“Did what?” I say, slapping his hand away from my face. He sticks his other hand in my face, pointing. “Called me Simon.” “What would you prefer—Chosen One?” His hand dips. “I prefer Simon, actually. I . . . I like it.” I swallow, and it must be obvious how nervous I am, because he looks down at my neck. “Simon,” I say, and swallow again, “you’re being idiotic.” “Because I like this better than fighting?” “There is no ‘this’!” I protest. “You slept in my arms,” he says. “Fitfully.”
