“Ipomoea alba,” he said and plucked a white flower from the vine and turned to face me. He swiped my hair from my face and tucked the flower behind my ear, his eyes sticking to mine. “There’s an entire world that wakes after nightfall. The moonflower only opens up under the light of the moon.” My breath held in my chest as his fingers lingered on my cheek, as if he were telling me so much more. As if there were multiple meanings planted between his words.
