"Most people do," I whispered. "Want me to be less. Not in a mean way, just—less loud. Less much."
"I know."
"I've tried. Being less and holding it back. It never works. They still leave anyway."
"Pickle, I don't want to fix you. You're not broken, and I like you—exactly as you are, random octopus facts and everything."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
No one had ever said that to me before—particularly not in the dark with their body wrapped around mine.
"You're quiet," Adrian said. "That's not usually a Pickle thing."
"I'm processing you."
His arm tightened around me, and my eyes closed.
This could be everything, I thought.
For one perfect moment, I didn't worry it would shatter.
Sleep began to circle, but it hadn't landed yet.
I traced patterns on Adrian's chest.
"What are you drawing?"
"A masterpiece. Very avant-garde."
His laugh rumbled under my fingertips.
I tried to name what I felt and ran through the usual suspects.
It wasn't excitement. I was too steady. Not lust either. We'd just dealt with that.
The word I was avoiding floated into view—love.
Or something close enough that the distinction didn't matter. I pressed my palm flat against Adrian's chest to feel his heart beating.
He held me like something precious.
"Adrian?"
"Hmm?"
"You okay?"
"I'm good." He pushed my hair back off my forehead. "I'm just thinking about how I don't want to mess this up."
I propped myself up on one elbow. "You're not going to mess this up."
"You don't know that."
"I know plenty of things. I know octopuses have three hearts. I know you like your coffee black because you're a psychopath. I know you came to the parking lot without your camera to meet me. I don't think you're the kind of person who messes up things that matter."
"You matter," he said. "In case that wasn't clear."
"I'm getting that impression."
