Without question or comment, Cyrus shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. “How did you know I was freezing?” I ask, turning to him in wonder. “Because I know you,” he says simply. “You love me,” I say. I can’t pinpoint when it stopped being a question, and when it started to feel like a simple fact. There are 6,479 miles between Shanghai and Los Angeles. The sun will come up tomorrow. You can never go wrong with a well-fitted black dress. And he loves me. “Of course I do,” he murmurs against my hair.
