“I thought about it,” I say. “What?” “It’s not persona. And the speaker isn’t William, either. It’s Will.” His Adam’s apple bobs and his jaw tightens, blink-and-you’d-miss-it. He takes half a step toward me and reaches for my wrist, gentle, feather-light. “Do you want it to be Will?” he murmurs. I feel like I can’t breathe, like all the heat in my body is concentrated at my wrist, where his thumb meets his pointer. I try not to blink. I am twenty-one years old again, that afternoon at Middlebury imprinted in the blueprints of every movement I make. And he seems to know the effect he’s having
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This is so hot
