Cyrus shakes his head. “No fantasy could ever live up to you,” he whispers. “Nothing can compare to how it feels to look up and see you there. Even though I thought of you every day after you left, my imagination has proven to be painfully inadequate when it comes to the sound of your laughter, or how your brows furrow when you’re focused, or the way you steady yourself before entering a room. And you’re going to make fun of me for saying it, but part of me is worried,” he says, dropping his gaze to the white glimmer of water, “that this is just a spell. This whole trip has been so strange and wonderful and unexpected … It’s like there’s magic here, and I can’t stop myself from worrying that when we leave this place, the magic will disappear for you, and none of it will be real anymore.”

It does feel like there’s magic here, in the whispers of the Osmanthus trees and the rose light curving over the tiled roofs. But there’s no way to separate it from the boy standing at the end of the bridge with me as the sun climbs up, who’s now watching me with a tenderness I wouldn’t have believed existed before him. I could love him anywhere, in any city, any season, I think to myself. I can easily envision us coming back together, maybe a year or two from now, strolling down the Bund at night, lost in Shanghai’s brilliant array of lights, or taking photos in the ancient water towns, his hand intertwined with mine. Just as I can envision us in LA, riding our bikes along the coast, packing strawberries and croissants into picnic baskets, lounging on the couch at his house.

The only thing I can’t envision is no longer wanting him.

“How could this not be real anymore?” I ask, mapping out the line of his jaw with my fingertips.

He shivers at my touch, then—like he can’t bear the remaining distance between us anymore, can’t quite control himself—he pulls me in, his body bracketing mine, until I can feel how fast his heart is beating, how shaky his breathing is.

“I agree with you,” he says hoarsely, his hand warm and gentle over the back of my head, and everything in me turns into molten gold, as if I’ve drunk the dawn air. I let him hold me as tight as I’m holding on to this moment and all the moments that have come before it, leading up to us. I have no intention of moving for years.

“You agree with me?” I barely remember to ask. “On what?”

“Here is perfect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Packing for the trip had been an exercise in spatial awareness.