He gently picks up my burnt hand and inspects it. “I wanted to ask . . . Does it still hurt?” he says quietly. The light from the film reflects off his black hair, giving him a halo. My throat is too thick to speak, so I shake my head. 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
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