I don’t even realize I’ve pressed myself into him until I feel every contour of his frame under the thin cotton of his clothes. My hands slip up under his shirt and I hear his strained breath; I look up to find his eyes squeezed shut, his features caught in an expression resembling some kind of pain and suddenly his hands are in my hair, desperate, his lips so close. He leans in and gravity moves out of his way and my feet leave the floor and I’m floating, I’m flying, I’m anchored by nothing but this hurricane in my lungs and this heart beating a skip a skip a skip too fast.
Our lips
touch
and I know I’m going to split at the seams. He’s kissing me like he’s lost me and he’s found me and I’m slipping away and he’s never going to let me go. I want to scream, sometimes, I want to collapse, sometimes, I want to die knowing that I’ve known what it was like to live with this kiss, this heart, this soft soft explosion that makes me feel like I’ve taken a sip of the sun, like I’ve eaten clouds 8, 9, and 10.
This.
This makes me ache everywhere.
He pulls away, he’s breathing hard, his hands slip under the soft material of my suit and he’s so hot his skin is so hot and I think I’ve already said that but I can’t remember and I’m so distracted that when he speaks I don’t quite understand.
But it’s something.
Words, deep and husky in my ear but I catch little more than an unintelligible utterance, consonants and vowels and broken syllables all mixed together. His heartbeats crash through his chest and topple into mine. His fingers are tracing secret messages on my body. His hands glide down the smooth, satiny material of this suit, slipping down the insides of my thighs, around the backs of my knees and up and up and up and I wonder if it’s possible to faint and still be conscious at the same time and I’m betting this is what it feels like to hyper, to hyperventilate when he tugs us backward. He slams his back into the wall. Finds a firm grip on my hips. Pulls me hard against his body.
I gasp.
His lips are on my neck. His lashes tickle the skin under my chin and he says something, something that sounds like my name and he kisses up and down my collarbone, kisses along the arc of my shoulder, and his lips, his lips and his hands and his lips are searching the curves and slopes of my body and his chest is heaving when he swears and he stops and he says God you feel so good
and my heart has flown to the moon without me.
I love it when he says that to me. I love it when he tells me that he likes the way I feel because it goes against everything I’ve heard my entire life and I wish I could put his words in my pocket just to touch them once in a while and remind myself that they exist.
“Juliette.”
I can hardly breathe.
I can hardly look up and look straight and see anything but the absolute perfection of this moment but none of that even matters because he’s smiling. He’s smiling like someone’s strung the stars across his lips and he’s looking at me, looking at me like I’m everything and I want to weep.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers.
And I trust him.
So I do.
My eyes fall closed and he kisses one, then the other. Then my chin, my nose, my forehead. My cheeks. Both temples.
Every
inch
of my neck
and
he pulls back so quickly he bangs his head against the rough wall. A few choice words slip out before he can stop them. I’m frozen, startled and suddenly scared. “What happened?” I whisper, and I don’t know why I’m whispering. “Are you okay?”
Adam fights not to grimace but he’s breathing hard and looking around and stammering “S-sorry” as he clutches the back of his head. “That was—I mean I thought—” He looks away. Clears his throat. “I—I think—I thought I heard something. I thought someone was about to come inside.”
Of course.
Adam is not allowed to be in here.
The guys and the girls stay in different wings at Omega Point. Castle says it’s mostly to make sure the girls feel safe and comfortable in their living quarters—especially because we have communal bathrooms—so for the most part, I don’t have a problem with it. It’s nice not to have to shower with old men. But it makes it hard for the two of us to find any time together—and during whatever time we do manage to scrounge up, we’re always hyperaware of being discovered.
Adam leans back against the wall and winces. I reach up to touch his head.
He flinches.
I freeze.
“Are you okay …?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I just—I mean—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Drops his voice. His eyes. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”
“Hey.” I brush my fingertips against his stomach. The cotton of his shirt is still warm from his body heat and I have to resist the urge to bury my face in it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “You were just being careful.”
He smiles a strange, sad sort of smile. “I’m not talking about my head.”
I stare at him.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Pries it open again. “It’s—I mean, this—” He motions between us.
He won’t finish. He won’t look at me.
“I don’t understand—”
“I’m losing my mind,” he says, but whispers it like he’s not sure he’s even saying it out loud.
I look at him. I look and blink and trip on words I can’t see and can’t find and can’t speak.
He’s shaking his head.
He grips the back of his skull, hard, and he looks embarrassed and I’m struggling to understand why. Adam doesn’t get embarrassed. Adam never gets embarrassed.
His voice is thick when he finally speaks. “I’ve waited so long to be with you,” he says. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you for so long and now, after everything—”
“Adam, what are y—”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep and I think about you all—all the time and I can’t—” He stops. Presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. Squeezes his eyes shut. Turns toward the wall so I can’t see his face. “You should know—you have to know,” he says, the words raw, seeming to drain him, “that I have never wanted anything like I’ve wanted you. Nothing. Because this—this—I mean, God, I want you, Juliette, I want—I want—”
His words falter as he turns to me, eyes too bright, emotion flushing up the planes of his face. His gaze lingers along the lines of my body, long enough to strike a match to the lighter fluid flowing in my veins.
I ignite.
I want to say something, something right and steady and reassuring. I want to tell him that I understand, that I want the same thing, that I want him, too, but the moment feels so charged and urgent that I’m half convinced I’m dreaming. It’s like I’m down to my last letters and all I have are Qs and Zs and I’ve only just remembered that someone invented a dictionary when he finally rips his eyes away from me.
He swallows, hard, his eyes down. Looks away again. One of his hands is caught in his hair, the other is curled into a fist against the wall. “You have no idea,” he says, his voice ragged, “what you do to me. What you make me feel. When you touch me—” He runs a shaky hand across his face. He almost laughs, but his breathing is heavy and uneven; he won’t meet my eyes. He steps back, swears under his breath. Pumps his fist against his forehead. “Jesus. What the hell am I saying. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry—forget that—forget I said anything—I should go—”
I try to stop him, try to find my voice, try to say, It’s all right, it’s okay, but I’m nervous now, so nervous, so confused, because none of this makes any sense. I don’t understand what’s happening or why he seems so uncertain about me and us and him and me and he and I and all of those pronouns put together. I’m not rejecting him. I’ve never rejected him. My feelings for him have always been so clear—he has no reason to feel unsure about me or around me and I don’t know why he’s looking at me like something is wrong—
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m—I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just—I’m—shit. I shouldn’t have come. I should go—I have to go—”
“What? Adam, what happened? What are you talking about?”
“This was a bad idea,” he says. “I’m so stupid—I shouldn’t have even been here—”
“You are not stupid—it’s okay—everything is okay—”
He laughs, loud, hollow. The echo of an uncomfortable smile lingers on his face as he stops, stares at a point directly behind my head. He says nothing for a long time, until finally he does. “Well,” he says. He tries to sound upbeat. “That’s not what Castle thinks.”
“What?” I breathe, caught off guard. I know we’re not talking about our relationship anymore.
“Yeah.” His hands are in his pockets.
“No.”
Adam nods. Shrugs. Looks at me and looks away. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“But the testing—it’s—I mean”—I can’t stop shaking my head—“has he found something?”
Adam won’t look at me.
“Oh my God,” I say, and I whisper it like if I whisper, it’ll somehow make this easier. “So it’s true? Castle’s right?” My voice is inching higher and my muscles are beginning to tighten and I don’t know why this feels like fear, this feeling slithering up my back. I shouldn’t be afraid if Adam has a gift like I do; I should’ve known it couldn’t have been that easy, that it couldn’t have been so simple. This was Castle’s theory all along—that Adam can touch me because he too has some kind of Energy that allows it. Castle never thought Adam’s immunity from my ability was a happy coincidence. He thought it had to be bigger than that, more scientific than that, more specific than that. I always wanted to believe I just got lucky.
And Adam wanted to know. He was excited about finding out, actually.
But once he started testing with Castle, Adam stopped wanting to talk about it. He’s never given me more than the barest status updates. The excitement of the experience faded far too fast for him.
Something is wrong.
Something is wrong.
Of course it is.
“We don’t know anything conclusive,” Adam tells me, but I can see he’s holding back. “I have to do a couple more sessions—Castle says there are a few more things he needs to … examine.”
I don’t miss the mechanical way Adam is delivering this information. Something isn’t right and I can’t believe I didn’t notice the signs until just now. I haven’t wanted to, I realize. I haven’t wanted to admit to myself that Adam looks more exhausted, more strained, more tightly wound than I’ve ever seen him. Anxiety has built a home on his shoulders.