She shakes her head. She’s sure. Thora isn’t used to being sure. She can’t help mistrusting the feeling, wondering where it comes from.

“This is embarrassing,” Santi says. “But—I don’t know your name.”

Thora looks back over the bright, urgent moments since they met. She knows his name; how can he not know hers? She sees herself suddenly from his perspective: a nameless woman with purple hair and a leather jacket, a bundle of cryptic signifiers. “Guess,” she says.

He frowns, like it’s a test he doesn’t want to fail. “You said you were born in England?”

She nods, holding back a smile.

“Jane Smith,” he says.

She bursts out laughing. “Statistically, a good guess. But no. It’s Thora. Thora Lišková. Is Santi short for something?”

“Santiago López Romero,” he says: every syllable exactly right. “Nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand for her to shake.

Thora doesn’t take it. Instead, she steps into his space and kisses him.

He doesn’t draw back, but he doesn’t exactly respond. When Thora starts to feel like she’s applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, she breaks off. “Are you—is this—”

“Thora Lišková,” he says breathlessly, and kisses her back.

They kiss like they’re starved for each other. Thora walks him backward into the bedroom, shrugging off her jacket. He’s already undoing the buttons on her shirt. As he turns his attention to her neck, Thora tilts her head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Afterward, she lies in Santi’s bed. It’s afternoon: no darkness to cover her escape. Damn him, he should have fallen asleep like every ex-boyfriend she’s ever had, but he’s looking across at her with an irritating smile. He reaches for her hand, turns it over to trace the dots of the tattoo on her wrist. “What does this mean?”

“It’s a constellation. Vulpecula, the fox.” She gives him a look. “I don’t do this, by the way.”

“What?”

“Jump into bed with men I’ve just met.”

Santi shrugs. “That’s okay. Neither do I.”

“With men?”

“Men or women.” He looks uncertain. “Why, is it different for you with women?”

“Yes.”

He looks at her to check if she’s joking.

“I’m not joking,” she says, to help him out.

Mild surprise, but no judgment. “I’m honored to be the exception.”

“You’re just lucky I happened to watch that movie about the hot mariachi at a formative age,” Thora says with a teasing smile. “In a universe where I hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t even be interested.”

Santi moves closer to her. “Please don’t kick me out of my own bed for what I am about to say.” He curls a strand of her purple hair between his fingers.

“I make no promises,” she says.