Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Is it messed up that I’ve started to think in those terms? If being somewhere three times were a sign of ownership, Cece and I would be the barons of Trader Joe’s cheese aisle. But my peacoat always finds itself in the same spot—between a lightweight black jacket and the lanyard with Jack’s MIT Physics Institute badge. The budding domesticity makes reaching for possessive pronouns that much easier.

            “Want a hot chocolate?” he asks. He ventures deep inside the apartment, turning on just one light. His face is full of shadows, and I’m a little lost in them.

            “No.”

            “Anything else?”

            I shake my head and stifle a yawn. It’s past two and all I want is a pillow, but I think we’re about to have sex. That’s what spending the night means, right? I should check Urban Dictionary.

            “Let’s go upstairs, then.”

            In his room, he hands me an extra-large hoodie and herds me toward the bathroom. I change into it because I’m too tired to wonder why, because it’s kind of comfy, and because maybe it fits into a kink of his. He did like lingerie. Sportswear might be the next logical step. Or tentacle dildos.

            I use his mouthwash, scrub my face clean, then pad back into his room, hair up in a messy knot, the thick cotton hitting my thighs almost to my knees. I brush past Jack and his amused look and throw myself on my side of the bed—more unwarranted possessive pronouns—and sneak in a twenty-second micronap. Or maybe it’s more like ten minutes, because when I next wake up, Jack blocks the night-light seeping in from the hallway. He smells like shower and toothpaste. And he’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a Toy Story T-shirt.

            “Cute,” I say, closing my eyes again. “Did you notice Woody and Buzz’s homoerotic undertones?”

            “I thought they were very overt.”

            “Validating. Thank you. We’re about to have”—I yawn—“sex, right?”

            The mattress dips. “Sure.” Under the down blanket, strong hands pull me closer, long legs tangle with mine, and we’ve done this before. It’s comforting. Familiar. The word mine pops into my sleepy head again, and I let it float about longer than I should.

            “Okay, good.” I can’t stop yawning, but I force my lids open. “I’m on the Depo shot. I get it from Planned Parenthood, otherwise I couldn’t afford it.”

            “Planned Parenthood’s good people.”

            “Yeah.” I shift closer. He’s hard against my stomach, but nothing about him broadcasts impatience. “We don’t have to, like, use a condom. Unless you have pubic lice.”

            His cheek curves against mine. “I doubt condoms protect from pubic lice, sweetheart.”

            I doze off into a pillow that smells like shampoo and a hint of sweat and Jack’s MIT office, thinking about the logistics of little critters jumping from one crotch to another, only to jolt awake mid-fading. “Don’t let me fall asleep,” I yawn into his neck. “We’re supposed to be doing it.”

            “We are. We’re going at it like animals. Just close your eyes.”

            I do. It’s easier. “Is this another rule of yours? Are you into BDSM?”

            “I do have a thing for consent. And my partners being awake.”

            I picture legions of beautiful, intelligent, curvy partners with advanced degrees. “What happened to the geologist?”

            “Who?”

            “She was your date the day I met you. Very nice. On the short side. Dark hair. I forgot her name . . .”

            “Madeleine. She’s currently in Europe for her sabbatical. Spain, I believe.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “She’s cool. You two would get along.”

            I’m marginally more awake. “Have you been with lots of women?”

            “Mmm.” The sound purrs through my skin and bones. “I don’t know.”

            “How do you not know?”

            “I have no idea what the parameters of ‘lots’ are.”