There’s a stab of guilt at that. He looks down, briefly, then over at her again.

“I’ll tell you why some time,” he says quietly. “Why I didn’t… Why I couldn’t…”

He gives up on trying to voice that thought for now. Clears his throat.

“I kissed him. A couple of days ago. I saw him at the cafe we always go to, trying to force himself to eat a piece of cake. Talking about how he needed to be normal so people would like him.”

This time when he looks down, it’s to hide a little smile. A defensive tic for when the feeling is too real to keep hidden. “I told him I liked who he was, and I kissed him.”

A moment, then: “He seemed to like it better than the cake.”