Instead, he turned and rested behind her like a spoon. His lungs, his head, his heart. He didn’t touch her. He made sure to keep every part of himself a few inches away. Legs, knees. His chest not touching her back. His lips not quite on her hair. Smell of ginger. His body wide awake. The familiar warmth rushing up in him. To feel her there, to hear her breath. He closed his eyes and was imagining he could see her when she spoke, a whisper.

“Jack?”

“What?”

“Do you like me?”

He swallowed. Not moving. “Yes. I do—a lot.”

She was quiet.

He waited, keeping very still in the blankets. The curve of her back before him. The bend of her knees to her waist. Each a detail to never forget.

Outside, wind whistled.

She was asleep. He thought so.

Then her whisper: “Would you still like me if I wasn’t what you thought I was?”

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer. He could feel her hesitation.

“Nothing,” she said.

They lay there in the darkness. Her close to him. The faint light on the walls, inhale of breath. A sensation as though his soul might pull free of his body and go floating toward her. He didn’t touch her. But, oh, he wanted to. In the bed, on the sheets, her slender body. Reach out, his mouth on hers. Taste her skin. Feel them both shaking. How he wanted to—he felt so greedy. She made him hungry. His hands, they could go down, find the edge of the shirt, and lift—

But he didn’t.

He didn’t.

Hurting her. He hated the thought.

His side was starting to ache. It made him tired. He thought she was still awake, and he lifted his head a little to see her face, to catch a glimpse of what she might be thinking, but he couldn’t.

Would you still like me—words in his head—if I wasn’t what you thought I was?

He whispered, “You don’t trust anyone. Do you? I don’t either. You see people. They’re smiling. Going to classes or to the movies. Doing homework at the library or out at the store with friends.” He tried to gather the right words. “You think, maybe you can be like that. One day. Maybe it can be like that.”

He could hear her breathing. The quiet. Then her voice, hushed.

“Jack?”

“What?”

To his surprise, she rolled over to face him. Hair falling across her cheekbone, her eyes gleaming. A mirror to his.

“Thanks for not touching me.”

For a heartbeat, she watched him. Then she shut her eyes.

He lay there in the small paradise, tinged in blue light.

It was all he could do.

In another minute, he was asleep.

XXVI

Chaos: things that are not random but seem to be.