Xavier

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Dawn found me already awake, wired with energy, and restless. I’d stayed awake building robots until after three in the morning, and it was just barely past seven, but that was typical for me—I’d never needed more than a handful of hours of sleep a day, and I felt groggy and sluggish and irritable if I got more than six hours in a night.

Restless didn’t do justice to the way I felt, though. Thoughts were cycling through my skull, a torrent, a waterfall of ideas and images and data, all tangled up with visions of Low and strange, dark, dirty desires.

At least they felt that way to me. I didn’t know what to do with them. How to handle them, how to even go about feeling them.

My issues with touch extended even to myself. When I showered, I did so swiftly, with a minimum of contact with my own skin. I hated getting dressed, hated being dressed—hated the feeling of clothes against my skin. I could only tolerate clothing if it was of a certain type—usually expensive. Soft undergarments, stretchy denim without holes or rips, not skin-tight, but not baggy. T-shirts had to be of the softest cotton possible—and I tended to wash T-shirts a dozen times before I wore them the first time, just to make them softer. Ankle socks or thick cotton boot socks only, no crew length. No V-necks. No sweaters, no long sleeves, certainly nothing with a buttoned collar—ties were so completely out of the question it was almost comical—I’d tried once and hadn’t even been able to keep the topmost button done for more than fifteen seconds, let alone long enough to tie the tie.

Once I was home and in my room alone for the night, I stripped out of my clothes and opened the window, liking the air on my skin, and the lack of constricting garments. Even in the winter, I kept the window open for the airflow.

Touch was a constant issue. Washing my hands required focus to get through it without cringing and wanting to stop. I hated shaving, but hated the scratchiness of stubble even more. Hugs from family, accidental contact with strangers—I didn’t like any of it and couldn’t handle it. Thus my tendency to keep to myself.

So, this desire, this intensity, this…need I felt for Low was all the more baffling, and confounding, and troublesome. I’d had crushes, of course. Girls at school I’d found attractive, whose attention I’d wished I’d known how to get. I was always too awkward, too shy. They never noticed me, and my crushes went unrequited. Fantasies of suddenly being able to talk to girls were a constant feature of my youth, none of which ever materialized.

I once got up the courage to go to a party during my freshman year. It had been so loud, so chaotic, so insane and out of control I’d left immediately.

One time, when home alone after school, I’d run out of lead for my mechanical pencil and had gone into Brock’s room to borrow some—he’d been at flying lessons at the time. In my search for lead, I’d come across a stack of magazines hidden rather cleverly in the desk he and Bax had shared—those magazines had contained full-color photographs of nude women in all sorts of poses, and my raging, barely teenaged hormones had been piqued, along with my curiosity. Flipping through page after page of huge breasts and glistening buttocks and shaved groins, I’d had the natural, normal reaction, along with the natural, normal urge of what to do about the pressure I felt.

So, I’d taken the magazine in the bathroom and done what teenage boys do.

It had not gone well. The sense of my own touch had been unbearable, but the straining, aching pressure had been worse—continuing had been nearly impossible, but quitting while still engorged had been worse. When I’d finally found release, I’d vowed never to do that again, and I hadn’t. I’d stolen one of the magazines, though, too curious to help myself; I looked at it frequently, and then let my mind wander into fantasies and daydreams —usually conjured while trying to fall asleep—and that, along with a sock and some grinding into my mattress, was enough to alleviate the frustration that occasionally overwhelmed me. As I got older, I learned it was easier to just avoid those thoughts and desires than to engage in the difficult process of trying to get myself off without actually touching myself.

It just wasn’t worth it.

What I was feeling after my day with Low…was different. I still had that magazine hidden somewhere in my room, but it was probably dusty from disuse by this time. And my thoughts of Low…well…those were little better than the images in the magazine. I saw her, again and again, in that red and pink and white kimono, her breasts barely covered, large and round and firm and jiggly, swaying with each movement of her lush body. The hem had barely covered her buttocks—in fact, I’d seen the lower curve of her buttocks more than once as she’d moved around. When she sat, she’d been careful to cross her legs, or sit in such a way that I couldn’t have seen anything between them, but that hadn’t stopped me from trying to look as she shifted positions. I’d hoped, deep down, that she would move wrong and I’d see more—that I’d get to see in real life what I’d only seen in that magazine.

Usually, I only indulged in these kinds of thoughts as I was falling asleep, but right now images of Low’s breasts in that kimono were all I could think of. That, and her backside against my front as I reeled in the fish. I kept wondering if she had made contact accidentally, unaware, or if she’d done it on purpose. Had she felt how aroused I’d been?

When no amount of reading or robotics could dislodge my lewd thoughts, I decided to go for a run. Intentionally I went in the opposite direction of Low’s boat. No earbuds, no music, so all I had to think about were my feet and my lungs and my legs. Run, run, run. My shoes pounding the pavement, my lungs burning, my thighs churning. Mile after mile. There was no escaping it, though—no escaping her. No escaping my thoughts of her.

I ended up back at home after running more miles than I’d ever run at one time, shaking from exhaustion, dripping sweat, gasping for air…with images of a scantily clad Low still lodged firmly in my head, and a hard-on that wouldn’t go away.

I darted up to my room, hoping no one would be awake yet. I decided on a shower.

Mistake.

The hot water did nothing to wash away the lecherous images from my mind, or force my erection to subside.

For the first time in years, I wrapped my hand around myself. I tried to imagine it was Low’s hand, those small, narrow, dainty fingers instead of mine. I pictured her standing in front of me, tugging apart the knot holding her robe closed. Letting the kimono fall open. She would have perfect breasts, of course, far better than the fake ones in the magazine. Real, natural, and perfect. She would smile at me, reach for me. She wouldn’t have to tell me I could touch her—I would just know. I would touch her with the confidence my brothers all possessed, which I’d always envied. As I caressed her breasts, she would wrap those small, soft, strong fingers around me, touching me.

Oh—oh god.

Within seconds of that image, I made a mess all over my hand, and the hot water mercifully washed it away, swirling it down the drain.

Immediately, I felt guilty, like I’d used Low in some way.

If she knew what I’d just done while thinking about her, what would she say? Would she be angry? Hate me? Would she think it was stupid, think I was stupid? Maybe she wouldn’t care at all. Or worse yet, think it was “cute.”

I washed as quickly as I could, dressed, and went back to trying to study—I was taking an online course in an advanced programming language, which, while not difficult conceptually, still provided enough intellectual stimuli that I was able to focus on it rather than allowing my mind to run away from me again.

I was scheduled to work tonight, so around four in the afternoon I changed into clothing I didn’t mind smelling like a kitchen, and began my shift. After an initial dinner rush, business died away, and I left the kitchen to see who was out there.

Zane and Bast were behind the bar and Zane was trying to teach Bast how to juggle knives, using a trio of butter knives. Claire, Dru, Mara, and Eva were at the family booth, playing a card game that involved a lot of slapping the table and screaming and laughing, while Luce was functioning as bar-back, server, and busser. Joss was at the bar near the service bar, reading a book, dandling my nephew Jax on her knee as he chewed on the end of her dreadlock.

Bast saw me emerge from the kitchen, and waved me over. “Yo, Xavier. What’s up with you, little bro?”

I leaned against the service bar and poured myself a glass of water from the beverage gun. “I never know how to answer that. Logically, the answer is meaningless. Everything that is not down is, clearly, up. But I know you mean it as a slang version of asking what is going on in my life. And to that, the answer is…” I sighed, not wanting to share the presence of Low in my life with anyone yet. “Not much, I suppose. Building robots, and continuing my coding class.”

Bast nodded, his gaze speculative and even somewhat puzzled. “Okay…gotcha.” He slapped the bar with his palms. “Hey, so I have a question. Well, more an idea I’ve been tossing around that I’m ready to run by you.”

“All right.”

He gestured at the bar. “Why don’t you take a seat?” I took a stool next to Joss, who smiled at me absently and went back to reading and bouncing Jax on her knee. “I’ve been thinking about our staffing issues.”

I mentally followed the path of his thought process to its likely logical conclusion and summarized: “You want to hire outside help. With Canaan, Corin, Brock, and Bax having stepped back from the bar almost entirely, the strain of taking up the extra hours is telling upon all of us who are left to run this establishment. Additional resources are required, especially as you all become more involved with your significant others.”

Bast chuckled. “Well, you’re in a mood, aren’t you, buddy?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You only talk like a walking encyclopedia when you’re really deep in your head.”

I sighed. “I am not ready to discuss the source of my distraction, Sebastian.”

He held up his hands. “All right, all right. No big deal.” He leaned his thick forearms on the bar. “So. What do you think about hiring a few people?”

“For which positions?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I was thinking a server or two, and a cook.” His eyes met mine, his gaze searching. “You’ve been working pretty much every single night since you came back from Stanford, and I thought you may appreciate some time away to figure out what else you want to do with your life besides flip burgers and drop fries.”

“I have my robot business.”

“Yeah, but if you’re always here every night, you can’t really spend the time on it you need to in order to really start growing it into a viable living. If that’s what you want, I mean.” Bast’s gaze shuttered a bit. “And there’s always Stanford. I think they’d take you back in a heartbeat if you asked.”

I shook my head and shrugged. “Oh, assuredly. So would MIT or Caltech or wherever. But I am not certain a formal educational environment is right for me at this time in my life.” I smiled hesitantly. “Nor do I necessarily wish to leave Ketchikan, especially now that we are all here together.”

“So, back to the question at hand.”

“I think hiring a few individuals would be the correct and most appropriate business decision for us.” I contemplated momentarily. “Our budget can certainly handle it—business is better than ever. If you hired an executive chef with the proper qualifications, we could expand our menu during the dinner rush hours and thus draw a wider dinner-hour clientele. Additionally, if we hired two skilled, experienced servers, our capacity would increase greatly.”

Bast rubbed his jaw. “If we expanded our menu, though, that’d mean actual dishes, which would mean a busser and a dishwasher.”

“Those are hourly positions and easily filled, and also well within budget,” I said.

Zane, silent on the topic until now, finally chimed in. “So, since we’re on this topic, I’ve actually been thinking about this myself, lately. I was talking to the chief of the local PD yesterday—I bumped into him after a run. They need guys, and bad. He said with my skills and background, I could get rank pretty fast. But I don’t want to leave you guys in the lurch, here.”

Bast sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “It’s been fun having everyone around running this place, and it’s definitely helped get it off the ropes like it was, but I guess this has been a while coming.”

Zane slapped his shoulder. “I’d still put in hours, Bast, you know that. I love it behind the bar. This place is home, you know?”

“Not like it is for me, though.”

“You ever want to do anything else?” Zane asked. “For real.”

Bast nodded. “Fuck yeah, all the time. But then I realize I’d end up hating anything else. This is all I know, and all I’ve ever known.”

“But you’ve thought about doing something else,” Zane pressed.

Bast grabbed a rag and started polishing the already clean bar top. “I used to enjoy tinkering with engines, and still do, when I get the time. I’ve always thought it would be fun to open a little garage, do rebuilds and customs. It was always an idle daydream, though, you know? It’ll never happen.”

“It could happen,” Zane said. “If we get this place running right, it could happen.”

“It’s Badd’s Bar and Grill, though,” Bast pointed out. “There’s got to be a Badd running it.”

“And there always will be. We’ll all still be here, helping. But we’ve all gotten to do our shit, live our lives and pursue our dreams.” Zane clapped Bast on the back. “Maybe it’s your turn, huh?”

“I would not mind a few free evenings, personally,” I said. “And additional staff, at this stage, can only help. I am in favor of this plan.”

Bast held his fists out, and Zane tapped his knuckles to Bast’s; after watching Zane, I did the same.

“So, time for a family meeting, I guess, huh?” Bast whipped out his phone and sent a mass text to everyone, announcing a Badd clan meeting tomorrow afternoon. Everyone replied within minutes, and Canaan and Aerie said to Skype them in, as they were in Austin for a pair of shows.

The rest of the shift went smoothly, with business picking up again for the evening drinks rush. By the time we locked the door, it was after two in the morning. When the stools and chairs were up, floors swept and mopped, kitchen shut down and wiped down, bar stocked, and the bathrooms cleaned, Bast and Zane headed to their respective homes, and Luce to his apartment with Joss over The Garden.

Leaving me with nothing to do, and nowhere to go. Usually after work I went upstairs and studied, read, and tinkered, but this evening my mind was just not in it. The thought of sitting at home, alone, in my bedroom, reading and tinkering as I did every single night just didn’t appeal tonight.

I was restless again.

Truthfully, my mind was occupied by thoughts of Low. What was she doing? Sleeping? Watching TV? Reading?

I found myself heading out the back door of the kitchen and walking down to the docks. It was a brightly lit night, the moon high and full and silver, stars twinkling in their countless millions. The air was warm, the water still, and my mind and heart and body were all restless and antsy.

Where was I going? What was my plan? Well, it was obvious where my feet were taking me; my plan once I got there, however, was a different story. As in, I didn’t have a plan. I was, on the surface, in denial that I was going to Low’s yacht slip, even though deep down I knew that’s where I was going. Once I got there…what then? Hope she was awake? Wake her up? And say what? What would be different from the last time? Nothing. My issues were the same, and unresolved.

I didn’t care.

Or, I did care, but couldn’t seem to stop myself from making the long walk down the docks to her slip anyway.

When I finally reached her slip, her yacht was dark, all the lights off. For a long moment, I just stood on the dock next to the bow of her yacht, watching the pointed tip dip and rise with the lapping of the water, listened to things clinking and thumping. Willing, perhaps, her to somehow suddenly wake up and see me, and invite me aboard, and then…what?

I stood outside her yacht, staring up at what I knew was the balcony outside her private cabin—that balcony was on the forward section of the superstructure, overlooking the bow, with a low railing. Standing where I was, it was less than twenty feet from the dock to her balcony.

How long was I there? Five minutes? Ten? Long enough to know she was asleep and staying that way, and long enough to feel painfully aware that this behavior of mine could, perhaps, be construed as being creepy, or stalkerish.

I was about to turn away when I heard a sound—the sliding of a glass door. I froze, heart thundering. Now that it seemed she was waking up and would come out and see me standing here in the dark, staring up at her balcony like a lonely little puppy, I was embarrassed to have come, and afraid of what she’d say.

Rather than running like the scared little boy I felt like, I stood my ground and waited for her to emerge, and see me.

The door slid open, and I saw her step out onto the small balcony. Her hair was a tangled, messy, sweat-damp explosion of curls, sticking to her cheeks and forehead and lips. She was breathing hard, gasping for breath. Her fingers stabbed into her hair, yanking it away from her face with a ragged groan.

She was naked.

Completely, totally nude. Heavy round breasts, lifting and swaying side to side with each ragged breath. Dark areolae the size of half-dollars, and thick pink nipples. She had freckles on her breasts, in spatters and sprays. She had a flat abdomen, a six-pack of clearly defined muscles flexing and heaving with her panting breaths. Her thighs were thick and muscular, but toned. Between them? A small, narrow triangle of closely trimmed reddish-gold pubic hair.

As she emerged onto the balcony, her head was tipped back, fingers tangled in her hair, viciously tugging in what appeared to be either frustration or anger.

I backed away a step, involuntarily. I shouldn’t see her like that. She didn’t know I was here. She was not showing herself to me voluntarily. This was wrong of me.

Awareness flamed through me, and with it guilt, spurring me into action—I pivoted immediately, facing away.

“Xavier?” Her voice, soft, quiet, gentle, curious, hesitant even.

“I—” I had no idea what to say. “I should not have come here this way, this late, unannounced. I am sorry.” I took a step away from the boat, but her voice stopped me.

“Wait.”

My breath caught. “Are you okay?” I asked, not turning around.

I didn’t dare turn around. If I did, I would be unable to look away from her naked body. She was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen in my life, beyond the paltry labels and descriptors of beauty any human language is capable of expressing.

She was, in every way, perfect.

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

“When you emerged on your balcony, I turned around—” I swallowed hard, forcing the truth out. “Not…not soon enough, however. I should have, but I—I did not. I apologize for my inexcusable behavior.”

She laughed. “Xavier, god. You’re amazing.”

I frowned, though she couldn’t see it. “I—what? How? Why? I just admitted to you that I stole a glimpse of you in a state of undress, while you were unaware of my presence.”

“Turn around, Xavier.”

“I should not.”

“I disagree, and it’s my body.”

Slowly, heart thundering loudly in my ears, I turned around. I lifted my eyes to the balcony, to her. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. My jaw was clenched so tightly it was painful. My erection was so hard and urgent I was folded nearly in half against the constraint of my zipper, and I knew it was impossible to hide that, even from here.

She was still naked, standing with her hands at her sides now, gazing down at me without embarrassment or self-consciousness. “Hi, Xavier,” she murmured, just barely loud enough for me to hear.

“Hi…Low.” I breathed a laugh. “Let me rephrase—good evening, Low.”

“Why are you here, Xavier?” she asked.

“I…I do not know. I finished work, and my feet brought me here. I was restless, and…” I shrugged. “I ended up here. I hope I did not wake you.”

“I’m glad you’re here. You didn’t wake me up.” She tipped her head to one side, shrugging. “Well, not exactly.”

“I am confused.”

She sniffed a laugh. “Come aboard, and I’ll explain.”

I trembled. “Low, you’re naked.”

She laughed, and it was as close to a giggle as a creature as elegant as she was capable of emitting. “I realize that. Is it a problem?”

I was drinking her in, unable to refrain from staring. “My capacity for composure is rather strained, I must admit.”

She didn’t laugh at that. “That’s not all that’s strained.”

I flushed so thoroughly the heat of embarrassment on my cheeks was probably noticeable from where she stood. “I cannot help my reaction to your beauty, Low.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” She waved me onto the boat. “Just come up here.”

She turned and went inside, and even then I couldn’t look away, because her backside was as perfect as the rest of her—plump and round and taut, flexing with each step, yet also shaking and jiggling in a way that left me twitching in certain locations.

Oh god. What if she was still naked when I went up there? I was barely in control now, and there were several feet between us. If she was directly in front of me, in the same space as me, and naked…how would I respond? What would I do?

What would her skin feel like, if I were to touch her? I imagined her skin would be softer than anything I’d ever felt. Warm—hot, even.

God, no. There was no way she would allow me to touch her.

But she’d allowed me to see her, so why not touch, as well?

Before I knew I intended to, I was stepping onto the boat and moving through the lounge to the stairs I knew led up to her cabin. The door was closed; I knocked gently, twice.

“Low?”

The door opened inward, and there she was. Dressed, now—sort of—in the kimono. This time, though, it was even more loosely tied. Just enough that the silk obscured her core and nipples and that was it.

She leaned against the door frame. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

“You’re here.”

I swallowed hard, my gaze involuntarily raking down her body and back up. “I…yes. I am here.” I forced my eyes to hers.

I could only hold her gaze for a moment, and then I remembered what I’d done while thinking of her—my mortification and guilt was made worse by the certain knowledge inside me that I would do it again, especially now that I’d seen her naked body.

“Here to take that rain check on watching a movie with me?” she asked.

I felt myself drawn forward, felt my gaze drawn her creamy skin, to the round, firm, heaviness of her breasts—I forced my gaze away, to the floor. “In truth, I do not know why I am here.”

I felt her palm on my cheek, fingers under my chin, tilting my head upward. “Look at me, Xavier.” I did so, meeting her intense blue eyes. “Why are you looking at the floor? I’m up here.”

“Because it is not, in the name of honesty, your eyes that my gaze is drawn to at this moment. Though your eyes are mesmerizing and hypnotic in their ultramarine blueness, I cannot lie and say it is to them at which I am compelled to stare.”

She laughed. “I’m well aware of that, Xavier. Does it seem like I’m bothered by that?”

I shook my head, keeping my eyes on hers. “No. It does not appear to upset you.”

“So, why are you embarrassed by it, if I’m not?”

I swallowed a million words, and chose the ones that seemed truest, and best. “Because…because seeing you in the glory of your nakedness felt, to me, as if I had stolen a glimpse of a goddess.” I paused. “‘Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain,’” I quoted.

“What was that from? I recognize it, but can’t place it.”

“It is from the Bible. Psalm 139.”

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I am not, but it is a quote which accurately sums my feelings on the matter.”

She reached out and plucked at my shirt, using it to gently tug me closer. “I’m not a goddess, Xavier. I’m just a girl.”

“No, you are far, far more than merely a girl, or a woman.” I gazed down at her eyes, heart crashing like cymbals and tympani, hands trembling. “You are perfection clothed in feminine form.”

Her gaze softened, and she leaned closer yet, a breathy laugh escaping her. “God, Xavier. You can’t go around saying shit like that to me.”

I blinked, puzzled. “I thought it would please you. It seemed poetic, and yet it is also the truth.”

“Oh, it pleases me, all right. Too much. You’re going to ruin me for all other compliments.”

“You should never accept anything less than purest poetry.” I lifted a shaky hand, traced the outline of a pink flower on the shoulder of her kimono.

She tugged on my shirt, pulling me forward another half inch, while leaning closer yet; I caught her scent in my nostrils, vanilla and cinnamon, this time, and felt her breath on my chin, and felt the brush of her breasts against my chest. “The things you say to me, Xavier—you make me feel…well…you make me feel like a goddess. You make me feel more beautiful than I thought I could ever feel.”

“And you make me feel unworthy to be in your presence. As if to merely gaze upon your naked flesh is to sully it.”

Her fingers closed around my hand, the one still nervously tracing the outlines of flowers on the silk of her kimono at her shoulder. “What if I want you to sully my flesh, Xavier?” She led my fingers down, to where her flesh was bared by the opening of her robe, to the valley between her breasts, and then led my fingertip to the inner swell of her left breast, and left my touch there. “And with more than just your gaze.”

Scent—vanilla and cinnamon, a scent that was deeper, more complex, more…feminine and more intimate; touch—her silken flesh under my fingers, her breast under my touch, her thighs brushing mine, her breath huffing warm on my lips. It was all too much. I couldn’t breathe.

I backed away. “Low, I—I—”

She frowned, confused, and possibly even hurt. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s not that. I just—I can’t—I…” Swallowing past the lump in my throat, the ache of anger at myself and my stupid neurological imbalance. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Low. I can’t—I can’t explain.”

My hands dropped to my sides, and it was only through sheer force of will that I managed to keep them from slapping against my legs.

I backed away, feeling foolish and yet luckier than anyone had ever been.

She followed me. “Xavier, wait.” She reached out, not quite grasping me, but as if she wanted to. “Please, just…wait.”

I stopped, swallowing hard, forcing my eyes to hers.

“I don’t claim to be able to understand what’s happening here, what’s going on with you. If you can’t explain, then don’t. I won’t push. God knows I’ve got issues of my own I don’t want to and can’t explain.” She did grab hold of me, then, her fingers gently grasping my bicep. “But…I like spending time with you. I don’t want you to leave. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I feel the same on all three counts.” I fought my panic, my doubt, my fear, the voice in my head. “I enjoy spending time with you. I do not want to leave. I am glad I am here.”

“Then why are you acting like you’re about to bolt?”

I shook my head, the words to explain trapped deep in my chest. “Because I am a very complicated and difficult person.”

“So I’m discovering.” She took a step toward me. “And that’s okay. It makes you a puzzle. It makes you interesting.”

“I wish it was as simple as that for me. I wish I knew how to explain.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You may never understand me if I don’t ever explain.”

She shook her head. “That’s too many steps into the future, Xavier. Right now, in this moment—all I’m saying is…stay.”

“You really want me to?”

“It’s almost three in the morning, you saw me naked, and now you’re on my boat with me. What about any of that implies anything other than yes, I want you to stay?”

“I often have difficulty with implication, inference, and subtlety in social situations.”

“Okay, well in that case I’m not implying or inferring anything.” She gazed up at me, both palms resting flat on my chest. “I’m asking you to stay with me.”

Fear hammered at the walls of my skull and the cage around my heart. I wanted to believe she was being truthful and genuine. Fear tried to tell me it was the height of foolishness to trust her. The intensity of my attraction to her, the ever-growing power of my nascent crush on her—if this feeling inside could be termed anything so juvenile as a “crush”—these told me it was foolishness to reject this opportunity.

When would I ever meet a woman as beautiful and desirable, on a merely physical level, as Low? Never. When would I ever meet a woman who seemed so accepting of my…foibles, and quirks, and limitations, and awkwardness? Never.

Curiosity and attraction won, though it was hampered and stained by doubt and fear.

“I will stay.”

Her smile was brighter than the moon, warm and genuine and happy. “Good.” She laced our fingers together and tugged me into motion, away from her cabin. “Movie time.”

She led me to the lounge, to a white leather couch with soft, thick, enveloping cushions that faced a wall inlaid with blonde wood paneling. Low sat down in the corner of the couch and I sat beside her, close but not touching. The arm of the couch had a sleek black glossy glass panel in it, and at a touch of her finger it came alive with a bright blue glow, revealing several haptic icons. She touched one, and with a soft hum, the panel in the wall parted, halves sliding away to reveal the most enormous television I’d ever seen. There was a side table next to the arm, and a large ottoman in front of it, white leather to match the couch. On the side table was a stack of antique-looking hardcover books, and she selected the topmost book, set it on her lap and opened it, revealing it to be not a book but a well-disguised tablet computer, which she used to turn on the television and bring up a Netflix account.

She glanced at me. “What do you want to watch?”

I shrugged. “I do not watch television, as a general rule. I would not even know how to begin selecting a program.”

“You never watch TV?” she asked, and I shook my head. “What about movies?”

“Rarely. Sometimes I will watch a film in the company of my family.”

“So you don’t like TV or movies? At all?”

I shrugged again. “I am sensitive to external stimuli, and television is the definition of external stimuli.”

Low blinked. “Huh. Okay.” Her glance at me was hesitant. “So…would you rather do something else?”

“There is nothing I would rather do in this moment than sit here on this most comfortable sofa and watch television with you, Low.”

“A simple yes or no would have sufficed, you know,” she said, with a smirk.

“Oh. Um. My apologies.” I pushed away the twin boulders of doubt and insecurity. “Yes. I would like to watch TV with you.”

“I was teasing, Xavier. The way you talk is growing on me.”

“Hopefully in the manner of an acquired taste rather than the manner of mold growing on a wall.”

She laughed. “Yes, Xavier. Like an acquired taste.”

“That was a joke.”

She slapped my chest. “And I laughed, didn’t I, Spock?”

I relaxed a little. “Yeah, you did.”

Low poked me in the arm. “You just said ‘yeah.’”

I smiled self-consciously. “Would you like to know a truth about me?”

She tapped on the tablet to begin a program, what appeared to be an episodic series set in Rome. “Yes, I would absolutely like to know a truth about you.”

Setting the tablet aside, she leaned forward, lifted up the top of the ottoman to reveal a stack of thick, fleece-and-fur blankets hidden in a compartment inside the ottoman. She stretched her legs out onto the ottoman and settled the blanket on our legs, and then leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder.

“Is this okay?” she asked, tilting her face to look up at me.

Her head on my shoulder felt heavy—not from the weight but from the significance and intimacy of the gesture. The heaviness settled in my chest, on my lungs, and in my heart. I swallowed hard.

“Yes,” I murmured. “It is…it’s good.”

A moment of silence as the program began. “What was the truth, Xavier?”

“The formality in the way I talk most of the time—in truth, it is an affectation, in a certain sense.”

“Like…an accent?”

I bobbled my head side to side. “Sort of.”

“So it’s not how you actually talk? You said it was how you feel most comfortable talking in unfamiliar situations, or something like that”

“No—yes.” I laughed, again, a self-conscious bark, slightly bitter. “It’s…it’s protection. I speak formally, without contractions, without slang, as a means of putting up a kind of wall between myself and other people.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I attempted for some time to fit in, as I said—especially in the way I talk. But something I said always gave me away, and people would make fun of me. It was easier, I found, eventually, to just always talk like, as you say, an AI program, or a robot, or Spock, or whatever, and simply let my profound uniqueness lead.”

“Put the thing people make fun of you for front and center.”

“Precisely.”

Another moment of quiet between us, as the characters on the screen acted out their story. “So, how do you naturally talk?”

“Well, that’s the secret,” I said. “Sometimes, if I’m very relaxed or very distraught, the formality drops away, to an extent. Contractions might slip in, less formal variations of words, things like that.”

“Kind of like someone for whom English is a second language accidentally slipping into their native tongue.”

“Much like that, yeah.”

She looked at me without lifting her head from my shoulder. “So you’re kind of relaxed right now, huh?”

“Trying to be.”

Low laughed. “You’re trying to be relaxed?”

I realized how stupid that was, and laughed with her. “I do not relax very well. I am—I’m wired incorrectly for relaxation, you might say.”

The show she’d selected, as we settled into watching it together in silence, was equal parts violent, sexually explicit, and fascinating. I enjoyed it immensely, even if the graphically sexual parts made me squirm with an excited discomfort. I didn’t want to let the sexuality of it arouse me, not with her so close. But I was also hyperaware in every single moment, of how little she was wearing. How she’d brazenly and confidently let me see her naked, without qualm or hesitation or embarrassment. Even pride, perhaps.

As we watched, I relaxed even further. I’d started out sitting bolt upright, feet on the floor, and hands on my lap; but as the second hour-long episode began, I found myself reclining, my feet propped on the ottoman. As I relaxed, Low leaned further and further into me, which only made me even more hyperaware of her presence, her scent, her warmth.

Fifteen minutes into the second episode, she flipped open the tablet and paused it. “I have to pee, and I need a snack.” She sat up, tossing the blanket aside. “You want anything?”

“Some water, perhaps?” I said.

“Boring!” she said in a singsong, leaving the couch. “You’re having a glass of wine with me.”

I’d tried drinking once, at Stanford, and it hadn’t gone well; of course, that had been a dorm-mate goading me into accompanying him to a frat party and pressuring me into doing shots of whiskey—I’d realized later it had all only been for his own amusement, and I’d never touched alcohol again. Surely a glass of wine in a calm environment with someone I felt I could trust would be a much different experience.

Low hadn’t waited for an answer, though. She’d vanished into a bathroom, and then moments later into the galley; I heard a microwave going, and then popcorn popping, the pop of a cork leaving a bottle and the glug of liquid being poured into glasses.

Returning, she had a bowl of popcorn in one hand and two glasses of wine precariously clutched in the other. I made to stand up, intending to help, but she shooed me away with the popcorn bowl.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Just sit.” She set the popcorn bowl down on the far edge of the ottoman, and then paused, bending over to snag a handful of the fluffy white snack and tossing it into her mouth. Bent over—robe draping open, breasts swaying, fully visible—freckles liberally dotted the upper slopes of her breast and the valley between them, and those freckles somehow seemed to taunt me, making me ache, throb. I sucked in an audible breath, and she glanced at me with a wink.

“Oops,” she said, smirking around the popcorn. “Wardrobe malfunction.”

I accepted the large goblet of rich red wine from her as she sat down and covered her legs with the blanket. As she settled in, tucking her legs underneath her so she was curled up on the couch, she snuggled closer to me than she’d even been before, and now my arm was pinioned uncomfortably between us. In an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness of the position, I withdrew my arm and lifted it, unsure what to do with it next. Low, however, decided that for me by scooting closer yet, so she was nuzzling into the nook created by my arm. After a moment of my arm hovering over her, I allowed it to settle onto her. My arm was over her shoulder, and my hand was resting on her waist, inches above her hip.

Was this real? Could this be happening? Why was she allowing this? Did she really enjoy my presence so much that this—snuggling, or cuddling, or whatever this behavior was properly termed—was enjoyable to her? It was unfathomable to me that this was really happening, that Low, a goddess made flesh, perfection made woman, could truly and genuinely want this with me.

Yet…as I glanced down at her to see if I could gauge her expression, all I saw on her face was what seemed to be contented comfort, and even a half-smile of something like happiness.

Low took a sip of her wine, and then made a noise of irritation. “The popcorn is too far away,” she said, reaching out and grabbing at air with her hand. “Hold this,” she said, handing her wine to me.

I took it, and she rolled forward, knees on the couch, one hand on the ottoman, leaning forward to snag the bowl. It was the lean forward that did it—her robe hiked upward as she reached, baring her entire backside to me.

Did she hesitate while grabbing the bowl?

After a half second, she rolled back to sit curled on the couch with my arm draped over her again, and then settled the popcorn on my lap. Which was rather a problem, since my enjoyment of the view as she’d leaned forward had created a…ridge, one might say, underneath the blanket, tipping the bowl to one side rather obviously.

She smirked at me. “Problem, Xavier?” Her smirk was too knowing.

I eyed her carefully. “You did that on purpose, I believe.”

“Did what?” she asked, sounding far too obviously innocent.

“Created that scenario, allowing a…what did you call it, earlier? A wardrobe malfunction.”

She sipped her wine, a study of casualness. “And if I did?”

I had no answer for that. “Um…”

She glanced up at me. “You saw me totally nude, earlier. Why be shy, now?”

“That truly was an accident, Low. I didn’t mean to pry, or spy, or intrude.”

“I don’t think I’d believe anyone else,” she said, and then ate more popcorn. “But…I believe you.”

I tried the wine, and the flavor burst over my tongue, acidic and fruity, with a barrage of undertones and hints. The popcorn, when I ate a handful of kernels, absorbed the flavor and allowed me to enjoy the way the wine exploded over my taste buds all over again.

Soon, a third episode was beginning and the wine was making my head float and my body feel light and yet heavy at the same time, and the popcorn was gone.

The sky outside was tinged with gray.

I wasn’t tired, though I should have been.

Low finished her wine, and when I finished mine, she set our glasses inside the popcorn bowl, which she set on the table.

“You give amazing snuggles,” she murmured to me. “I could fall asleep like this.”

“Should I go, so you can sleep?”

She rolled her head against my chest in a negative gesture. “No way.”

I give amazing snuggles? I had no clue I was even capable of snuggling. But this whole time, while her scent was powerful and her weight against me heavy, and her warmth was making me warm, and the contact of body against body was intense, I wasn’t overwhelmed.

Because I was starting to trust her, I realized. She’d done nothing to make me think she was anything other than real, and true, and genuine.

Perhaps my discomfort with touch was mental?

Possible—or more likely, it was partly true.

Maybe it was just something about Low that put me at ease and allowed me to merely enjoy the new sensation rather than being overwhelmed by it as I typically was.

And then, during a scene in which a male and female character on the show were engaging in sex, Low twisted to glance up at me.

I turned my gaze away from the heaving breasts and flexing abs and buttocks, and down to her. The knot of her robe was all but undone, and the edges had come apart, yet her breasts weren’t quite totally exposed. She had the blanket over her lap, her feet were tucked under her thighs, and she was twisted to face me.

“Hi,” she breathed.

“Hi.”

She shifted, pressing against me. One hand came up to rest on my shoulder, the other on my thigh. Her blue eyes hunted, darted, searching mine; was it my imagination, or was her face closer than it had been? My hand was on her hip, setting my heart to thundering, stuttering, and I was half afraid she’d notice and move it, yet she never did. In fact, as she shifted closer to me, my palm drifted further down so I was nearly touching the curve of her buttock. Which only made the hammering of my heart worse. Could she feel the tremble in my hand, on her skin?

Yes, she was definitely leaning up, leaning closer.

I couldn’t breathe.

Her hand was on my chest, and then her palm was sliding across my jawline, and before I knew what was happening, what she was doing, what I was doing, I felt myself leaning forward.

My lips touched hers.

Her mouth was warm and her lips were damp, and pliable, and firm. Her lips softened as our mouths met, and her hand clutched my jaw, fingers on my cheek, thumb on my chin and brushing with soul-shaking intimacy across my cheekbone. I felt her tongue dance across my upper lip.

We were kissing.

Low was kissing me—I was kissing her.

My heart stopped entirely for an agonizing moment, and then pounded to life, crashing madly.

My hand was on her buttock, fully and openly grasping, cupping, clutching, tightening—and she had hers fisted in my shirt, the other caressing my jaw and cheek. It was as if I belonged to her, in some way. As if kissing me was some delirious, necessary act, as wildly crazy-making for her as it was for me. Which was utterly ridiculous.

And then, and then—I heard a voice in my head.

Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

That doubt.

What if Low was merely leading me on?

She can’t honestly be interested in me.

There’s a catch.

She’ll laugh at me.

I’ll take something too far and she’ll stop me and make fun of me, or be angry at me for assuming someone like her could ever want me.

The doubts returned, insidious, choking the moment like vines choking a tree.

Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

Reality crashed down on me—I had no business being in here with Low.

This was only bound to end with me getting hurt. She couldn’t possibly genuinely want this. Not with me.

You’re so dumb it’s honestly adorable.

Her scent was suddenly overpowering and cloying. Her hair tickled. Her tongue was wet and seeking. Her lips on mine, her hand on my cheek, the other delving under my shirt to scour the flesh of my chest and abs.

Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

Too much, too much, too much; panic hit me like a heat-seeking missile.

I found myself lurching up, away, off the couch and stumbling to the doorway leading to the deck. The cool air of dawn drifted against my skin, but I still couldn’t breathe.

Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

“Hey, whoa, Xavier—what—what’s wrong? What’s going on? Xavier!” Her voice, behind me, upset, confused, hurt, something like that or all of them, or—I didn’t know. I was unable to read her emotions, not right then.

I turned in place, backing toward the bow, toward the dock. Hands scrubbing manically through my hair. “I can’t—I can’t.”

She was through the door, on the deck less than a foot from me; her robe was billowing open and, for a moment, even in my panic and doubt and insecurity and fear, I felt the raw perfection of her beauty like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath I didn’t have.

She tugged the edges of her robe closed as she stepped toward me, arms hugging her middle. “Xavier, I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing—nothing.”

Her eyes told me she was truly upset, or confused, but my panic overruled what my eyes and senses told me. “Then I don’t understand—help me understand what’s going on. Why are you leaving?”

“Low, I—I…” Words wouldn’t come. “Fuck!” A rare curse spat from my lips, ragged frustration and anger and panic lancing through me. “I’m sorry, I can’t—You’re—it’s not—” Nothing that made any sense was emerging, and this only added to my frustration.

My world spun, twisted, spinning in a gimbal of confused, overwhelmed senses, of panic and memory and desire. It was all too much; my raging desire, the crushing all-consuming intensity of Low, her touching me, kissing me, letting me touch her and kiss her—all tangled into the agony of the memory of a teenage girl who had once gutted me with the cruelest words anyone could hear:

Oh…my…god! You actually thought someone like ME could want someone like YOU to touch me? Oh my god, you’re so dumb it’s honestly adorable.

Instead of communicating any of this—as if such a thing were possible—I ran.

Faster and harder than I’ve ever run in my life.

Leaving Low standing on the deck, clutching her robe closed, the look of confused hurt on her face only adding to my agony.