Noah’s silent as he packs his bags with books and a laptop, then shrugs on his ever-present leather jacket. I watch, enchanted by his every stride, every move. When he’s done, he simply ushers me out the door and onto the balcony. He doesn’t take my hand; instead, he guides me with his palm on the small of my back through the random strangers filling up our yard. My keys are still clasped in my hand, never once letting them go, and he pries my fingers from around them and unlocks the sliding door for me. I walk into the semi-darkness of my house, and I think about Noah and his reaction: quick to assess, to take control, to protect me from what he obviously thought was harm. The way his jaw set tight, the muscles in his neck taut, the darkness in his eyes—eyes flamed with fury and rage rather than worry— the boy’s an enigma, a paradox, a complete and utter mystery...

I wonder how he sees me.

“Get what you need, and let’s get out of here,” he says, arms crossed, stance wide as he stands in front of the door, almost as if he’s guarding it.

I have no idea where he plans on going, but he packed his books, and so I do the same. Noah waits patiently for me to change from my sleep clothes to something more fitting in Milky’s room. I have to rummage to the bottom of her drawers to find something I’d actually wear, but it’s better than opening the trunk in the living room. I don’t want him to know I sleep on the couch, even though he can probably work it out from the lack of space in what used to be a two-car garage now a “one-bedroom studio.”

It only hits me now what I’ve agreed to: to leave with him, a practical stranger. We might even go somewhere alone. I haven’t been alone with a guy since... too long. At least not one without authority. But he’s safe, right? After what he’d done for me...

Inhaling a breath, I step out of the bedroom in a shirt too tight and sweats too cramped, but he doesn’t look directly at me when he asks, “Ready?”

No. “Yes.”

We go through the front door and onto the driveway that’s used by the “main house” residents. Milky and I have to park on the street as per our lease agreement. There are only a few people at the front of the house, a contrast to the dozens in the rear. Noah opens the passenger door of an old Honda, the same car he was standing in front of when we first “met.”

My protector waits until I’m seated before shutting the door and rushing over to his side. The car makes a clunking sound when he turns it over. It dies on the first go, the second, and the third. On the fourth time, it comes to life, and the same silence that seems to exist when we’re together fills the car for the two-minute drive to the twenty-four-hour diner in town. Without a word, we get out, backpacks in possession, and meet at the front of the car, where his hand returns to the small of my back, guiding me toward the neon pink and orange diner.

We get seated in a booth against the back wall. He still hasn’t spoken, and I’m suddenly mute. He hands me a menu, offers a tight smile, and looks out the window. I remember, too late, that there’s exactly $1.13 to my name, so when the waitress comes to take our order, my stomach rumbles on cue, and I ask for water. Going by the way Noah orders, this might be his place: the one he goes to when he needs an escape or a decent meal. At least it’s not Chubaret. His manners are impeccable, full of pleases and thank yous and even a glance to the waitress’s name badge so he can use it when he says, “Take your time, Celeste.”

If mysteries were like presents, he’d have layers upon layers of gift wrap.

He says, “Are you not hungry?”

I shake my head but don’t offer an explanation. Telling him I’m saving my pennies and the reasons why is not a conversation for—I check the time—an 11 pm diner outing.

“So...” I tap the table with my fingers, one after the other, like a wave of nails crashing on the shore. “I take it Miles is home?”

Noah nods, his exhale loud enough for me to hear over the humming of Hozier playing from the speakers above. He asks, “What were his old roommates like?”

I shrug, realizing it’s odd conversing with someone when I’m not being forced to. I find myself preparing the sentences in my mind before speaking them out loud. The wrong words can get you in a lot of trouble, Andie. I learned that the first day I was there, before I was even shown my bed. “I’m not sure,” I tell him, my words coming out slow. Swallowing my nerves, I add, “I only moved in a week before you guys, and Milky said she’d only ever seen Miles around.”

The boy’s eyebrows knit, his gaze locked on my moving fingers. “Milky moved in before you did?”

“Yes.” I nod. “Less than a month, though. She moved in to set it up for when I—” I cut myself off before revealing too much.

His gaze lifts to mine as he lazily sprawls in his seat, one arm resting on the table, the other on the top of the booth. “Bradley said you guys are twins?”

My water arrives with his coffee, and we say, “thank you” in unison. Noah spins his cap backward, a simple move that has me wishing he’d do it again. His eyes meet mine, just for a second, before his gaze drops to his steaming cup of liquid life and his lips push out as he blows the heat away from his drink.

The cap trick was nothing compared to watching his lips form that shape.

Nothing.

I devour my glass of water in a single hit.

He sips his coffee as if we have all the time in the world.

“So?” he asks, leaning on his elbows, his coffee cup between his forearms. “Is it true? You guys are twins?”

I nod, swallow, nod again. “Y-yeah. Identical.”

His lips quirk into a smile. “I figured. You have the same facial features, but your hair’s different... and your shapes.”

He’s noticed our shapes? No. He’s noticed her shape. Of course, he’s noticed her. Of course, the topic of conversation is her. I force a smile, having no right to be jealous. “You mean that she’s all toned and tanned, and I’m—”

“And you’re all soft, feminine curves and perfection?” The second the words leave his mouth, his eyes widen and his hands form fists. “I need to use the bathroom,” he announces. And then he’s gone.

The waitress returns to fill up my water, and I devour it, my throat desert-dry and my heart pumping nervous anxiety through my cells.

Noah returns a minute later, his gaze never shifting from the dull, gray linoleum floor. “So… twins, huh?” he asks, sitting back in the booth. He wants to forget his earlier words, and I attempt to force myself to do the same.

At least until I’m home.

Alone.

I say, “Apparently, it’s genetic, but it skips a generation. Chromosomes are fascinating.” Chromosomes are fascinating? What the fucking fuck did I just say?

Luckily, the waitress returns with three plates of food, all for Noah, and I silently thank her for giving him an out by allowing him to stuff his mouth full of pancakes.

“Do you have any siblings?” I ask, trying to save the conversation.

He offers me a smile that’s nowhere near as breathtaking as his others, because it’s nowhere near as honest. “So, is it just you two?” he says, switching the subject back to me as he shoves his barely-eaten pancakes toward me and starts on his steak sandwich.

I pick up my fork, hesitate for only a second. “Yep,” I say, mouth full of spongy goodness, my manners less than on par with the boy watching me from across the table. “We were raised by our grandparents when our parents no longer could.”

His eyes widen, and I realize how it sounds.

“No. Nothing like that,” I assure. “Our parents were wandering gypsies, literally. They lived out of an old RV and traveled wherever the stars would take them.”

“The stars?” he asks, no longer paying attention to his food, his focus solely on me. “Is that where Andromeda comes from?”

I nod, my shoulders relaxing as the conversation flows. I’m no longer wary of being with him, alone, and no longer stuttering over my words. “Our grandparents told us that our parents didn’t believe in doctors, so when they realized my mom was pregnant, they kind of just winged it.”

“Winged it?”

Another nod. “My dad, my grandparents’ son, learned all about pregnancy and childbirth through books while Mom drove the RV. They’d planned to just take the baby with them, because what could be the harm in that, right?”

“Right.” Noah chuckles.

“And because of their love of stars, they decided early to name me Andromeda; boy or girl, it could always be shortened to Andie, you know?”

He nods, his gaze and his genuine smile urging me to continue.

I lean forward, forearms on the table, mimicking his position. “So, when I was born in the back of their RV, I had a name, but because they never visited a doctor, they never had an ultrasound, so they had no idea—”

“Your mom was carrying twins!” Noah finishes for me. We’re so close I can feel every one of his exhales, and I want to bathe in their warmth. Ignoring the fluttering in my stomach, I tell him, “The contractions didn’t end after I was born, and my mom felt like she needed to push again, so she did, and ta-da.”

He snorts. It’s hot.

“And they didn’t know what to name her—this surprise baby—so they kept on with the stars’ theme and named her after the...” I trail off and wait for the conclusion to hit him, and when it does, his mouth forms a perfect O.

“No way,” he whispers.

I nod. “Yes way. Milky Way.”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope. Actually, her full name is Milky hyphen Way. But she dropped the Way when we were seven after she was made fun of one too many times.”

With every shake of his head, his smile gets wider. “I thought it was her stripper name.”

“No. Her stripper name is Moist Folds.”

He leans back, his face serious. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”

I smile at his response, an expression so foreign I wonder if it’s real. “I’m totally lying. I’m pretty sure her stripper name is Milky, too.”

“They couldn’t have chosen something else? Like, I don’t know. Taurus? Tori for short?”

My eyebrows rise. “I never thought of that.”

“So, what happened to them—your parents?”

I shrug. “Parenting wasn’t for them. They dropped us off at our grandparents when we were one. I hold absolutely zero grudges toward them. It could have been worse.” I nudge his foot under the table while I steal a sip of his coffee. “Tell me more about your family.”

He shrugs. “There’s really nothing much to say. I live in a small town about an hour north of here. Both my parents are psychologists. The end.”

“The end?”

“Yep.” The waitress returns, and he orders another coffee for himself since I hijacked his.

“So, are you in school?” I edge.

He nods, tells me he’s studying at NC State, no definite major but probably something in science—which makes me smile. Bradley was his next-door neighbor and his best friend. He asks me about where Milky and I are from, and I offer him as little as possible. Then he asks about us growing up and if the dynamic between us had always been the same. I don’t think he knows us well enough to know our dynamic, but I shrug it off because I love the way he speaks, the way his mouth moves, the way every word is enunciated to perfection. I tell him that it wasn’t until we were in high school that Milky and I found our separate personalities. “I was the quiet, nerdy one. Debate team, honor roll, mathlete...” I almost choke on the last word, but recover quickly. “Around ninth grade, she started to wear her skirts shorter and her tops tighter, and I just stuck with the regular school uniform because I was a goody two-shoes and didn’t want to get in trouble.”

His eyebrow quirks. “Uniform?”

After sipping my coffee, I nod. “We went to an all-girl Catholic school.”

His gaze switches from intrigue to... something else.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, focused a little too much on his hands.

I roll my eyes. “It’s the catholic-school-girl-uniform thing, huh?” Guys are so predictable.

His cheeks bloom to a beautiful pink, and I expect him to stay quiet. But instead, he asks, “Do you still have the uniform?”

I pick up a fry off his plate and throw it at his face, marveling at the way his head throws back with his laughter. Another clue to his mystery. “No!” I lie.

After finding the flying fry, he pops it in his mouth and chases it with a lick of his bottom lip, his eyes never leaving me. “Damn shame.”

We spend four hours talking in the diner, not once opening our books to study. At 3 am, we decide to call it a night, his hand on its usual spot on my back as he guides me to his car. Disappointment floods us when we near our house and realize the party is still in full swing, but Noah doesn’t pull into the driveway. Instead, he does a U-turn and parks in a street opposite, facing the house. “Don’t judge me,” he says, taking out his phone and dialing 9-1-1.

I hide my smile against my shoulder, glad he thought of it, because I need to be up in five hours for work. He’s smooth as he relays our dilemma to the operator and gives our address. When he hangs up, silence becomes our friend again.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

I play with my seatbelt.

Then he says, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” I answer. “You?”

“Eighteen. But almost nineteen.”

“Wow. You’re young. I hope the cops don’t question us when they get here. This may be considered kidnapping,” I joke.

He pokes my side, and I squeal and attempt to move away from him. His firm grasp on my elbow stops me. I turn to him, his face so close to mine I can see the different shades of blues in his eyes reflected by the street lamp above us.

He smiles, bewildering, while his gaze shifts from my eyes to my lips, back and forth, up and down, over and over.

I swallow, nerves prickling my skin, goosebumps forming all over my body. “Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Just... about you and that school girl outfit.”

“Oh,” I breathe out. It’s all I can think to say. Then I chant the mantra circling in my mind: I cannot, will not, act on my attraction to him.