing to see where things go, I believe you, and we can—”

“No,” I say stubbornly. The urge to touch him is nearly painful. I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. “We’re having our symbolic dinner. I’m going to show you that— What are you doing?”