“The winners are …”

I exchange a look with Cyrus, try to lock my nerves up in a steel trap inside my stomach. I know for a fact that we can’t be last, but that’s all I really know. After everything I’ve already collected from this trip, every new memory and shot of joy I’ve downed, it feels almost greedy to want more. But my hopes of getting into a decent college are riding on this.

“Leah and Cyrus,” Wang Laoshi says, smiling over at us.

My heart soars. The rest of the group bursts into applause that’s definitely too loud for an indoor setting, and I throw my arms around Cyrus’s neck without thinking.

“We won,” I squeal. “We won.”

“We did,” he says, laughing, his hand coming up to rest over the small of my back like there’s nobody else around. “I told you we would, didn’t I?”

“You know what we should do to celebrate?” I ask him.

He pulls back just slightly to tilt his head, his eyes gleaming. “Are you asking me out?”

“Maybe,” I tease. “There is a nice restaurant I’ve always wanted to try down the street from my house …”

“Let’s go there,” he says instantly.

“Cyrus, you don’t even know what restaurant it is—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he tells me, “as long as I’m going with you.”

It strikes me then it’s all coming to an end—the competition is over, and in only a matter of hours, we’ll be leaving. There’s an ache in my chest, but it’s a happy ache, like the car ride home after a party, when your feet are sore from dancing and your cheeks are stiff from laughing the whole night.

* * *

The first thing Cyrus does when we settle into our seats on the plane is start wiping everything. The folding tray. The screen. Every inch of the seat belt. It just goes to show how quickly one’s brain can be rewired, because more than anything else, I’m impressed by how thorough he is. If we were to ever move in together, our house would be so neat, the delusional voice in my head sings.

“Can you please wipe down my seat too?” I ask him.

He raises his brows but immediately tears open another pack of alcohol wipes and cleans the armrest between us. “I see you’ve been influenced.”

“I have,” I say shamelessly. “Full credit to you. Maybe you should be an influencer.”

“For sanitizers?”

“See, you’ve already found your niche,” I tell him. “And with that pretty face”—I reach out and tip his chin up on one hand—“you could sell anything.”

His complexion turns a lovely, irresistible shade of pink, his smile shy, and I decide that I’ll never stop thinking of ways to make him blush.