“Huh.”

Nazeera sighed. She looked frustrated, but then—she laughed. It wasn’t a funny laugh, it was more like a sound of disbelief, but I thought of it as progress. “I just told you something really important to me,” she said, “and all you can say is huh?”

I thought about it. And then, carefully:

“No?”

And somehow, for some unknowable reason, she smiled. She rolled her eyes as she did it, but her face lit up and she looked suddenly younger—sweeter—and I couldn’t stop staring at her. I didn’t know what I’d done to earn that look on her face. I’d probably done nothing to earn it. She was probably laughing at me.

I didn’t care.

“I, uh, think that’s really cool,” I said, remembering to say something. To acknowledge the importance of what she’d shared with me.

“You think what’s cool?” She raised an eyebrow.

“You know.” I nodded in the direction of her head. “Your whole—thing. That story. You know.”

That’s when she laughed for real. Out loud. She bit her lip to cut the sound and she shook her head as she said, softly, “You’re not messing with me, are you? You’re just really bad at this.”

I blinked at her. I didn’t think I understood the question.

“You’re terrible at talking to me,” she said. “I make you nervous.”

I blanched. “I didn’t— I mean, I wouldn’t say that y—”

“I think maybe I’ve been a little hard on you,” she said, and sighed. She looked away. Bit her lip again. “I thought—that first night I met you—I thought you were trying to be an asshole. You know?” She met my eyes. “Like, I thought you were playing mind games with me. Being hot and cold on purpose. Insulting me one minute, asking me out the next.”

“What?” My eyes widened. “I’d never do that.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I’m realizing that. Most of the guys I’ve known have been manipulative, condescending jackasses—my brother included—so I guess I wasn’t expecting you to be so . . . honest.”

“Oh.” I frowned. I wasn’t sure if she meant that to be a compliment. “Thank you?”

She laughed again. “I think we should start over,” she said, and held out her hand as if to shake mine. “I’m Nazeera. It’s nice to meet you.”

Tentatively, I took her hand. Held my breath. Her skin was smooth, soft against my calloused palm. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Kenji.”

She smiled. It was a happy, genuine smile. I had a feeling that smile was going to kill me. In fact, I was pretty sure this whole situation was going to kill me.

“That’s a great name,” she said, dropping my hand. “You’re Japanese, right?”

I nodded.

“Do you speak?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah. It’s tough. Beautiful but tough. I studied Japanese for a few years,” she explained, “but it’s a difficult language to master. I still have only a rudimentary grasp on it. I actually lived in Japan—well, what used to be Japan—for a month. I did a pretty extensive tour of the re-mapped Asian continent, actually.”

And then I think she asked me another question, but I’d gone suddenly deaf. I’d lost my head. She was talking to me about the country my parents were born in—a place that really means something to me—and I couldn’t even concentrate. She touched her mouth a lot. Ran her finger along the edge of her bottom lip a lot. She had a habit of tapping, often, at the diamond piercing there, and I’m not sure she was even aware she was doing it. But it was almost like she was telling me—directing me—to look at her mouth. I couldn’t help it. I was thinking about kissing her. I was thinking about a lot of things. Pinning her to the wall. Undressing her slowly. Running my hands down her naked body.

And then, suddenly—

Taking a cold shower.

All at once, her smile faded. Her voice was soft, a little concerned when she said, “Hey, are you okay?”

Not okay.

She was too close. She was too close and my body was definitely overreacting to her and I didn’t know how to cool off. Shut down.

“Kenji?”

And then she touched my arm. She touched my arm and then seemed surprised she’d done it, just stared at her hand on my bicep and I forced myself to remain still, forced myself not to move a muscle as her fingertips grazed my skin and a wave of pleasure flooded my body so fast I felt suddenly drunk.

She dropped her hand and looked away. Looked back at me.

She looked confused.

“Shit,” I said softly. “I think I might be in love with you.”

And then, with a seismic jolt of terror, sense was knocked sideways into my head. I bolted upright in my own skin. I thought I might die. I thought I might actually die of embarrassment. I wanted to. I wanted to melt into the Earth. Evaporate. Disappear.

Jesus, I nearly did.

I couldn’t believe I’d said the words out loud. I couldn’t believe I’d been betrayed by my own goddamn mouth like that.

Nazeera stared at me, stunned and still processing, and somehow—through nothing short of a miracle—I managed to recover.

I laughed.

Laughed. And then I said, with perfect nonchalance, “I’m joking, obviously. I think I’m just exhausted. Anyway, good night.”

I managed to walk, not run, back to my room, and was able to hold on to what was left of my dignity. I hope.

Then again, who the hell knows.

I’m going to have to see her again, probably very soon, and I’m sure she’ll let me know if I should make plans to fly directly into the sun.

Shit.

I turn off the water and stand there, still sopping wet. And then, because I hate myself, I take a deep breath and turn on the cold water for ten, painful seconds.

It does the trick. Clears my head. Cools my heart.

I trip getting out of the shower.

I drag myself across the hall, forcing my legs to bend, but I’m still moving like I’m injured. I glance at the clock on the wall and swear under my breath. I’m late. Warner is going to kill me. I really need to spend an hour stretching—my muscles are still way too tight, even after a hot shower—but I have no time. And then, with a grimace, I realize that Warner was right. A couple extra hours to myself this morning would’ve done me a lot of good.

I sigh, heavily, and move toward my room.

I’m wearing my sweatpants, but I have only a towel draped around my neck because I’m in too much pain to pull a shirt over my head. I figure maybe I can steal one of Winston’s button-downs—something I can slip on and off more easily than one of my own sweaters—when I hear someone’s voice. I glance back, distracted, and in those two seconds I lose sight of where I’m going and slam into someone.

Someone.

Words fly out of my head. Just like that.

Gone.

I’m an idiot.

“You’re wet,” Nazeera says, wrinkling her nose as she jumps backward. “Why are you—”

And then I watch her, watch as she looks down. Looks up. Scans my body, slowly. I watch her look away and clear her throat, and suddenly she can’t meet my eyes.