I came back to myself in pieces.
His fingers around my wrist. My pulse hammering against his thumb. The kitchen light turning his grey eyes silver. The ice pack abandoned on the table, melting into a dish towel neither of us was thinking about.
I pulled my hand free. Gently – but deliberately.
"We're supposed to be studying."
He let go. No resistance. No smirk. Just released my wrist and leaned back in his chair like nothing had happened, except his eyes said everything had happened and he was going to let me pretend otherwise because he was patient enough to wait.
I opened the Gatsby essay prompt. Spread my notes between us like a barricade.
"The green light," I said. "Fitzgerald uses it as a symbol of–"
"Hope." He said it flat. Dismissive. "Everybody says hope."
"Because that's w
