Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            I can’t believe I’m on a bed. With Levi Ward. Watching a movie. With Levi Ward. And it doesn’t even feel weird. I steal more popcorn, and inadvertently grab his thumb. “Sorry!”

            “That’s not vegan,” he says, a hint of something in his voice, and I am mesmerized by the shadows the TV light casts on his face. His elegant nose, the unexpected fullness of his lips, his black hair, blue-tinted in the dark.

            “What?” he asks, without taking his eyes off the screen.

            “What, what?”

            “You’re staring.”

            “Oh.” I should avert my gaze, but I’m a bit drunk. And I like looking at him. “Nothing. Just . . .”

            He finally turns. “Just?”

            “Just . . . look at us.” I smile. “It doesn’t even feel like we hate each other.”

            “That’s because we don’t.”

            “Aw.” I tilt my head. “You stopped hating me?”

            “New rule.” He turns more fully toward me, and his ridiculously long legs brush against mine. In the swampy forests of Dagobah, Yoda’s torturing poor Luke under the guise of training him. “Every time you say that I hate you, you have to come over and express Schrödinger’s glands.”

            “You say it like it wouldn’t be enjoyable.”

            “Since you clearly have a fetish: every time you mention this nonexistent enmity I supposedly feel, I’ll add a mile to the race you owe me.”

            “That’s crazy.”

            “You know what to do to make it stop.” He pops a kernel into his mouth.

            “Hmm. Can I say that I hate you?”

            He looks away. “I don’t know. Do you hate me?”

            Do I hate him? No. Yes. No. I haven’t forgotten how much of a dipshit he was in grad school, or that he reprimanded me about my clothes on my first day of work, or any of the dickish things he’s done to me. But after a big day like today, when he saved me from total, catastrophic implosion, it all seems so distant.

            No, then. I don’t hate him. In fact, I kind of like him. But I don’t want to admit it, so while Han and Leia bicker about how much they love each other on the screen, I punt.

            “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

            He gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. Is it relevant?”

            “Of course! We’re spying.”

            He nods in a way that clearly showcases how full of shit he thinks I am. “Something inconspicuous, then. A trench coat. Sunglasses. You brought your fake mustache, right?”

            I smack his arm. “Not all of us have a long history of espionage—by the way, what’s the story behind the MagTech pics?”

            “That’s a secret.”

            “Did you really risk your career, like Boris said?”

            “No comment.”

            I roll my eyes. “Well, if you did . . . thank you.” I settle back into my pillow, focusing on the movie.

            “Hey, Bee?”

            I love Wookiees so much. Best aliens ever. “Yeah?”

            “If tomorrow you see Annie and Tim and feel . . . like you felt today. Just take my hand, okay?”

            I should ask what that would even accomplish. I should point out that his hand is not a powerful brand of instant-release benzodiazepines. But I think he might be right. I think it might just do the trick. So I nod, and steal the entire bag of popcorn from his lap.

            He does have a point. Space is kind of scary.





15





FUSIFORM AREA: FAMILIAR FACES



“THEY HIRED A neuroscientist,” Levi says, gaze locked on the podium where engineers with heavy Dutch accents are discussing their stimulation headgear.