Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Because you’re cold, Elsie.” He steps closer, and I can feel the hot glow of his skin. “Because you had a rough night, and probably a rough month. Because it’s not safe. And because I like having you around.”

            I should probably try to process this, but I’m so, so tired. “Do you have a spare room?”

            “I do. No bed in it, though, and according to my friend Adam, my air mattress ‘sucks ass.’ ”

            “Is that where you keep the skeletons of theorists?”

            He smirks. Doesn’t deny it. “I’ll take the couch. That’s where I fall asleep reading theory articles every night, anyway.”

            Maybe it’s a jab, but it makes me laugh. I glance at the sectional, which could comfortably house three of him and looks cozier than my childhood bed. I’m really not in the position to refuse this, though I make a last-ditch effort. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

            “Elsie.”

            I hate it when he says my name like that. A little stern, amused, annoyed. Like I should be past my bullshit, even though I’m neck deep, drowning in it. “Okay. Thank you.”

            “Do you need insulin? There’s a pharmacy down the block.”

            Apparently I now discuss my meds supply with Jonathan Smith-Turner. Wild. “I just changed my pod. I’m good.”

            He nods, and then . . . I guess it’s happening. I’m staring at his back and following him up the L-shaped staircase, like the neutron star of helplessness I’ve been reduced to. I try to picture waking up tomorrow. Squirting his toothpaste on my finger. Making my way downstairs, nonchalantly complimenting his orthopedic pillow, then throwing out a Laters! before venturing out into the blinding white.

            I’m in the awkwardest timeline, but a proper freak-out will have to wait until I have enough energy.

            “Bathroom’s in here,” he says once we reach the upstairs landing. He rummages in a linen closet, then plugs a night-light into the wall. For me.

            My heart squeezes.

            “That’s my office.” He opens a door. “And here’s the bedroom.”

            Jack has a headboard, unlike other, more basic people (me). And a blue comforter, dark sheets that match the rug, and a bed that’s probably a few notches above king. Emperor? Galactic dominator? No clue, but I bet he had it custom-made. I bet the woodworker took a good look at Jack and said, “We’ll need the wood of a thousand-year Huon pine for a monstrosity like you. I shall head to Tasmania on my skiff at first light.”

            The rest of the room is tidy and uncluttered—no dirty boxers draped over the leather chair by the window, no Clif Bar wrappers on the floor. The window takes up the entire east wall, and there’s one single piece of art: a framed picture of the Large Hadron Collider. The endcap of the Compact Muon Solenoid—a futuristic, mechanical flower.

            It’s beautiful. I know that Jack did some work at CERN, and maybe he took it himself—

            “I’ll change the sheets,” he says, brushing past me toward the dresser, and I realize that I’ve been staring.

            “Oh, don’t. I’m not exactly picky, and . . .” I clear my throat. Whatever, it’s fine. “We can both sleep in here. I mean, the bed is huge.”

            He’s giving me his back, but I see the moment the words land. The drawer is half-open, and his movements stutter to a stop. Muscles tense under his shirt, then slowly relax. When he turns around, it’s with his usual uneven smile. “Seems like a lot for you,” he says. A bit strained, maybe. There’s no dimple in sight.

            “A lot?”

            “Going from running away from me to sleeping in the same bed, in under one hour.”

            I flush and look at my toes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run—I just . . . And I’m not, like, coming on to you.” I’d love to sound sharp and indignant, but it’s just not where I’m at.

            “We’ve established that you don’t need to come on to me, Elsie. Do you want something to sleep in?”

            “Oh.” I shake my head. “I’m good. I’m wearing leggings, anyway. I figured that if I had to suffer through 2001, I could at least be comfy.”