When I arrive at work the next morning, slightly sweaty from the five-block walk, wearing a sky blue eyelet dress I hope says something besides I’m An Idiot And Terrified, Dash is there already, looking drool-worthy and well again in beat-up khaki shorts and a fitted gray t-shirt with a pocket. For some reason, that snazzy little pocket on his pec distracts me to no end.

Adam and Ashley are sketching character concepts. Carrie, Bryan, and Meredith are discussing accents; and Amber has gone out to purchase bird cages.

“Where’s Mallorie?” I ask Dash.

“She’s gone to get us coffee.”

Us.

I nod and try to smile, but fail; only my eyebrows raise.

Dash raises his back.

“Come out here, I want to show you something,” he says, waving me toward the door that leads into the hallway.

I’m bracing for the awkward conversation when we step into the empty hallway, already holding my breath as I wonder which of the rooms he’ll pull me into while he asks me why I left.

So I’m unprepared, completely stunned, when, after the door is shut, he pulls me into a tight hug and then…just holds me. His arms are wrapped around me, tucking me against him, with my face against his chest, like he’s going to shield me from a falling sky.

Like I’m fragile.

Like he is my protector.

For a mad second, everything around me tilts and I’m going to hyperventilate because he’s not…

The discord in my brain is just too much; I can’t reconcile this man with Dash who left so callously with no good explanation.

Then he brushes his lips over my head, and New Dash wins.

I buy it…for right now.

I let my breath out and relax into his arms—and even though I wait for it, he never says a word, he never asks a single question. He loosens his hold on me after a moment, brushing another kiss over my forehead and then nodding at the studio door with his brows raised.

I nod.

He pushes the door open, and we aren’t alone again until the day is over.

We were in the room the last few hours with just Adam, Meredith, and Carrie, the two of us sitting side by side at the long desk, drinking some Fanta Dash made Mallorie go buy, allegedly so he could animate the bottle.

When we make it to his car, my mouth still tastes like orange and childhood. Dash’s hand brushes my back, and all I want in life is to bite him right over that little t-shirt pocket.

Instead, I steal his glasses.

I don’t know why. I just do it.

He blinks at me a few times, giving me a sideways smile as I hold them behind me.

“What’s this all about?”

“Since when do you wear glasses?” I smirk.

“College,” he says, his mouth tightening a little.

“Prescription?”

“I don’t know. Negative one or something?”

I look down at his hipster glasses. “Negative one? That’s it?”

“We can’t all be blind, Amelia.” He smiles sadly, reaching for a strand of my hair.

“I’m not. I had surgery and now I’m 20/20, baby.”

He runs his hand over my throat. “Figured you must have.”

“Long time ago,” I tell him, pinching his nipple. “August the summer I turned sixteen. I’m sure you don’t remember it.”

He runs a finger over my lip, giving me the saddest look. A look that I can’t handle, so I kiss him hard—to hurt—and am rewarded with a bark-groan sound. Then we’re in his car; I’m spread out on the back seat, Dash is lording over me, his body crowding the small space, his mouth and hands more frenzied than usual.

He makes me come hard, twice, and then he kisses my cheek, helps me put my clothes to rights, and pushes the car door open. One look at his tented pants, and I want to do something about it…

But I get in the front seat anyway.

“Your eyes look nice,” he says as he backs out. “I always loved your glasses, but your eyes are even better.”

I give him side-eye at the use of the word “always.” Dash has the good grace to look down, then at the road. When we get back to our building, he walks around and opens my door. I get out, laughing when I notice the party in his pants.

“Looks like you’re having a hard time there.”

“Har har.”

“Maybe you should carry me inside. Sort of in front of you?” I giggle.

I shrug, and Dash throws me over his shoulder. He carries me all the way to the elevator, and when we reach the seventh floor, he picks me up again. He’s still hard when he drops me on my doormat.

I eye his impressive tent. “Pretty sure there’s something in your pants there.”

“You think?”

I nod slowly. “Definite trouser snake. Too bad you can’t get someone to help you…let it out.”

“Can’t I?”

Then his mouth is on my neck; my key is in the door; the two of us are on my foyer floor…and Dash is in my mouth.

* * *

When I was at his apartment, I poked around. I wouldn’t call it full-on snooping…but I looked. At night in bed, when I’m staring at the ceiling, it’s his place I’m thinking of—and what I saw. How it fits with Dash the man; what might be left of Dash the boy.

He cooks enough to have the right kind of oven mitt: one of the super-insulated, silicon ones. He doesn’t just have one; he has one that has heat marks.

Over his big, plush, dark brown leather couch, framed in thick mahogany, is a color print I’m pretty sure is from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. It features a blonde with long, slightly curling hair, looking demure in a lilac gown-with-shawl, standing in a forest face-to-facing it with a brown owl.

On his end table, a stack of Miyazaki coasters.

I remembered so many little things about him that day he had the migraine. The way Dash swore off regular black pepper in favor of peppercorn when he was twelve; he’s still got peppercorn in the cabinet. His love of flavored soda. His size thirteen shoes.

I found a hand-written checking account ledger with a balance of $57,000. A still-full bottle of Zoloft in the bathroom cabinet, the prescription dated March 2015. I’m ashamed to say I counted them; it seems he just took two.

Why?

Is it weird I want to know? What happened in March 2015? What happened in March 2014, 2013, 2012…?

What happened to Dash?

He’s got a telescope in the kitchen, by the two-seater table. The magnets on his fridge are Star Wars themed.

What happened to the boy who used to sit out on the roof with me?

It’s so strange that I know how he tastes and how he feels in my hands, but I know next to nothing about his head and heart.

He’s really good at hugs.

His hands are big but gentle.

Is that enough for me?

Is this enough—even for right now?

Sometimes I feel like I’ll go crazy and I tell myself I have to stop. Then, like any addict, I go back. Just one more kiss.

Is this what love is like for everyone: the feeling that it’s dangerous but irresistible? Fear mingled with lust.

Or is it just us?

Is the price of Dash this clawing, wanting feeling—this feeling that I’ll never get enough?

And is it worth it?

My lips curve in a would-be laugh as I fade into sleep. None of this matters…because I just can’t stop.