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“An entire indoor marketplace for hats,” he says, and shakes his head. Then we pass the movie theater, and his astonishment only grows. “Is this enormous building only for the moving images? Are the moving images even larger inside it?” he asks. And when I tell him that they’re so large you could be swallowed whole by someone’s mouth if they were suddenly made flesh and fought their way out of the screen, he looks dumbfounded. It’s all I can do to stop him going inside.

He sees a poster for a special Twilight screening and almost flings himself through the fancy doors with the curving brass handles, until I force him away. Mina Parvati sees it from the little old-fashioned ticket booth at the side of the building, and her apple-cheeked face breaks into an oh of surprise.

Then something else entirely when he turns back to me, face all full of wonder and passion. She actually winks in my direction. Then gives me a thumbs-up. Like, Wow, you’ve got a keeper there. It’s awful. And of course all it does is get me closer to being soppy with him.

I almost say right then and there: I am your friend.

And even more so when he seems to remember what we had been talking about before Twilight distracted him, and says, just as we make it into the dim quiet of the library, “One day I shall earn your true friendship, and not this false facade used to stay the prying of your community.”

And now everything isn’t just awful.

It’s agonizing.

He just speaks so softly, is the thing. So earnestly. And his warm breath is still on my cheek, and his body is very close to mine, and really, I think, what would it matter if I just reassured him? It’s only a small thing, after all. It’s not like he’s imagining anything more romantic. In fact, I think his inability to imagine that makes it even easier than it usually would be.

But now Tabitha Kendall, the head librarian, is gazing at us across the counter, and her deep brown eyes are just a little bit knowing, and one of her eyebrows is raised right up to the red-and-yellow head wrap she’s wearing, and so I settle for just letting myself touch his hand, below the counter, where nobody can see it. The backs of my fingers against his, a little reassuring brush that would mean absolutely nothing with anyone else—even coming from me, a person who doesn’t like to touch anyone, really.

Yet somehow, somehow, with him it’s different.

I know it is, immediately. I know I shouldn’t have done it.

It’s not like taping a steak to his arm, or chaining him up. This hits like a ton of extremely intimate bricks. His skin is too soft, much softer than I expect, and the sensation that sliding over it provokes is so sweet it almost stings. It sets my teeth on edge; every hair on me bristles.

And I can tell it does the same to him.

He jolts and lets out a little sound, and when I look up at him I see his hand is over his mouth. His eyes are wide. Like something even worse has happened to him than whatever happened to me. Though I can’t for the life of me think what it could be until I’ve dragged him away from the counter and between two sets of shelves.

Because even then he won’t put his hand down.

Fangs, I think, and want to feel afraid. But I think I fucked that when I almost threw my throat into his mouth earlier. And okay, that’s a little unfair on myself, I didn’t exactly do that. However, I do tell him, “Show me,” just a little too fast for my tastes. And Phone’s tastes.

She buzzes in my pocket.

And only settles when he replies.

“I do not wish to.”

“Why not?”

“Because it fills you with fear. Every time we have so much as spoken of it, I hear your heart thrumming heavily in your chest. Your scent grows sharper, less sweet. Still intoxicating—maybe even more so. But in a way I do not like.”

God, I hope that’s really adrenaline he’s describing, I think.

Then manage to just shrug, instead of letting on how unnerved I am.

“They’re just bigger teeth than your other ones,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“A simple and kind description for something that feels horrendous.”

“You know, I’ve often wondered if they’re comfortable. Or make talking hard. I mean, they’re so large and sharp and powerful I once saw you bite through a lamppost. But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

“You will be when you see them. Just tell me how to put them back in.”

“There’s no need to, honestly. It’s okay. Just—” I start to say, thinking of the way you go about retracting fangs when I do. Relax, I think, relax, and that’s absolutely correct. But I make the silliest move to encourage this when I do.