“What?” “Nothing.” “You’re staring.” “I’m not.” My brow buoys. “You so are.” “Fine. I like staring at you,” he admits, a smile emerging. Butterflies go haywire inside my belly, and when he goes to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I feel my body melt into goo. I could sink and stick to this cloud-soft mattress like a puddle.
