Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “You moved around a lot,” he says. “Felt like the easiest way to keep you from kicking my shins.”

            “Wait—when did you—?”

            “About five minutes after you fell asleep.”

            “Wow.” I should move away. But he makes for a good bed, firm and bulky and warm. I’m groggy with sleep that was either not enough or too intense, and don’t want to leave just yet.

            For once, I feel myself, my body. Jack’s hand is on my lower back, under the hoodie. My feet are wrapped around his shins. His mouth is several inches away, but also accessible, and I reach for it.

            I aim for a simple peck, suspecting a mess of rotten-eggy morning breath, but there’s none of that. He tastes like himself, familiar, and deepens the kiss into something gentle, slow, deliciously lazy. Time doesn’t exist. This bed is the expanse of the universe. We’re still dreaming, tucked safely inside our heads.

            There is no urgency in him, no pressure point. Just the unhurried rhythm of his tongue against mine, leisurely patterns traced against my skin. His heartbeat speeds up but remains steady. His breathing grows shallow, but I know it only from the rise and fall of his chest against mine.

            It’s a good way to wake up. I want to wake up exactly like this again and again and again. I want to feel the blinding sunrays wash over us, and this new brightness inside me, fragile and scalding hot all at once.

            Maybe that’s why there are no curtains. In the light, it’s easy to feel brave. All those things I’m scared of seem conquerable, and honesty is almost effortless.

            “Jack?” I pull back, balancing on my palms, one on each side of his head. My hair has come undone and drapes around us like a shrine.

            “Elsie.” His palms come up to hold my face.

            “I . . .” I’m not scared. I’m just not. “I lied.”

            His mouth quirks sleepily. “Which time?”

            I glare. “I hate you.”

            “Sure.” His thumbs swipe gently over my cheeks. Lovingly. Because that’s what this is about. “What’s this lie you speak of?”

            “I said I didn’t know. But I do.”

            “Know what?”

            I swallow. “Where this is going. Where we’re headed. The two of us.”

            Something thickens between us, dense and weighty. I know. He knows. We’ve acknowledged it. It’s almost a sign, the universe’s permission to move forward. Jack’s eyes are warm and probing, and he says, “Come here.”

            I don’t remember taking off my bra last night, but I must have, because when he tosses my hoodie to the floor, my too-pale skin is bare in the blinding light. I don’t even want to ask him to look away.

            Jack sees me. And it’s okay.

            “Come here,” he repeats, and his mouth’s on mine, insistent, brakeless this time. Like he’s kissing me for now, for all the times he couldn’t before, for later, too. Whatever it was that held him back yesterday, two nights ago, the past two weeks, it melts in the morning sun.

            You, a voice suggests. All those Elsies that aren’t really you are what stood between him and this.

            I’m out of breath when he sits up to take his shirt off, and this—this is actually new. He’s almost as undressed as I am, we’re equals, and when he tries to pull me down to him, I shake my head and begin to inspect him. I sit astride his hips, riding him as though he were a mellow, compliant beast instead of the most dangerous thing in my life.

            “I used to . . . Back before my interview, I used to try to picture them.” I trace the inside of his elbow. “Your tattoos.”

            He will stay where he is, but he can’t help touching me. His hand comes up to my rib cage, thumb stroking the outside of my breast. “How did you know I had tattoos?”

            I swallow. “I could see the end of one.”

            “Ah.” His thumb moves to my nipple, feathery light. I arch into the touch. “What did you think they were?”