Jule’s limbs made achingly perfect shapes, held for the perfect amount of time; he was quick and precise or he was slow and boneless; he was dancing the way the thunderstorm had felt against Ella’s roof—he was thunder and lightning and the throat-closing beauty of charcoal clouds; he was the echoing din of water and the way the bottom fell out of the air. He was something far too fine and hot to be touched and yet touching him was the only possible response.
