The Love Hypothesis

by Ali Hazelwood

He must be really tall. His voice sounded like it came from ten feet above her.

Did he have to be so tall?

“Olive,” she heard him call after her. “Olive, wait—”

It never occurred to Olive that Dr. Adam Carlsen—known ass—had called her by her name.

Olive twisted her neck and looked up. And up. And up. And a bit more up. She was not a short woman, but he was just big.

Pretty fucking tragic twist of fate, but you don’t seem to remember that we first met years ago. An issue, since I remember a little too well. I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start. I liked you when I didn’t know you, and now that I do know you it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes, often, always, I think about you before falling asleep. Then I dream of you, and when I wake up my head’s still there, stuck on something funny, beautiful, filthy, intelligent that’s all about you. It’s been going on for a while, longer than you think, longer than you can imagine, and I should have told you, but I have this impression, this certainty that you’re half a second from running away, that I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.