It disorients me, hearing an apology free of any feelings of ownership. I can’t express the number of times in my life—in the past week—I’ve heard people lament her being gone, as if she’s only theirs. I open my mouth to tell him it’s okay, she’s back, apparently, and I’m going to find her, and I’m—

But I stop myself.

“Thanks.”

“I hope you have people in your life who help you … handle all that,” he says.

I snort again. “You mean therapists?” I’ve been to many, ever since I was a child—courtesy of the fizzy pennies of anxiety.

I swear he blushes. “No! Wow. I meant friends. Boyfriends.”

He says the word with such ease that it makes me blush, too.

“Boyfriends, plural? I’m not polyamorous.” I pause. “Plus, I don’t have enough pockets.”

I expect him to smirk, but his face is soft. “I mean people you trust.”

I’d only ever depended on journals to hold my deepest, darkest secrets (and depended on Tai to read them without permission). I’d only ever depended on myself to write through my thoughts. Imagine a friend—who wasn’t blood bound to you—who knew them all and still loved you. Imagine a significant other, who would only want you all the more.

I stare back at Hérrakí, a blush on my cheeks.

It’s an intoxicating thought.

He pays the bill before I can reach for it. And before we step out onto the street, where anyone could be waiting and watching, he takes my hand in his, and an electricity—so bright, so acidic, it’s almost painful—floods me through my fingertips. I stumble on my feet, cheeks still flushed.

I want to fall into him—settle myself, forever, in this bubble of good humor I step into when I’m with him. He takes my other hand and pulls me closer. For the briefest of brief, dreamlike moments, I feel seen, and I feel that I can see him, too. I feel that what we see of each other is beautiful, is enough. I know it’s an illusion, one found inside that bubble. But I lean even closer, taking in more of that scent of his. Light-headed. His lower lip is swollen, bitable. He nods his head toward me.

I run my fingers over the tattoo, the bird’s wings exposed to the air. “So who is it for?”

He exhales—not so much a sigh as a sign a decision is being made. I wait, feeling his heartbeat under his skin.