I lurch back as far away from him as I can without knocking over a million-dollar porcelain vase from the Tang dynasty. “That’s super generous of you to offer, but I’m not taking this hood off.”

“Leah,” he says, regarding me with what could either be affection or exasperation, as if we’re playing hide-and-seek the way we used to as kids, and I’m still crouching in the corner after he’s obviously already spotted me. “Come on. I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re going to laugh.” I tug my hood even lower. “I think you’re going to run screaming.”

“That’s not going to happen. Really, Leah,” he says, gentler, more serious. “At least let me look at it to ascertain that you’re not dying.”

“But I look so ugly right now,” I whisper, my skin burning.

“Impossible,” he says firmly.

It’s the kind of thing any girl would dream of hearing, but it’s useless, because it isn’t true. I shake my head. “Don’t make such bold declarations when you haven’t seen my face yet.”

“It’s still the same face, and I’ve seen your face a hundred times before,” he says, unfazed. “I know what you look like.”

And the strange, mortifying, incredible thing is that he does. He knows what I look like with my hair styled and my lashes curled, my skin glowing from the dozen different serums I slather on at night. But he also knows what I look like from the Before times, when I would show up at school in haphazard pigtails and braces and baggy, garish shirts that would’ve gotten me banned from the parties I was invited to at sixteen. He knows what I look like angry, shouting across the school’s oval; dozing off in the middle of class, my nose pressed against my textbooks; triumphant, eyes blazing, at the top of the world, and crawling home in defeat; sobbing and laughing until I can’t breathe; hopeful, humiliated, happy. He’s the only person on this trip—no, the only person I know, other than my own parents—who’s seen every single form I’ve shape-shifted through in the past few years. He knows, and right now, it’s more of a relief than anything.

I swallow. This time, when he reaches for my hood, I let him slide it back down over my head. To his credit, he doesn’t laugh or scream. His expression remains subdued as his gaze roams over my face, and I wrestle away any impulse to cover myself up again, to scrutinize my own reflection in the darkness of his eyes. A beat of silence passes between us.

“Looks like a pretty typical mosquito bite,” he says finally. “I’ll get the cream from my room—and sunglasses—for you,” he adds, the corners of his lips twitching.

“Really?”