He lies back down, resting his hand—palm up—on the side of my mattress. Not allowing myself to overthink it, I weave my fingers through his. It’s the first time we’ve ever done something like this and I’m suddenly convinced that my hand was made to fit perfectly inside of his. I don’t want to let him go. And I promise myself in that very moment that even after I fall asleep when he climbs out that window and breaks our physical connection, I never will. I’ll never let Ambrose King go.
