At school

Ever since Loona had forbidden me to come, every touch sat right under the skin. No date. No "why." Just the sentence, quiet, casual, as if she were asking for the salt: "You don't come until I allow it." After that she had stroked my head like a dog that had stayed sitting. That was exactly what made it worse. She wasn't destroying me. She was only adjusting me. Always a little further. Always in such a way that afterward I still came home, ate, went to school, and acted as if I still belonged to myself.

Emma's foot did not belong to that game. Emma didn't even know the game existed.

My brain shut down anyway. Was I only imagining this, or was it actually happening?

Her foot rested lightly in my lap, as if that were the most natural place in the world. No pressure. Hardly any weight. Just warmth through the fabric, and that was enough to shift my pulse. I stared at the board as if something important were written there, and hoped my face wouldn't give me away.

Emma giggled quietly, more to herself than to me. "You look so focused. Almost startled."

"I'm awake."

"I hope so." She wriggled her toes, barely noticeably, then stopped again. As if she had only been looking for a more comfortable position. "If you stay half this awake later, I might even get through the problems."

The teacher arrived. Bag, apology, chalk. Derivatives. I wrote down the date and tried to hold on to the sentence on the board. The numbers wouldn't stay. Under the table, Emma's foot was still there, unobtrusive, almost polite—and still it throbbed beneath it so hard that I gripped the pen tighter, just to hold on to something.

She leaned forward, the pen at her lips, and whispered sideways: "You'll explain that to me afterward, right? Slowly. Without drifting off halfway through."

"I will."

"Promise?"

Her knee brushed mine, briefly, as if she were only sliding closer to my notebook. The scent of roses hung between us. Emma smiled so innocently as she did it.

On the board was a formula I could have recited in my sleep. Now it was only chalk. White. Meaningless. In my head there was only the warmth of her foot, the quiet rustle of her jeans when she curled her toes, and that tight, throbbing ache that hadn't been allowed to break for days.

"John."

I flinched.

Emma grinned openly this time. "She asked you something."

The teacher looked at us. A few heads turned. I cleared my throat, read the problem off the board, and pushed out an answer that was hopefully right. Someone at the back of the room snorted. The teacher nodded and kept writing.

Emma leaned back, satisfied as a cat.

Under the table she only shifted her foot a little. Not on purpose. Not hard. Just the way you shift a foot when it has fallen asleep. For me it was still too much. I dug my free hand into my thigh, hard enough to hurt, just so I wouldn't push my hips toward her. A drop of wetness made the fabric uncomfortable. Not visible. Not yet. But I felt it, and that was enough to steal my breath.

"You're all red," she whispered, pretending to make a note in the margin. "Should I take my feet down?"

I shook my head. Too fast.

Her smile softened.

"Good," she breathed. "Then pay attention. I really need you later."

She left her foot where it was.

And I didn't understand a single word for the rest of the class.