Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I just . . .” I sniffle. “I really wanted a chance to finish my molecular theory of two-dimensional liquid crystals.”

            “I know.” His lips press against my hair. Maybe on purpose. “We’ll figure out a way.”

            There is no we, I think. And Jack says, “Not yet, no,” with a small sigh that lifts his big chest. “It’ll be fine, Elsie. I promise.”

            He cannot. Promise, that is. There are no reliable sources, no known quantities. We’re in a sea of measurement uncertainty. “Maybe this rejection will be my supervillain origin story.”

            He chuckles. “It won’t.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because this is not your character arc, Elsie. More like a . . . character bump.”

            I laugh wetly against his Adam’s apple. I need to go back upstairs. I’ve never slept with anyone, never even considered it. I can’t control what I do at night—what if I move too much or snore or take up too much space? A cover hog is the Elsie no one wants. But with Jack I have nothing to lose, right? We’re past all that. “I can’t believe I woke you up at four and you didn’t murder me.”

            “Why would I murder you?”

            “Because. It’s late.”

            “Nah. I’m kind of into it.” He yawns against the crown of my hair.

            “You’ll really enjoy the thrill of frequent nighttime urination as a senior citizen, then.”

            “It’s not that.” I think he might be about to conk out. “This . . . It fits nicely in a bunch of really weird fantasies I have about you.”

            I remember the picture in his nightstand. His earnest face in Greg’s apartment. I’m breathing the same air as Jack Smith, but I don’t feel scared or unsafe.

            Just comforted, really. Warm and so sleepy.

            “Do these fantasies involve giant tentacle dildos?” I’m yawning, too. Fading fast.

            “Of course.” I can hear his wry smile. “Way more outlandish stuff, too.”

            “Milkmaid role-play?”

            “Wilder.”

            “It’s furries, isn’t it?”

            “You wish.”

            “You have to tell me, or I’ll picture necrophilia and dismemberment.”

            “In my weird fantasies, Elsie . . .” He shifts me till our curves and angles match up. Perfectly. “In my fantasies, you allow me to keep an eye on you.” I feel his lips at my temple. “And when I really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too.”

            It does sound outlandish. “Why?”

            “Because in my head, no one has done it before.”

            I fall asleep huddled in the curve of Jack’s throat, wondering whether he might be right.





15


            HEAT TRANSFER


            There are no curtains, and I wake up first.

            The morning light is blinding white, as painful as a million naked mole rats gnawing at my eyeballs. Judging from the slow, rhythmic breath chuffing against the back of my neck, it’s something Jack has gotten used to.

            I feel rested. Warm and cozy. At some point in the night I must have turned around in his arms, because my back is pressed against his chest. His hand is under my shirt, splayed flat against my belly, fingers brushing my pod, but not in a creepy, sexual way. He’s just trying to keep me close so that we both fit under the thin blanket. It should feel like being spooned by a piranha, but it somehow works, and . . .

            Maybe it is a bit sexual. Because there’s something very hot, very, very hard, very, very, very big pressing against my ass.

            Jack probably needs to pee. Don’t men get hard in the mornings when they need to go to the bathroom? It’s a pee erection. A peerection. Yup.