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This is an old habit. Watching. Guessing. Filling silence with conclusions.

Apparently asking is something people do.

“What are you thinking?”

Clint looks down at me. “You first.”

Of course.

My mind is mostly useless at the moment, but one thing has been circling since the market.

“When did you learn to play chess?”

He laughs. “Really?”

“You nearly fought a man over a chessboard today.”

“It’s called negotiating.”

“You threatened him with your eyebrows.”

I smile against his chest.

Then Clint goes quiet. Not the easy quiet from a second ago. Something shifts under my cheek, a breath held too long.

“There was this boy,” he says.

I know what comes next. There’s always that boy. But I don’t know about his yet.

His hand moves once against my shoulder, then stops.

“We were media aides in high school. Junior year.” He stares back at the ceiling. “He played chess.”

I wait for once, not trying to get ahead of the story.

“He had this little magnetic board,” Clint says. “Carried it around like it made him look smart.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah.” His mouth pulls sideways. “Unfortunately, I like smart.”

I try not to bask in the compliment.

“He taught me during study hall. Lunch sometimes. We’d hide behind the nonfiction shelves because nobody went back there unless they were lost or skipping gym.”

His fingers move idly against my shoulder.

“We almost kissed once.”

The words are quiet enough that I feel them more than hear them.

I lift my head.

Clint keeps looking at the ceiling.

“Not really,” he says. “We just got close.”

I settle back against him.