“There’s nothing happening over there,” he says, gesturing toward the door. “I’d much rather hang out here with you, if that’s okay.”

I say a thankful prayer and then fall into his blue eyes. I think it’s the blue that helps me to feel at ease again.

“Food Network?” I ask, in an upbeat, but still shy, kind of voice.

“Just what I was thinking,” he says.

Happy he wants to stay, I make my way to the couch and sit down on the far end of it. Jorgen follows me. I can tell he thinks about it before choosing a place near the middle.

I send him a playful, sideways grin after he sits down. He just smiles back at me. It’s not what I was expecting, and it makes me nervous and giddy all at the same time.

I reach for the remote and punch in a few numbers. A reality cooking show is on. It’s one of my favorites, but I just can’t seem to shake the fact that this guy who was only a stranger a few weeks ago is now sitting just a couple feet from me on my couch. Every once in a while, I sneak a quick peek at him, and so far I’ve noticed that his dark hair has a natural wave to it, like it’s almost curly; he has a strong five-o’clock shadow; he’s got eyelashes a girl would kill to have; and a set a lips a girl would kill to kiss. And with all his dark features, his eyes look even bluer. I feel as if I’m not supposed to be noticing these things, but I just can’t bring myself to stop.

“Do you want something to drink?”

I act as if I’m ungluing my eyes from a pure, uninterrupted stint of television watching and meet his gaze. “Uh, sure.”

He gets up and makes his way into the kitchen. He seems curiously eager, so instead of offering to do the job myself, I just let him do it.

“There’s tea in the fridge,” I say.

I watch him stare at a set of cabinets, open them and then stare at another set.

“Next to the sink.”

“Oh,” he says, spinning around. “Got it.”

He pulls out two glasses and pours some tea into each one. Then, he walks back into the living room.

“Thanks,” I say, as he hands me a glass.

He takes a drink and then casually eyes up the couch again and eventually falls into a spot a foot closer to me than he had been before he ventured into the kitchen.

I narrow one eye, but he just simply returns my curious stare with a confident grin. It makes me laugh.

The show comes back on from a commercial break, and both our attentions go to the screen, until I hear his voice.

“You and Hannah are close?”

I look up at him. His eyes are planted on the photo of Hannah and me.

“Yeah, she’s my best friend. She has her moments, but I decided a long time ago to keep her around regardless.”

His eyes catch mine.

“That’s nice,” he says. “She’s older, right?”

“Mm hmm.” I nod my head. “Two years.”

“Married?”

I nod my head again. “She married her college sweetheart.”

There’s a thoughtful look on his face now.

“What is the rest of your family like?”

“Well,” I start, “they’re all fairly sane, for the most part.”

He studies me for a few seconds before a defiant smile pushes its way past my lips and he lowers his head and chuckles to himself.

“That’s good,” he says.

He looks back up a moment later, and I notice his eyes fall to a spot on my leg.

“That’s one pretty crazy scar you’ve got there.”

I follow his slow gaze to my shin. I know what he’s talking about; I don’t need to see it, so I don’t know why I even bother looking. Maybe I had just hoped it would buy me some time.

My eyes eventually wander to his again. I can tell he’s waiting for my response.

“Mm hmm,” I say, nodding my head. “It’s pretty crazy all right.”

He tilts his head a little to one side. “I’m sure that one’s got a story.”

I take in a deep breath, then focus on one breath at a time.

“It does,” I admit. “And it has a moral too: Don’t do something stupid.”

His face harbors a sober expression for a few long moments before he lowers his head.

I, meanwhile, let out a soft, uneasy exhale, happy that he seems to have chosen to leave it alone, at least for now.

“ACL surgery,” he says.

I follow his fingers to the front of his knee.

“It’s not as impressive as yours, but it’s the biggest one I’ve got.”

“How?” I ask.

“Playing football. Well, practicing,” he adds. “I had a scholarship to a small school in Iowa, and I was doing a drill the summer before I was supposed to start.”

“Gosh, that’s awful. Did you lose your scholarship?”

“No. But I did lose my interest in playing football. By the time I was ready to go back, I had already decided I wanted to be a paramedic, and I had been taking classes on the side. Plus, my knee really wasn’t the same after that.”

I lower my eyes before I lock gazes with him again.

“You don’t ever wish you would have stayed?” I ask. “Tried to play, I mean.”

He shakes his head.

“No.” He seems to think about it for no more than a second. “I made the right decision at the time because at the time, I wanted it. I wanted to be a paramedic. I didn’t want to risk my knee again. I didn’t want to play scared — scared it’d tear again.”

He pauses before he continues.

“I figure we’ve only got the present in front of us — that’s all we’ve got to base a decision on. So, how can we go around faultin’ ourselves for making a decision that’s not based on what we want tomorrow? I can’t tell you what I’ll want tomorrow, and for all I know, I’ve only got today.”

His blue eyes are fixed on mine when his lips stop moving, but I have no words. I don’t know what to say.

My stare falls to the scar on my leg, and I can’t help but think of the day I got it.

“Ada,” I hear him say a moment later.

I force my attention back to him.

“You okay?”

I notice I’m all but frozen.

“I’m fine,” I say.

His eyes burn into mine before he scoots closer and puts his arm around my shoulder. It doesn’t feel weird because a hug seems like the best thing in the world right now. And he seems to know that — even though he can’t possibly know just how breakable I really feel.

“The good news is that you win,” he says, squeezing my body tighter into the muscles in his chest. His scent fills my lungs. It’s almost intoxicating.

“What?” I ask.

“The scar contest. You have the biggest scar.”

I laugh an unguarded laugh.

“What do I win?”

He doesn’t say anything, so I turn my face up toward his, and after a moment, I notice his eyes leave a leisurely trail to my lips, and I quickly turn away, allowing a certain silence to sneak in between us. I don’t even know how much time passes before I hear his voice again.

“Whatever your heart desires,” he says, softly.

I slowly turn back toward him. He’s smiling, and it’s contagious.

“Hold me,” I say.

My eyes meander back to the television, which has been pretty nonexistent until now, but all my attention stays wrapped up in him. I feel his muscular arms tighten around me, and then, I feel him pulling me down. I let him lower me to the couch and cradle me in his strong arms. And suddenly, I feel his coarse fingers lacing in mine until his hand all but engulfs my own. And in the next moment, his warm body is pressing against me, and I can feel his hard, broad chest rising and then falling in slow, rhythmic beats. It’s exhilarating, and yet, all so strange — like a sobering reminder of what life feels like when all you feel is every touch — and nothing else.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up to a guy making pancakes on some show on TV. The light from the television is bright, and it forces my eyes shut. But when I feel warm breaths on my neck, my eyes shoot open again. And the first thing I notice is Jorgen’s arm wrapped around my waist. Then, one by one, the details come rushing back to me. We talked for a long time after dinner about everything and nothing simultaneously — everything from our favorite holiday to our least favorite Smurf. His were Groundhog Day and Gargamel. And even after I pointed out that Gargamel wasn’t a Smurf, he still picked Gargamel. I remember our silly conversations, but I don’t remember falling asleep.