“Okay.” I lean in to kiss him again. We do that for a while, and the tension in my shoulders eases. He’s very good at kissing, and I’m not so bad at it, either. It’s not sloppy or teeth-banging. There’s just the right amount of tongue involved. His arms feel solid around me. His hand squeezing my breast is good. I try to touch him, too, running my hands along his back, his swimmer’s chest. Then lower.

“I love you,” he says then, softly.

My hand stills. He’s never said that before, the L-word. Neither of us have.

He says, “I should, uh, get some protection.”

I blink up at him. Somehow I’m lying down again, although I don’t know when that happened. “What?”

He spells it out for me. “A condom.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.” How responsible of us.

He gets up and goes out of the room. I wonder where he’s going for this condom. Is he ransacking his mom’s bedside table? Or the bathroom, where he has a stash for situations such as these? Has he done this before? We haven’t talked about it. We really should have talked about it. At least then I would know what to expect.

I smooth my clothes back down over myself and take a steadying breath. The gray jersey sheets beneath me smell like fresh laundry detergent. I sit up. I’m surprised, actually, by how clean Leo’s room is. There are no piles of dirty laundry like you’d find on the floor of my room. The carpet even has vacuum lines in it.

How long has he been planning this? Did he wake up this morning thinking tonight’s the night? Did he tidy up and wash his sheets and hug his mom goodbye with a secret smile because he knew he was going to get laid? When all that time I was thinking that we were simply going to a movie this afternoon, then maybe we’d go back to his house, have dinner and talk art with Leo’s mom, stream a show. Most of our relationship consists of watching various things together. And making out while his mom isn’t looking.

But this.

It’s unfair of him, springing this on me. I would have dressed better if I’d known, done something with my hair. Picked different underwear, at least. Shaved my legs.

Oh god. I haven’t shaved my legs in days.

I glance around wildly like a razor is just going to magically materialize. Michael Phelps glares down at me from the walls. One of the posters reads, FEARLESS. If you want to be the best, you have to do things other people aren’t willing to do.