The others’ voices slide down toward the nearest bedroom, so Fletcher leans forward to close the door before settling in to wait. This closet is far bigger than any of the ones in our apartment, but it’s still a closet, so when the sides of our thighs graze one another, my arms erupt in goosebumps. “They talk so loud,” he whispers. “Because of the wine?” “No, it's like this all the time.” “Oh,” I snort. Fletcher reaches a hand up, grabs a lock of my curls and twists it around his fingers, pulling them through the tight coils. It bounces back toward me at the end, and he watches it, fascination
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