Page 60 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

His brows pinch together as he frowns at me, though I can’t tell if he’s frowning because I snapped at him about the writing, because I spewed a bunch of complaints at him, or because I abused a perfectly good small appliance we could at least exchange somewhere for a refund.

“I was busy trying to make sure you could get home safely.” He says this so kindly, so lacking in defensiveness or accusation, I feel some of the fight slip out of me.

Some of it, but not all of it.

“If you need a jolt of caffeine to pull an all-nighter, I have the perfect solution.” I bend down, reaching into the bag to take out the still-sealed box. It’s heavy and cumbersome, and as I rotate it to show Dylan the photo, it slips from my hands and drops onto my foot.

I let out a garbled cry of pain as I crumple to the floor. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I will not cry over my parents’ stupid gift, which, yes, I told them they should buy for me, but for once—just for once—couldn’t they give me something I wanted for myself?

I’m yanking at my knotted boot laces so I can inspect the damage when I realize Dylan’s kneeling in front of me. He waits, watching, his eyes full of concern as I take my irritation out on the knot I tied too tightly, breaking a fingernail while I pluck away.

“Hey,” he says with a voice as gentle as eiderdown. “Let me get that.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know.”

“I can do—”

“I know that, too.” He waits, unmoving.

I stop fussing with my laces, suddenly aware of how hard I have to fight my instinct to take care of myself. Maybe because I was raised to nurture that instinct. Maybe because I’ve so often had to rely on it. Either way, in this moment, it’s not serving me well.

“Okay. Thank you.” I lean back against the door and inch my foot forward.

Dylan picks at the knot with way more patience than I displayed, carefully loosening it before sliding the laces free of the skate hooks, removing my clunky boot, and peeling off my thick wool sock. As he leans over my foot, examining the bruise that’s already forming, a strange delirium overtakes me. I stop thinking about my foot—the pain or how that pain was incurred. I barely even register Dylan’s hold or what he’s saying about bruising and nothing appearing to be broken. Instead, I grow mesmerized by the amber foyer light dancing across his loose black curls with his movement. As light turns to shadow and back to light, I reach forward and trail my fingertips over a single curl, barely making contact, a ghost of a touch. I don’t know why I do it. I also do know why I do it, but before I can reconcile those thoughts, Dylan goes still as his eyes lift to mine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Sorry.” I retract my hand, balling it into a fist and tucking it against my side.

He blinks at me with one of his most impenetrable expressions ever.

So. Painfully. Still.

Mortified, I consider telling him he had a bit of fuzz in his hair. Something, anything, to explain away my instinct to touch him for no other reason than I was desperate to touch him. But I’m so tired of keeping it all inside. Of fortresses and towers and walls. Of fear.

Dylan gently sets my bruised foot on the floor. I assume he’s about to get up and put space between us. Instead, he looks me in the eye and says, “Do it again.”

My breath catches, and my heart hammers like it wants to burst from my chest.

“Are you—?”

“Do it. Again.” He inches forward, barely, his eyes still on mine.

A rush of vertigo overtakes me. A fear of falling and a desire—no, a need—to fall.

I unclench my fist and let my fingers trace the gentle curve of one curl, then another. They’re so soft, like I always thought they would be, and thick, burying my fingers completely as I let them slide deeper into his tousled locks, as smooth as strands of silk, warm at the roots.

Dylan’s eyes close, but only for a moment before fluttering open again.

“You know what I was going to ask you,” he says. “The morning after the storm.”

“I thought, but then I didn’t think, but then—”

“You know what the dare was going to be, too.”

“I suspected, at first, but—”