Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            He keeps staring.

            “Do you have a tissue?” I look around the cabin. “Or even a piece of paper—”

            “No. No, you don’t . . .” He shakes his head, lost for words.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “You . . .” He swallows.

            “. . . I?”

            “The dress. You wore . . . the dress.”

            I glance at myself. Oh. Yes. I did wear my Target dress. “I thought you said you didn’t really hate it?”

            “And I don’t.” He swallows. “I really don’t.”

            I take a better look at him and realize the way he’s staring. Which is . . . “Oh.” My heartbeat picks up.

            “Can I kiss you?” he asks, and I could fall in love with this hesitant, shy version of Levi Ward—the same man who nibbled my throat awake at three a.m. to say that he’d die if he couldn’t fuck me again. I let him, enthusiastically. Just like I let him kiss me now, until we’re making out like teenagers, deep, fingers holding my neck, tongues stroking, his weight pressing me into the seat and he’s really, really good at this, charmingly assertive, deliciously insistent. That’s his hand on my knee, under my dress and up my smooth leg, up and up until it’s wrapped around my inner thigh. A light brush against the front of my panties, and I whimper in his mouth just as he groans. I think I’m already wet. And he knows I’m already wet, because his fingertips slip under the elastic and hook it to the side. I gasp against his mouth and his thumb slides against my—

            Someone honks one street over, and we both pull back. Oops.

            “We should probably . . .”

            “Yeah. We should.”

            We’re both in agreement. And both reluctant. We’re slow to let go of each other, and when he turns the key in the ignition, the same hand that uses precision screwdrivers on a daily basis is trembling slightly.

            I glance out the window. “Levi?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I just wanted to say that . . .” I smile. “Red lipstick looks great on you.”



* * *



            • • •

            IT’S NOT A date.

            But if it were—which it isn’t—it would be the best date of my life.

            Of course, because it’s not a date, the point is moot.

            But. If it were.

            Though it’s not.

            Even when, I must admit, it almost feels like one. Maybe it’s that he paid while I was in the bathroom (I briefly protested, but honestly, I’ll let any dude buy me dinner until the gender pay gap is ungapped). Maybe it’s that we never stopped talking, never, not even for a minute—just polite nods for Archie the Overzealous Waiter when he kept coming by to inquire about our meals. But maybe it’s the hour we spent reframing some of our most traumatic grad school memories.

            “I presented my data during lab meeting. Halfway through my first year. And you looked out the window for the entire time.”

            He smiles and takes his time chewing. “You were wearing this”—he gestures in the middle of his forehead—“thing. On your hair.”

            “A headband, probably. I was smack in my boho-chic phase.” I shudder. “Okay, you’ve got a doctor’s note for this one. But it was excellent data.”

            “I know—I was listening. Your salience network research—very compelling. I just . . .” He shrugs. His hand closes around his glass, but he doesn’t drink. “It was cute. I didn’t want to stare.”

            I burst into laughter. “Cute?”

            His eyebrow lifts, challenging. “Some of us haven’t outgrown their boho-chic phase.”

            “Uh-huh. What does boho-chic mean, Levi?”