“You want me, Conor,” I repeat. It’s a statement. An axiom. We can fight over what to do about it, we can disagree on every letter of every word we say to each other, but I refuse to negotiate this simple truth. He lets out a single, bitter laugh. Takes several angry steps closer, pointing his finger at me. “Of course I fucking want you. You are stupidly beautiful, and too fucking smart for your own good, and I refuse to go there, Maya.”
