I wonder how long he’s wanted this. I wonder how long I’ve wanted it. I’d say that I didn’t—that the possibility just now occurred to me for the first time. But if that’s true, then why is there a list in my head of all the things I’ve always wanted to do to Baz. Like this: I push my hand up into his hair. It’s smooth and slips through my fingers. I clench my fist in it, and he jams his face forward into mine—then just as suddenly snatches his head away. “Sorry,” I say. (I’m out of breath. It’s embarrassing.) Baz lets go of my jumper and shakes his head, holding on to his forehead. “No. It’s .
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