“You don’t even know how grateful you should be, Conor.” “Is that so?” “It’s not revealing at all—” “It’s not about revealing, Maya.” His fingers dip down past the waist of my bottoms, and my breath catches. “It’s the way you take over the space around you. You remind me constantly, loudly, indecently, of all the little things that make you you. It’s impossible to escape, and it makes me very angry.” His hand inches down, and I bite my lower lip. “I’m sorry for being myself.” “You should be,” he says, but the last syllable becomes something groaned and choked and dragged out, and he’s touching
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