I move my fingers up into the back of his hair until I find some long enough to tug. “Snow . . .whyaren’t you freaking out?”
He sighs. “Honestly?”
I pull his hair again.
“Because you told me what you wanted, Baz. I liked feeling like I was doing something for you.”
“You weren’t doing it for you?”
“No, Iwas,sort of in the background. Up front, I was doing something for you. I had a mission.”
“Amission. . .”
“You’re making it sound bad. It wasn’t bad. It was good, the best it’s been so far.” He kisses me. “Don’t make it bad.”
Is that what I’m doing? Making it bad?
I’m lying in bed with Simon Snow. No—I’m lying in bed with Simon. With Snow. He’s holding me. Kissing me. He said he loves me. He’s trying out pet names. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. How could I make this bad?
I tuck my head into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and let my arms move into a hug. “Simon . . .”
He hugs me back; he’s taking all of his cues from me.
“It was so good,” I whisper. It comes out as a concession, even though I meant it as a compliment.
He laughs a little, just enough to make his chest hitch. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s agreeing with me. “Next time will be even better.”
“Next time you can do it for you.”
“No way,” he says. “We’ve finally figured this shit out—you’re driving from now on.”
“I wouldn’t say we’ve figured anything out; we didn’t even get undressed.”
At that, he pushes away from me and manhandles me onto my back, straddling my thighs and scrabbling at the bottom of my T-shirt. He’s laughing, so I laugh, too.
“A mission. . .” I say.
His wings are spread above us. Simon’s chest is wider than mine and softer, and his pectoral muscles actually bulge—it used to be from all the sword work, but now I think it’s the wings. His chest hair is so sparse, it looks accidental.
He gets my shirt off, then grabs my hands, holding them over my shoulders. “Next time we go to Ikea,” he says, “we’re getting a lamp. I can hardly see you.”
“I could use my wand . . .”
“Keep it in your trousers, Merlin.”
I laugh, genuinely. He laughs, too. It makes his wings flap.
“I love you,” I say. I may as well say it, I’m thinking it. It’s all I ever think. I’m an“I love you”gun with the safety off, a finger constantly on the trigger.
Simon lets go of my hands and settles down on top of me, his head on one of my shoulders, his hand on the other, his fingertips gently drawing circles. “I love you,” he says. “It’s good.”
I wake up to someone knocking on Snow’s bedroom door.
“Baz? Are you in there?” It’s Penelope. She’s whisper-shouting.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice is rough. I try again. “Yes.”
“Your aunt is here.”
