☽ Peter ☽

My boots sink into a puddle as I dodge through the street, headed to work for a few hours after school. Relentless droplets of rain pour onto the ground and breezes down the streets, and when I finally reach the overhang, my clothes are soaked.

The door seals shut behind me. I grab a towel from the back room to sponge the water from my shirt. The air is mild, and the weather has bounced between sunshine poking through the charcoal clouds and an intermittent downpour a few times already. The next time I glance out the window, the sun will have returned with a vengeance once more.

I busy myself with cleaning rooms and changing the sheets, and when I'm almost halfway done, my vision swims. I press my hand against the floor and massage my temples.

My head pulses with a headache. Lowering myself to the floor, I take a deep breath before I dial the phone number for the clinic. I was planning to cancel my appointment today, regardless; I'm not in the mood for analyzing my emotions today, and I've been feeling strange since this morning.

Suzanna picks up quickly. "How are you, Peter?"

"I have to cancel," I say, between blinking to clear the spots in my vision, and taking in another breath. "Sorry. I think I'm sick."

"Oh. You've caught a cold? Or is this just an unproductive mental health day?" she asks. "We can certainly reschedule, and you just let me know when you want to come in."

"It's just a cold," I admit under my breath. I get to my feet and halfheartedly finish tidying the room before I exit, fumbling with the key card. "And thanks. I'll call when I feel better."

After letting my parents know I'm taking a break, I descend on the stairway and head to the master suite. It's on the first floor, tucked away in the far corner, and consists of a wide bed pushed against the wall, heavy curtains that block out the light, and a plush carpet. Since the room is occupied solely by staff, it has its own ghosts. My father's toolkit stands by the bedside, left propped open from the last time he was here.

I climb into bed, grasping the sheets over my head. It doesn't take me long to drift into a hazy nap.

When I wake up, my eyes are glued shut. I pry them open, groaning. My phone screen hurts to look at. At some point, my glasses have slipped off my nose, and I can't tell where they've gone.

I squint, reading Nicole's name at the top of my notifications. I tap her contact to call her, and the photo of her pops into view. In it, she's fifteen. Wearing my glasses, she flashes a peace sign at the camera. If I remember correctly, my contact photo on her phone matches; the one where I have her heart-shaped glasses on my head.

"Pierre!" she cries as she answers. "I texted you, like, ten quadrillion times. What's up?"

Ignoring the obvious hyperbole, I sniffle, fumbling to the ensuite bathroom for a box of tissues. "I took a nap. I feel like..."

"Well, you sound like crap," she interrupts, without waiting for me to finish. I'm used to it, by now; it's just the way we communicate. Through the phone line, I can hear the feedback of her shuffling around.

I set my phone down against the mattress and lay down next to it. "Thank you."

"I love you, you know?" Nicole says to me, and there's no irony in her voice. "This is about the eclipse, I'm guessing. What happened?"

I heave out a sigh. I've been trying not to think about it, not that I'm getting far with that attempt. Part of me is still waiting for reality to hit me. I haven't spoken to Evan since yesterday, and I expected I would wake up this morning to find a text from him.

And I am ready for it. While kissing him stole my breath away, and made me feel an influx of blissful emotions all at once, maybe he's second-guessing it.

"Pierre?" Nicole questions.

"Evan kissed me," I reply after a lengthy pause.

There is an awe-struck silence. "Holy shit, he finally did it? Wow, I mean, I could tell he liked you, but I didn't know if he was going to do anything about it. He asked me about you today. Like three times."

I blink, recalling the way Evan's lips felt against mine. That was my first kiss, so I don't have a point of comparison, but he hypnotized me. "He did?" I stutter, and my voice has a raspy, congested tone to it. I let out an involuntary cough to clear my parched throat. "When?"

"All morning," Nicole says flippantly. "He wanted to know where you were, and then he asked a bunch of questions about how you were doing."

I dissolve into a fit of coughs. I turn my head away from the receiver.

Nicole asks, "Do you need me to come over?"

"No, I'll be fine," I say. "I'm just sick. If you come, you'll probably catch my cold."

"I meant about Evan," she clarifies, pausing for a moment. I can't tell if I'm meant to interrupt her; so I wait for her to continue. "He kissed you?"

"But I messed it up. I think he hates me. He hasn't said anything since last night."

Nicole sighs. "But I'm willing to bet my ass that you haven't said anything, either."

"Nicole—" I start, but my voice falters. Technically, Evan is the one who kissed me. Ergo, he should be the person who confirms what said kiss meant.

"Text him. If you don't want to do it, I'll come over and send the message for you," she tells me seriously.

I hold a tissue to my nose, sneezing once, then a second time. "You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, but I feel like you're not going to work it out with him, which is not great, because if—"

A knock at my door cuts my focus on her words. I fall silent.

I slip my feet onto the carpet, dragging myself to the door. The view through the peephole is muddled, but I would recognize Evan McKenna's tangled mess of black curls and hazel eyes anywhere. I can't exactly read his expression, but he's dressed in grey sweatpants and my oversized sweater. My heart flips.

"I'm hanging up on you now," I say into the phone.

"Peter Matthew Delacroix, how dare you—"

"I'll call you back later," I promise as I press the end button before pulling the door to my room open.

Evan smiles up at me. His gaze skims over me, lingering on my face. With one hand, he slicks his damp hair back, and I can't help but wonder if it's as soft as it looks. With the other, he extends a mug of coffee in my direction. "How are you feeling? I heard you were sick, so... I brought you coffee. With two milk and two sugars. That's the way you like it, right?"

I accept the cup, dumbfounded. He remembers my coffee order? "Thank you."

Stepping aside, I nod to the inside of my room. Evan doesn't enter until I tell him to come in. Once I'm back in bed, he says, "I really messed things up between us, didn't I?"

"You didn't mess anything up. I just expected that you would talk to me this morning," I say, sipping at my drink. The heat of the steam sinks into my veins and clears some of the grogginess in my voice.

"Sorry." Evan picks up my glasses from their place on the bedside and hands them to me. Our fingers graze. His warm hand against mine. "I was trying to give you some space. After all that... I probably should have told you how I felt. Please don't think I regret it, because I don't. It's actually the opposite, but I was worried you'd... that maybe you didn't feel the same way—"

"Evan," I say, moving a few inches to the side, letting him sit at the edge of the sheets, "when I said slow, that isn't what I meant."

"Oh." A smile flashes across his face. "Then... it's... you still..."

I've never seen him stuttering like this before. He scratches his neck, and his eyes search the room, finally finding their way back to mine.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

Slowly, he nods. "Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry, I just can't think straight right now."

I suppress a grin, setting my cup on the table beside the box of tissues.

"Do you mind if I stay next to you?" he says, and I nod. He moves his socked feet (and the patterns are mismatched; red and blue) onto the mattress and lays parallel to my body. His leg rests on top of mine. "I know you're probably tired of the questions."

"I actually like it when you do that. I can be... sometimes I miss the implications—I don't know—I guess it's an anxiety thing. You can be obvious about it. I don't want you to stop doing that."

He looks at me. His hand finds mine, and he says, "Okay, then can I touch you?"

"You're going to get sick," I say quietly. "But yes."

Evan buries his face in the nape of my neck. His skin is hot against me, and his palms catch on the hem of my shirt. "I really don't care about that."

My hand grasps his side. His breath hitches when I touch him, and he groans softly as he moves closer to me, making sure that his body is pressed against mine.

"Evan," I whisper, brushing my lips against his cheek. I feel the slightest smile tug on his lips, and I want to kiss him to coax it out. "Seriously, you're going to catch my cold."

"Stop it," he mumbles, although his voice is barely audible. "How did you even get sick?"

"I don't know. I was out in the rain today. It wasn't you, Evan."

He sighs, his fingers dancing against my arms. He traces a gentle line to my shoulders, then cups my chin. His thumb parts my bottom lip from the top, and his eyelashes curl as he closes his eyes. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," I say, and he doesn't hesitate. His lips close over mine, and it's softer than the last time. His tongue runs along my mouth, and he mumbles my name like a plea when he breaks away from me.

My fingers get caught in his hair, and the strands are loose and softer than I imagined. All I can feel is pure bliss. He moves back, connecting our lips a second time, and pulls me down to meet him halfway. He smiles into it, and my pulse quickens.

"Still," he says, "I think it was probably my fault. I left you in the cold."

"Evan—"

"Say my name again," he taunts. "I like the way you say it."

His fingers intertwine with mine. He rests his head on my chest, and I can feel him breathing in the same rhythm as I am. "Evan," I repeat, slowly this time, just to hear him sigh in ecstasy. "Éric."

He has this glint in his eyes as he draws circles on my skin, leaving pinpricks in every place he touches me. He tugs against me so that our noses embrace.

"You like that name, too?" I tease.

"A fucking lot," he admits, his cheeks turning scarlet. "What am I supposed to call you? You have a nickname for me. I don't have one for you."

"Hmm." I wrap my hands around him. He relaxes into my grasp. I lean back, pulling the comforter over his body. I shiver at the contact between us as my sniffling continues. "I don't know, Éric. Do I need one?"

"Obviously." A smile plays on his lips. "It's a requirement. You... are like the moon."

I laugh. His shin gently kicks me, and soon enough, he's chuckling along with me. "What does that even mean?" I ask.

"It means that you are amazing. So amazing that I have trouble believing you like me back." He pauses, lifting his head from my chest. "What?"

"Nothing," I say, sniffing. "It's just that I think you are my lucida, Evan. The brightest star in my constellation. I don't know, maybe that makes no sense—"

"It makes sense." He rolls off me, staring at the ceiling while I do the same. My eyes trace the formations of dots on the tile, joining them together like stars. "It's not true, but it's really hot that you think that."

I sneeze. Evan passes me another tissue. "Have you told anyone yet?"

"Nicole knows," I say. "How long she'll be able to keep it to herself is a different story. But if you don't want to tell anyone else, I won't. I can keep a secret."

"For now, at least," Evan answers tiredly. "I want to tell Elaine, the next time we talk. I doubt Carolyn would react well to it, but I'm not planning on telling her. My dad already figured it out back when you met him in Coach's office. I guess I'll have to admit he was right."

"You made it that obvious?"

Evan laughs, and it rings through the air and calms me down. "I've never been the best at flirting. I just can't be subtle about it. The candy gram was my first try at subtlety. You can see how well that worked out."

I say, "I like it that you aren't subtle."

"And I like you," he replies and squeezes my hand.