He looks at me, his eyes dark and glittering, and I have to swallow. I wonder if he can tell that I’m holding my breath. Then he presses his mouth onto my open palm, so softly, it feels like a whisper. It feels like he’s asking permission. “Wesley,” I say, but there’s no sound. “Eliza,” he murmurs against my hand. When he looks up at me, his expression is tortured. “Are we friends?” “I think so,”
