His lips twitch. “Wait, you didn’t?”
“No,” I admit. “You really think I could’ve passed for twenty-one at eighteen? I still get carded constantly, and I’m twenty-three. This babyface wasn’t fooling anyone.”
He chuckles. “Fair point.”
“Besides,” I add, “I didn’t really have the typical undergrad experience. No keg stands or frat parties. Landon was into that kind of stuff, not me. He’d throw these massive ragers at our apartment, and I’d just hide in my bedroom to study with noise-canceling headphones.”
He grimaces. “Sounds miserable.”
“It wasn’t,” I say quickly, maybe a little defensively. “I like school.”
He gives me a look I can’t decipher. I stare into his eyes like I’m trying to study him.
“I missed hanging out with you these past few days,” he admits, setting his wine glass on a coaster. His hand floats to my knee, squeezing gently.
The words are simple, but they’re exactly what I needed to hear. I hold them gently in my chest, letting them soothe the ache.
“Me too.”
He kisses me again, and I fumble to set my glass aside. There’s a hint of cherry wine on his lips, sweet and decadent. His fingers thread into my hair, tugging gently, pulling me closer. My hands roam up his arms, savoring the feel of him, until my fingers brush something firm and circular on the back of his arm—his CGM, tucked under a strip of medical tape.
I pull back instinctively. “Shit. Sorry.”
He takes my hand and brings it back to rest on his bicep. “It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt. Just don’t, like, punch my arm or anything.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” I mutter, chuckling awkwardly.
He bites his bottom lip. “Seriously. I don’t want you to be afraid to touch me however you want. You can manhandle me,” he says with a wink, but there’s a hint of raw honesty in his voice, like maybe this is a source of insecurity for him.
“Okay,” I say softly.
He must catch the hesitation in my voice, because he asks, “Would it help if I showed you how it works?”
I nod. “Yeah, I think so.”
He pulls out his phone and opens an app. A line graph lights up the screen. At the top, a bold number reads127, with a small horizontal arrow beside it.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the sensor on his arm, “is a tiny filament under my skin. I have to change it every week or so. It checks my blood sugar every five minutes and sends it here.” He taps his phone. “If my blood sugar gets out of range, it’ll beep. If it’s high, I need to use my pump to give myself insulin, and if it’s low, I need sugar.”
I stare at the sensor, trying to absorb the knowledge. “Does it hurt when you put it in?”
He snorts. “Are we still talking about my CGM?”
I groan, my face heating up. “Shut up.”
His smile melts into something more serious again. “It does hurt a little, but I’m used to it.”
“How old were you when you were diagnosed?”
“Eight,” he responds easily. “Maddie had just been born, so my parents were... kind of distracted. You know, new baby and everything. It took them a while to notice the symptoms—I was thirsty and tired all the time, and I lost a ton of weight. I was a scrawny kid. By the time they realized something was wrong, my blood sugar was over five hundred. I was in full-blown diabetic ketoacidosis—basically my body started turning my blood into acid. I got really sick.”
My eyes widen. “Jesus. That must’ve been scary.”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t remember most of my life before diabetes. This isn’t new for me. It’s just... my normal. So please don’t feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t,” I tell him earnestly. “I’m just... impressed. With how well you handle it.”
“Well,” he says, dryly, “the alternative is death. So, you know. Pretty solid motivation.”
