He called me Dee. Then I realize what that pang was. I’ve felt it before. Once. Only once. Oh, shitting fishcakes. I’m in love with him. I love Wyatt. He hasn’t moved. I could count his freckles from here. I want to count his freckles. ‘Ganymedes?’ I chance a glance into his eyes. Yup. There’s that pang again. Inevitable, terrible—and wonderful. Love. ‘You can call me Dee.’ His face beams with a smile and, predictably, I love that too.
