The first time he’d taken her to bed, her traitorous body had refused to cooperate and nearly fucked the whole thing up, and she’d all but had to beg him to go through with it. Absolutely humiliating. She genuinely liked him, like the feel of his lips on her neck, the smell of his hair, the feeling of him moving inside her. And yet, her body kept trying to go against her own wishes. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even get fucked properly.

Why, why, why does this keep happening? She pulled his body close as he pushed inside her, guiding his head over her shoulder so he couldn’t see her cry. That strategy could only work for so long, however, because he noticed her upset as he was cuddling her after they’d finished.

“Azizam, mi amor, meine schatze, honeypie, tell me what’s wrong?”

She wanted to tell him the truth. Wanted to put words to how unable she was to wrap her head around being the “human shield,” the subject of this photograph that by now at least half of all living humans had seen and all of them had opinions on. Wanted to tell him about the violent urge to self-harm every time she thought about how much she had already fucked things up. Wanted to admit to him, I’m so afraid I’ll do something wrong, or you’ll get bored of me, and you’ll get rid of me, and then I’ll have nothing.

But, god, imagine saying it out loud, how needy that sounded, to say nothing of putting words to how dark her thoughts got. What was the word Ampersand used? Diseased.

“Did something happen?”

“No. I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

“Baby . . .” He smiled, the soft, warm light from the fireplace dancing on his olive skin. “Let me help.”

“I wish there was something I could do for you,” she said, sidestepping the comment. “You’ve been so kind to me.”

He considered, tracing the outline of her lips with his thumb. “You could tutor me in the art of being the alien whisperer.”

“Of course.” Yes, good, something that actually gave her a modicum of usefulness. “Anything you want.”