We sit like that for several beats, eyes locked together, bodies almost close enough to touch with the way we’ve both seemed to lean toward each other. His smile’s already begun to drop, but the dimple hasn’t fully disappeared yet and there’s still a lightness in those eyes when they fall to my lips, tracing every curve.

I clear my throat and close my eyes, abruptly breaking the trance before it sucks me in further. “Okay,” I whisper seriously, “now for the closing line.” I can’t justify my reasons for coming up with this next part, except that I want to test my theory that he can make anything teeter between sounding threatening and sensual. Without opening my eyes, I say, “Repeat after me: Leggo. My Eggo.”

After a moment of silence passes, I keep one eye closed and squint through the other, trying to sneak a peek at him. Except he’s looking right at me. And he does not look amused. Somehow, even though he can’t possibly know the waffle reference, I think he’s caught on—no thanks, I’m sure, to the way my face has twisted into a partial grimace, partial grin, as I try to hold back the laughter bubbling up my throat.

“Please?” I squeak out. It’s childish, I know, but I really want to hear this.

After another brief second of taking in my expression, he speaks. And it’s almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing when he does. “Leggo,” he says it slowly, exaggerating each syllable, ensuring I feel the full effect of that low husk of his voice, “my Eggo.”

My mouth opens to form an ‘O’ as I stare at him in shock—over the fact that he actually said it despite knowing it was bullshit and over confirmation that my theory is indeed correct. He totally pulled it off. I only hold the expression for a moment before finally letting out the bubble of laughter that’s been itching to escape. It takes a second for my giggles to quiet, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye as they do. “I’m sorry,” I murmur between one last snicker. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. Well, not totally.”

He lowers an eyebrow and tilts his head, apparently mulling something over. “Exactly how much of the ritual was real?”

“Um . . .”

He lets out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair, and I start to worry that I’ve pissed him off. “None of it?”

I slowly shake my head in answer, then press my lips together, trying to bite back another laugh. So not appropriate, Lou.

His eyes narrow, lips tightening for a reason different from mine.

“It’s called a joke,” I explain gently, catching my bottom lip between my teeth before another smile escapes. “A sense of humor. Or in my case, a sad attempt to forget reality for a minute.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And I wonder if this is what happens right before he decides to kill you, take your soul. Maybe he just freezes, time stands still, and then wham bam, thank you ma’am, he’s got you.

Instead, he takes me by surprise again when he leans back against the seat and stretches out his legs. “A joke,” he murmurs thoughtfully, running a thumb across his jaw. He shifts his head toward me, eyes blazing. “Okay, then. Tell me something real.”

“Something real?”

He gives a nod, like it’s the simplest request.

“How about . . .” I’m not sure if this’ll work, but it’s worth a shot. “I’ll make you a deal.” For some reason, the saying never make a deal with the Devil flashes through my mind. But he’s not the Devil. Right? “I’ll tell you several. But for everything I tell you, you tell me one back, about yourself.”

He studies me in silence, tilting his head again in a way I’m getting familiar with. “Deal.”

I grin, then extend my hand. His gaze flicks down, then he furrows his brow. Does he not know what a handshake is?

“You’re supposed to take my hand and shake it,” I explain, my own brow mirroring his. “Like this.” I watch as the hand resting on his lap tenses in a moment of apprehension, fingers clenching to form a fist briefly before releasing. I ease my hand into his, swallowing as the bold heat of his skin connects with mine, and give it a light squeeze. Then he tightens his hold until he has a firm grip on me. “This,” I whisper, still eying our touching hands, “is a handshake.”

When I return my gaze to his, he’s not looking at the contact at all. He’s honed in on me, carefully scanning my face. Somehow, his expression has softened, like his guard is dropping little by little, and the gentle look does something to my stomach, my chest. It’s like a soft squeeze, tugging me toward him. Making me want to inch closer. Instead, I withdraw my hand, wiping my palm on my pants.

“So, I’ll start?” I glance away, trying to collect my thoughts and figure out where to begin. A part of me wants to stick with small, insignificant facts. Like my favorite color or a good band. But a larger part, the part of me that’s suffocating from keeping everything bottled up inside, is screaming for me to break down my box and let it all out. Flood the room with confessions, emotions, and whatever mindless thoughts might manifest.

Eventually what comes out is, “I hate Sundays. It’s the one day of the week I can’t seem to stop myself from breaking down.”

He’s quiet for a second. “The night you were crying . . .”

I nod, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over me at revealing the simple, partial truth. He doesn’t press me for more, and I’m relieved. This, I can do. “Your turn.”

I hear the sharp inhale, see the rise and fall of his chest. The muscles in my stomach contract in anticipation as I realize he’s really going to hold up his end of the deal. “You felt it once.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“My world,” he says slowly. “You felt it once, that night when I crossed back over. You reached out after me, and your hand got caught in my trail.”

I let out a breath. “I knew it. I mean, I wondered if that’s what that was.” My gaze darts to my hands as I stretch out my very real, very solid fingers. “So that numbness, the weird, cold sensation that took over, that’s what it’s like for you? When you’re there?”

He looks away for a second, his lips tightening into a fine line before relaxing again. “It’s a small taste.” Just a taste of what he experiences? Every second he’s not here? I shudder at the thought. “You’re next.”

“Right,” I mumble. “Um.” I don’t know why, but in this moment, I feel the need to be honest with him. To confess. I chew the corner of my lip, then, “I was awake.” His gaze narrows, questioning. “When I was sick. Well, not at first, I wasn’t. I felt your warmth, I wanted to get . . . closer. But when I felt you shift under me, I didn’t want to let go. Then I was embarrassed, so I pretended I was still asleep.”

I finally meet his eyes head on, to find them dead set on me. If I were the blushing type, I’m certain my skin would turn scarlet from that look alone. Burning, intense, filled to the brim with hidden meaning, and I wish, God do I wish, that I could see the thoughts igniting that flame. Another beat passes with no response, causing a silence-induced awkwardness to build. “Please say something,” I breathe, surprised by how vulnerable the admission has made me feel.

Tearing his eyes from mine, he scrubs a hand down his face. “My turn.” His voice is low when he murmurs, “I’m not built to . . . feel things.”

I arch a brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means I witness emotions every day when I collect.” I swallow at that word, collect, knowing he’s referring to the moment he takes one’s soul. “Everything from fear, to pain, grief, or relief. But I’ve never felt a single emotion myself. Not once.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, then those green eyes lock on mine, holding my gaze steady. “Never, until entering this world. Never, until you.”

My eyes widen, my heart thumping in my chest. This is the first real thing he’s told me about himself. Not of his world, but himself. Such a personal part of him, why he is the way he is. To go through life never having felt anything before, I can’t even imagine. Thinking back now, it makes so much sense. How closed off he gets. The way he shuts down just when he starts opening up, starts allowing himself to feel anything.

God, what must this be like for him? Taking in all these emotions, all the new sensations suddenly running through him. I lean forward slightly, squinting as though it’ll help me see into his mind, his heart.

“That first night you wound up here, when I walked in with—with a friend. You seemed so angry. Livid.”

One corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s a dry smile, his jaw clenching. “I was. I apologize for that. It was my first real experience with these emotions. I was . . . frustrated. I’m still trying to get used to this. To adjust.”

My heart pulsates, his words sinking in.

I want so badly to press him for more. More answers, more anything. But his expression is already hardening again, and I don’t want his guard to go back up. Not when I’ve just gotten it down. So I force myself to lean back against the seat, force my expression, my voice, to relax. And this time when I take my turn, I decide to let my guard down in the same way he’s done for me.

“My turn,” I whisper, locking my eyes with his. “Lately, I get these dreams. These boys, brothers—it’s like I can feel everything they’re feeling. And it’s horrible. The way they’re treated, it’s disgusting.” My throat constricts, and I swallow down the lump building there. “But they’re so strong. So much stronger than me. And despite everything, their hearts are so full. Full of love for each other, and hope.” Wetness pools at the corners of my eyes. I blink it away. “I know they’re not real. I know it’s just a dream. But in many ways, I look up to them. They’re my role models.”

After a quiet second, I shake my head, pushing the thought away and lightening my voice. “And . . . go,” I nudge, trying to smile.

I watch as his hand slowly comes up, his chest rising and falling, then his thumb is just barely brushing over my lips. I can’t tell if he’s even touching me, or if the soft stroke I feel is purely from the heat of his skin moving against mine. Somehow we’ve leaned forward again, not a clue who’s inching toward whom, but our lips are so close, our breaths tangle together. My exhales becoming his inhales. He traces the curve of my forced half-smile, like he’s telling me he sees the truth. That I don’t have to pretend. It’s a small gesture, but it pierces straight through my chest.

Without warning, his heat starts to dissipate, and his form begins to blur. No, not now. Stay, I want to beg, even though I know he can’t always control it. He keeps his thumb at my lips, the solid outline of his body fading all too quickly before my eyes, as he whispers, “Sometimes . . . I don’t want to leave.”

And then, before I can blink, he’s gone.