“It’s like you’re a zipper,” he says slowly, running a finger down the middle of my chest, mimicking the movement. “You go your whole life zipped up, and then someone comes along and starts to tug. Inevitably, you’ll be unzipped—and you won’t be prepared for what spills out. That’s how I feel when I’m around you.” I quirk my lips up slightly. “Yeah, I can definitely tell you’re a writer.”
