“No. Just you,” I say casually, sitting back down on the cushions, but I’m not teasing him. It’s the truth. If he were any other guy, I would be too wary, too cautious to joke about something like this. It’s almost always there, in every interaction I’ve had with guys since I turned pretty: the uneasiness in the pit of my stomach, the prickling dread that the conversation could take an uncomfortable turn at any second, the suspicion that while I’m thinking about them, they’re thinking about my body. But with Cyrus, it’s different. I might have felt tempted on numerous occasions to shove him or slam a door in his face, yet I’ve never felt unsafe. Somehow, I know that if I were to move closer to him right now, to press my lips to the most vulnerable spot on his neck and draw his hands down to my waist like I really, truly wanted him, he would still step back at once if I had a sudden change of heart.

Then I’m wondering how it would feel to actually do it— to kiss him. How his expression would change. Whether he would kiss me back soft and slow, or fast and urgent and breathless, if his fingers would tangle themselves into my hair or if he’s the kind to touch the back of my neck …

Oh my god.

Don’t be so weak and disgusting, Leah, I urge myself with a stern mental slap. Having feelings was not part of the plan. I should only be focused on making him want me—not wanting him.

“Let’s look over the photos,” Cyrus says, and practically leaps away from me to grab three photos from the counter. Even when he comes back and dumps his photos on the couch between us, he sits down on the farthest end of it, two feet braced firmly on the floor like he’s acting out one of those in-flight safety videos. I’m not sure if I should be worried that he somehow looked inside my head just now and was scared off by the images playing there.

“You only took three photos?” I ask him. They’re all of trees—not even very distinct or interesting trees, but of the planted-everywhere-in-the-suburbs variety—and they’re so blurry I wonder if he’d pressed the shutter button by accident while he was walking around.

“Well, I would’ve taken more, but I was kind of sidetracked when my teammate disappeared in the forest,” Cyrus says, examining my photos while I examine his. “Though it looks like you were busy even while you were disappearing. This one’s beautiful,” he adds.

I look up, and he holds the photo out to me. Birds flit between the Polaroid frame, their white wings stark against the wash of blue sky, gliding one after another over the mountains.