Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            He’s a way better person than I’ll ever be.

            “Hannah?”

            “I just . . .” My teeth are chattering. Again. “I can’t get warm.”

            He doesn’t hesitate. Or maybe he does, but just a fraction of a second. He opens his arms and pulls me to his chest, and . . . I fit inside them so perfectly, it’s as though there was a spot ready for me all along. A five-year-old spot, familiar and cozy. A delicious, warm nook that smells of soap and sleep, freckles and pale, sweaty skin.

            It makes me want to cry again. Or laugh. I cannot remember the last time I felt this fragile and confused.

            “Ian?”

            “Hm?” His voice is rough, all chest. This is what he sounds like when he wakes up. What he would have sounded like the morning after if I’d agreed to go to dinner with him.

            “How long have you been in Svalbard?”

            He sighs, a warm chuff on the crown of my hair. I must be catching him off guard, because this time he answers the question. “Six days.”

            Six days. That’s one day before I arrived. “Why?”

            “Vacation.” He nuzzles my head with his chin.

            “Vacation,” I repeat. His thermal is soft under my lips.

            “Yeah. I had”—he yawns against my scalp—“lots of time left over.”

            “And you decided to spend it in Norway?”

            “Why do you sound incredulous? Norway’s a good place. It has fjords and ski resorts and museums.”

            Except that’s not where he is. Not at a ski resort, and most definitely not at a museum. “Ian.” It feels so intimate, to say his name so close to him. To press it into his chest as my fingers curve into his shirt. “How did you know?”

            “Know what?”

            “That my project was going to be such a shitshow. That I . . . That I wasn’t going to be able to finish my project.” I am going to start crying again. Possibly. Likely. “Was it—was it that obvious? Am I just this total, giant, incompetent asshole who decided to do whatever the fuck she wanted despite everyone else telling her that she was going to—”

            “No, no, shh.” His arms tighten around me, and I realize that I am, in fact, crying. “You are not an asshole, Hannah. And you are the opposite of incompetent.”

            “But you vetoed me because I—”

            “Because of the intrinsic danger of a project like yours. For the past few months, I tried to get this project stopped in about ten different ways. Personal meetings, emails, appeals—I tried it all. And even the people who agreed with me that it was too dangerous would not step in to prevent it. So no, you’re not the asshole, Hannah. They are.”

            “What?” I shift on my elbow to hold his eyes. The blue is pitch-black in the night. “Why?”

            “Because it’s a great project. It’s absolutely brilliant, and it has the potential to revolutionize future space exploration missions. High risk, high reward.” His fingers push a strand behind my ear, then run down my hair. “Too high risk.”

            “But Merel said that—”

            “Merel is a fucking idiot.”

            My eyes widen. Ian’s tone is exasperated and furious and not at all what I’d expect from his usually calm, aloof self. “Well, Dr. Merel has a doctorate from Oxford and I believe is a Mensa member, so—”

            “He’s a moron.” I shouldn’t laugh, or burrow even closer to Ian, but I cannot help myself. “He was at AMASE when I was here, too. There were two serious injuries during my second expedition, and both of them happened because he pushed scientists to finish fieldwork when conditions weren’t optimal.”

            “Wait, seriously?” He nods curtly. “Why is he still at NASA?”

            “Because his negligence was hard to prove, and because AMASE members sign waivers. Like you did.” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Why were you out there alone?”