Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Between one hundred and three hundred and twelve.” He slaps me gently on the ass. I chuckle and melt into him. “I’m not sure, either.”

            “Then we’ll never know.”

            “But you do this a lot.”

            “I haven’t in a while.”

            “Since when?”

            “I think you know.”

            Oh. “You like sex,” I say. Not a question.

            “I do.” He pauses. “But I’ll also go months without thinking about it if I’m busy working on a grant or an experiment.”

            “Like your current sets of failed experiments?”

            He laughs softly, pressing a kiss on my hair. “I’ve thought more about sex in the last six months than ever before.”

            “I hope you’ll like it.” I burrow further into him. “With me.”

            “I will.”

            “You can’t know.”

            “I can.” He rubs a hand up and down my back, like I’m a fussy pet in need of soothing. Maybe I am.

            “Sexual compatibility is a thing. What if we’re not . . .”

            “Then we’ll work on it.”

            “I don’t want to be work. I don’t want you to feel that I’m work.”

            He sighs. “Somewhere along the way your wires got crossed. Your brain decided that you’re not worth people’s time and effort, and that if you ask for anything, they won’t just say no, they’ll also leave you.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s Archimedes of Syracuse repeating his findings about upward buoyant forces to the acropolis for the tenth time. “That’s not how love works, Elsie. But don’t worry for now. I’ll show you.”

            “But I—”

            “Go to sleep.”

            “What? Why? No!” I try to move up, but his arms cage me tighter. “We should be having all the sex.”

            “In a minute. For now, just close your eyes and be silent for twenty seconds.”

            “Why?”

            “It’s a kink I have.”

            “You perv.” Yawn. “What happened to anal play and bondage?”

            “We’ll get there. Are your eyes closed?”

            I nod into his chest.

            “Perfect. Now count to twenty in your head.”

            His breath is a soft, steady rhythm under my ear. I’m warm and safe, and I get only to thirteen before I’m lost to the world.





21


            COMPLEX HARMONIC MOTION


            My first thought is I’m going to buy him curtains.

            My second: I’m going to do without cheese, insulin, and possibly toilet paper for the next six months. To save up. To buy him curtains.

            Blackout. Rod pocketed. Floor to ceiling.

            It’s unacceptable, falling asleep that late and then waking up at what—seven thirty? Eight? Nine? Just because some guy doesn’t know that shades exist. Seems like a pretty simple concept to—

            “I’ll get you a sleep mask.”

            I open my eyes and I think, Blue. Which—less than one-eighth of his eyes is blue. It makes no sense. “How do you know what I was—?”

            “Your frown woke me up,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He shifts in a stretching yawn, and it’s like a seismic event, a huge tectonic fault shifting under the crust of the earth. Because during the night, I ended up facedown on top of Jack.

            “How?” I ask.