TW: moderate violence (one short scene)

TW: self harm (two scenes

...

PEETA

As soon as we back out of Katniss's driveway, Madge crawls up from the back to take her usual spot in the passenger's seat. As soon as her seatbelt clicks, she starts in on me.

"I have no idea why you don't just tell Katniss how you feel," she says, raising her eyebrows. "It's so obvious that you like her."

I shake my head but keep my eyes on the road. "It's not that obvious," I say.

"Yes," Madge says, "it totally is."

"To you, maybe," I say. "Because you already know. I don't think it's obvious to her."

Madge rolls her eyes and exhales a long, dramatic sigh. "Peeta, she's shy. She's not blind."

"What have I been doing that's so obvious?" I say, laughing through the question. "You're the one who keeps blurting it out every chance you get. Or trying to, at least."

"I'm helping you," she says, lifting her chin.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Real helpful. You're just gonna freak her out."

"You are!" she says. "With all your stalkery."

"That's not even a word."

"It actually is," she says. "Dummy."

"Whatever," I say, scoffing lightly. "Word or not, I'm not stalking her."

"No, you're right," Madge says. "I'm just messing with you. In fact, I think you might need to be more of a stalker if you want her to notice you."

"You just said that she's not blind!"

"I changed my mind," she says. "I thought about it more. She kind of is blind. I've been trying to be her friend for years and she only just realized I'm alive."

"Are you saying I'm gonna have to wait years?" I ask.

"Not if you actually make a move," she says, widening her eyes. "Katniss is a nice girl. She's very sweet. Quiet, smart, super hard-working. She'd be good for you."

"What, I'm not a hard worker?"

"You could use a push sometimes," Madge says, smiling saccharinely. "Like right now. This is me pushing you." I pull into her driveway and she makes pointed eye contact with me. "Good talk," she says.

"Uh-huh," I reply, deadpan, but I smile and wave as she walks towards her house. I wait until the front door closes behind her, then pull away and head home. The whole way, I can't think of much of anything besides Katniss.

…

My mood only improves when I get home because no one else is here. This isn't exactly uncommon, but I still relish the time that I get to be alone. Doing what I want, how I want, for as long as I want.

I meander up to my room, still thinking about Katniss. There's no use denying, especially to myself, that the crush I had on her in middle school is back - in full force. It's not like it disappeared necessarily, but with how hard the first three years of high school were and how hard my parents came down on me for my grades, I didn't have the mental space for anything besides school and sports. They made sure of that. It was easier to try to meet their ever-stretching expectations than to go against the grain.

But now, there's no fighting this feeling. I don't want to, either. I'm lighter than I've been in ages - the inside of my chest feels like it's fluttering. This is different from how it was in middle school. Back then, I only watched her from afar. And this time, even though we haven't had lengthy conversations or anything like that, at least I've said a few words to her. She has ridden in my car, right next to me. I've watched her dance. I'm definitely far beyond my 12-year-old self.

Madge wants to push me further, but I can easily ignore her and take this at my own pace. At Katniss's pace. The last thing I want is to force it, and I have no clue if she's interested in me. If I'm being completely honest with myself, she's probably not interested at all. She has bigger things to think about.

But, even though I have other things to think about too, she's the only thing on my mind. And, before I know it, I'm digging my charcoal out from under my bed along with my sketchbook, then sitting against the wall under my window with my knees bent in front of me.

I only get the pencils, erasers, and paper out. Nothing else. My fingers don't even itch to grab what I normally dig for under my bed, which is saying something. I can't remember the last time I passed up the X-Acto knife in favor of the charcoal. Usually, it's the other way around.

…

The sound of movement downstairs wakes me up some time later. I'm not sure how long I've been napping here against the wall, but it's dark out now and the portrait on the page in front of me is half-drawn. It's a sketch of Katniss from behind as she glances at the viewer from over her shoulder, both arms raised as she ties her hair into a neat bun. I've drawn a few bobby pins between her lips and a layered look in her eyes, but I need to do more with the depth of her hair.

I'm rifling through my pencils when I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs. Instantly, I scramble up from the ground and the charcoal rolls away, following the path of the sketchbook as it slides along the hardwood floor.

I'm on my feet as soon as my bedroom door comes open. I know by now not to expect a knock. My mother stands there, a hardcover edition of Pride and Prejudice in her hands - my current AP Lit novel. The look she's giving me is full of malice hidden under a sheen of cordiality.

"How long have you been home?" she asks.

I swallow and blink hard, trying not to make it obvious that I'd been sleeping. I glance at the clock on my bookshelf and see that it's just past 8:30pm. "About two hours or so," I say.

"Hmm," she says, then smacks the book against the flat of one palm. "How was practice?" Her eyes roam the floor. I don't need to follow them to know she's looking at my art supplies strewn around. "Are you finished with homework?"

"No practice today," I say. I'm on a travel soccer team that plays year-round, indoors and outdoors. I'm not lying, either. There was no practice today, otherwise I would've had to drop Madge off and pick her back up from dance. I worked my schedule out so I could avoid doing that, since it's inconvenient for both of us. "And no," I say, running one hand through my hair. I try to stifle my yawn, but it doesn't work. Even though I keep my jaw closed, it still stretches through my system. "I haven't done my homework yet."

"No surprise there," she says. "Seeing as this book was downstairs and you're up here doing god knows what."

"I wasn't going to leave it there," I say. I don't know why I respond; the words come out reflexively. As soon as I say them, I know I should've kept quiet.

"Oh, clearly," she says. "I'm not sure what makes you think that your father and I will pay for college if all you do is sit in your room and doodle all day."

I keep my mouth shut this time. I drop my chin and look at the floor, willing her to walk away and leave me alone. Of course, though, that doesn't happen.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," she spits. "You ungrateful little prick."

Tentatively, I lift my head and meet her eyes that are shining with rage. I shift my gaze to the book, clenched so tightly that her knuckles are mottled white and red - straining against it.

"Do something with your life," she says, then shakes her head and laughs humorlessly. "Stop acting like the waste of space that you are."

Then, she whips the book at me. It revolves in the air and, before I have a chance to react, hits me square in the eye. No time at all passes before the spot starts to throb.

"Catch," my mother says after the fact, then snorts. She turns around, slams my door, and I'm left standing there seething with rage, one hand pressed over my eye.

I heard once that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results. If that's true, then I must be crazy. I have no idea why I keep hoping that my mother will treat me gently - or, at the very least, ignore me. For as long as I can remember, and my memory goes back a long time, that hasn't been the case.

To her, I'm worthless. I never do anything right. I'm not as smart as my oldest brother, Emmer. I'm not as athletic as my middle brother, Quinn. I'm second best at everything I do, never quite achieving what they want me to. She's not wrong when she says that all I do is waste space.

The way she treats me is probably something I deserve, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Every time she leaves my sight, my palms tingle and my entire system heats up, filling to the brim with hot anger until it boils over and burns everything in sight.

And it's not just that. There's also sadness that washes through me, just as potent as the rage. But instead of lighting me up, the sadness tamps me down and drowns me. The two sensations put together are unmanageable and, over anything, uncontrollable.

I don't like feeling out of control like that. But, so far, there's only one solution I've found that brings some sort of relief, that releases me from under my mother's thumb and the way she makes me feel about myself.

With clenched fists, I turn and kick Pride and Prejudice out of my way. I lower onto my knees and reach under my bed, but I don't go for the box of art supplies this time. Instead, I turn the other way and feel for the small tool tucked between my mattress and the bed frame, then maneuver it out once my fingers close around it.

The X-Acto knife is small but substantial. It's cool to the touch and it feels right in my hand, even just holding it calms me. But holding it isn't enough.

I take my pants down and lean against the wall, sitting in the same place I'd been before I was disturbed. With expert precision, I press the blade to my thigh - not a clear spot, over an old scar, but it'll do. I place just enough pressure on the knife and watch as blood blooms along its path as I drag it across my skin.

The weight lifted off of me is instant. Watching the blood like this is like watching the names that my mother calls me slip away. This is the only thing that makes me forget the look on her face when she tells me she hates me - I know it's not healthy, but it's my only option. And, most of the time, the final option standing is picked last for a reason.

I create a line of five cuts - all surface level, each one more cathartic than the last. After I'm finished, I clean the knife, place it back in its hiding spot, then cover the oozing cuts with a bandage from a kit that I keep under my bed.

There are a few droplets left on the floor, so I clean them with a stray sock. Luckily, my portrait of Katniss is untouched.

…

In Madge's driveway the next day, I examine my eye in the rearview mirror. It's not good.

The corner of the book hit me right in the socket, which means that the bruise is more than noticeable - it's jarring. The skin underneath is swollen and purple and, above my eye, under my eyebrow, is nearly black. The entire patch of my face is mottled with red splotches, too, specifically the spot where the book made contact.

There's nothing I could do to hide it - at least, I couldn't think of anything this morning. I spent some time icing it, but I only got a few minutes in before my mom came downstairs. The last thing I wanted was for her to catch me with the ice, so I tossed it back into the freezer and left before she saw the state of my face. It would only piss her off, as if my body showing signs of what she did is my fault.

Madge grins as she bounces out of her house, then leans back inside and yells one last thing. A moment later, my uncle sticks his head out the door and shoots me a smile that looks a lot like his daughter's. He waves and I wave back, grinning even though it hurts my face to do so.

My cousin is breathless and still smiling when she gets in the car, but the happy expression drops instantly when she looks at me. "Peeta," she says, eyes wide.

"I know, I know," I say, brushing her off. "I fell out of bed this morning."

"Oh…" she says, her eyebrows knitting together. Her eyes get glassy, welling with tears like she might cry.

"So stupid," I say, putting the car into gear and backing out. I want an excuse not to look at her - or, rather, I want her to stop looking at me. "My alarm went off and it scared me so bad that I rolled off and hit the corner of my nightstand."

Madge is quiet for a long moment, so I glance over. Her features are set in a pensive frown, her lips pursed tight, worrying. She doesn't believe me. She never does.

"Are you okay?" she says quietly.

"Yeah, I'm all good," I say, smiling to prove it.

"Are you sure, Peeta?" she asks.

"Of course," I say, shoving a chuckle into my sentence for good measure. "Of course, I am. I mean, it's embarrassing, but I'm alright."

She doesn't reply to that. In fact, we don't talk the rest of the way to school. When we get there, instead of waving me goodbye and heading off with a group of friends, Madge sticks by my side.

She's still hanging around when two of my friends, Finnick and Thresh, stop me by the front doors. "Yo, who fucked up your eye?" Finnick asks, grabbing my arm to get a better look. "Do I need to finish someone off? 'Cause I will."

"No," I say, laughing. I can practically read Madge's thoughts as she stands beside me, but she doesn't say anything out loud. "I fell out of bed like an idiot."

"Dumbass," Thresh says lightheartedly, then gives me a firm hug.

"It kinda makes you look badass," Finnick says, still sizing up the bruise. "You really fucked it up good."

"Yeah, I know," I say, turning my head so he'll get the hint to stop looking. He does, but only after staring for a few beats longer. I chuckle and say, "I'll get over it. It was my fault."

…

I have a study hall with Abernathy during third period, and I use the time to wander the halls. I have homework I could be doing - reading about ten chapters of Pride and Prejudice that I didn't get to last night - but there's no way I'll be able to concentrate. It's not worth it to try.

I make my way through the East Wing, listening to faint lectures coming from every classroom that I pass. I meander through the old gym, the new gym, and clean up a table littered with trash in the cafeteria. By the time I reach the library, my mind is calmer than it's been so far today - and it only gets better, because I spot Katniss.

She's sitting at a table, facing the window, with a textbook open in front of her. She's got her cheek resting in one hand, and with the other she's scrawling in a thick notebook.

Just seeing her makes my stomach jump. Before I have any say in the matter, I'm opening the library door and making my way inside. I don't walk up to her, though.

I spend some time near the shelves by the door with my back turned. I'm not sure if she wants to talk to me - obviously, the library isn't the best place. Our librarian isn't known for being strict, but Katniss looks busy. She probably uses her study hall period for what it's meant to be used for, unlike me. I shouldn't bother her.

I glance over my shoulder to see that she's chewing on the eraser end of her pencil, concentrating hard on something. In an instant, though, she lifts her gaze and meets my eyes, which makes my heart do a little flip.

She looks surprised, but she gives me a little wave without taking the pencil out of her mouth. I smile, showing no teeth, and she just keeps on looking at me. She sets the pencil down and moves a few papers away from the seat beside her, then says, "Um… are you checking out a book from there?"

I look at the shelf and only then do I realize that I'm standing in front of the section called "Puberty and Understanding Your Body."

"Uh, no," I say, stepping away from it. I smile - really smile - for the first time all day. My eye twinges, but I barely notice.

Katniss smiles, too, and it warms up her whole face. It warms me, too, in a way I badly need.

"I have study hall," I say. "Just kind of… making my way around."

"Oh," Katniss says. "Nothing to study?"

I chuckle and say, "Well, no. Yeah. I guess I have plenty to study."

"Mr. Mellark," the librarian says, appearing out of nowhere. "If you'd like to chat, I'd appreciate you not doing it from across my library." She nods towards Katniss's table. "Go sit down."

"Sorry," I say, lowering my voice. With my hands in my pockets, I head over and Katniss moves the rest of her things so I can sit down next to her. "I got told," I say.

"I like her," Katniss says with a shrug. "She lets me eat lunch here."

"Oh," I say, wondering why she doesn't eat in the cafeteria with everyone else. I don't ask, though. "That's cool."

"Uh-huh," Katniss says, then looks at her notebook and the trigonometry problem she's working on. With a small sigh, she erases her progress and swipes the eraser shavings onto the floor. "I hate trig," she says.

"Me, too," I say. "I'm hopeless at it. It's like another language."

She glances up and gives me a meaningful look. "Seriously, it is," she says. She's about to say something else, but her attention gets caught on my eye and the words die on her lips. Only a small sound comes out, a broken syllable, a half-thought. Not even half of a thought, really. A fraction of one.

"Yeah, this," I say, turning my head so she can't see the bruise anymore. "I fell out of bed. It looks worse than it is."

"Oh," she says.

She's flipping the pencil around in her fingers, and I watch as it moves back and forth, back and forth. I can't make myself look at her face. I don't want to know the expression she's making, because then I'll have to analyze it and wonder if she believes my story or not.

I need her to believe it. I don't know what I'll do if she's giving me the same look that Madge gave me this morning - if she's pitying me. I don't want her pity. I don't want her to feel that way about me, like I'm someone to feel sorry for.

I don't want to be anything right now - I don't want to be me, I don't want to be a person. I want to disappear.

I can't do anything right. Why am I even talking to her? The cuts on my thighs burn like someone is pressing a boiling hot spoon to them, and my palms are tingling. The taste of pure sadness rises in my throat for no apparent reason, and all of a sudden I feel like I might cry.

I'm a freak. If I don't get out of here, she's going to figure that out.

I get up so quickly that the chair screeches against the floor and makes both Katniss and the librarian jump. "Sorry," I say, cracking my knuckles to keep my twitchy hands busy. "I gotta go. I… I just remembered that I have to…" I clear my throat. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay," she says, and I still can't look at her face.

I hurry out of the library and practically sprint down the hall. I stop in an empty classroom and scan the whiteboard tray, the teacher's desk, the floor, even the trash, looking for something that I can use. I can't exactly bring my X-Acto knife to school, so anything small and sharp will do.

The best thing I can find is a red thumbtack, so I pick it up and close my fingers around it. It stabs the fleshy part of my palm, but I let it happen as I rush to the nearest bathroom.

My thigh is still burning as I sit on the toilet, but I don't take my pants down. Instead, I lift my shirt and hold the hem between my teeth, then drag the tip of the thumbtack along the soft skin under my belly button. It doesn't go that deep, but I don't need it to. This can hold me over until I get home, this can be enough.

I scratch myself with the thumbtack until the heavy blue weight leaves my throat and I can breathe easier. The marks are bleeding, but barely, so all I have to do is dab them with a few sheets of toilet paper and let my shirt fall to cover them.

When I stand up, the cuts on my thigh don't burn anymore and my vision is clearer. But with this clarity comes a wave of self-conscious anxiety as I wonder how messed up I have to be to do this. The only way I know how to feel better is by cutting myself. That's not normal.

I am not normal.

I toss the red thumbtack into the toilet and stomp on the handle, then watch it spin around until it finally disappears. Then, I exit the stall, wash my hands, and leave the bathroom just in time for the bell to ring.

Like nothing ever happened.

…

As Madge and Katniss dance, I sit in the lobby and read the assigned sections of Pride and Prejudice. I even annotate my book in the way Mrs. Coin likes, with a red pen. I only notice that class is over when I see a pair of pink Converse standing in front of me, gently kicking the toes of my shoes.

"Earth to Peeta," Madge says.

I lift my head and close the book, and she smiles. "Hey," I say. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she says. "Doing work for Coin?"

"Yeah," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. I had been hunched over the book in a strangely uncomfortable position. "Catching up."

"We should take Katniss home again," she says, glancing over her shoulder.

I think about earlier, when I dashed away from her in the library. She probably doesn't want to be within 100 feet of me, let alone in the same car. But I can't let Madge know what I'm thinking, because I don't want to explain what happened.

So, I just say, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" she says, incredulous. "Don't worry, I'll do the asking. She's in a good mood, anyway! Our teacher is totally obsessed with her." Madge nudges my knee with hers. "Makes two of you."

"Shut up," I groan under my breath.

Just then, Katniss comes out of the locker room wearing gray sweatpants over her leotard, and a light pink cardigan with the first two buttons done up. Her tan Uggs make no sound as she pads across the carpet, and there's not a single stray hair sticking out of her bun.

"Katniss!" Madge says, reaching for her with grabby hands. "Me and Peeta are gonna get ice cream. You should come. It's so nice out."

It's an unseasonably warm day for mid-March, I can't disagree there. But the ice cream is news to me.

"Oh," Katniss says, caught off guard by Madge's forwardness. "I don't know. I should get home."

"We won't stay long," Madge says. "Come on. Please? My treat."

"I can pay for myself," Katniss says quickly, almost defiantly.

"I know that, silly," Madge says, scoffing in a playful manner. "You can get it next time. But since I invited you, I want to pay." She looks back at me. "I'll even get yours, too."

"Yeah, thanks," I say.

"Will you please come?" she says to Katniss.

Katniss looks at her for a long moment, then at me for an even longer one. I can't keep my eyes up for long, though. I look away after a few seconds.

"Okay, sure," Katniss says, still watching me. "I'll come."

…

In the car, Madge takes the aux cord and switches the music from what I had been playing. She plays a mix of top 40 hits, which I don't mind. It's not as good as my playlist, but it'll do. It fits the sunny mood, at least.

I feel better than I did at school or in the lobby of the dance studio. Katniss is in the passenger's seat, more relaxed than yesterday. Instead of tucked under her thighs, her hands rest on her knees and I see that her nails are painted the same shade as her cardigan, and cut into neat circles.

I'm going to have to remember this color. I've never associated it with her before, but now I don't think I'll be able to stop.

"Peeta, were you watching class today?" Madge asks.

"No," I say. "I was reading."

"Well, you should've seen Katniss's assemblés. Miss Effie had her do them about a thousand times so the rest of us could get them right."

Katniss ignores the compliment and turns her head. I can feel her eyes on me, but I keep mine on the road. "Finally doing your study hall stuff?" she asks.

There's a teasing note to her words, barely noticeable, but present. I've never heard it before. I like it.

"Yeah," I say. "Finally. Annotating and everything."

"Coin will be so happy," she says, her voice small but playful.

We park at the ice cream shop and Madge gets out first, leading the way to the counter. She orders, tells the employee that she's paying for all three of us, then motions for Katniss to take her turn. She gets a modest scoop of chocolate and I get a double scoop of cookie dough, while Madge goes to town on her vanilla cone.

Just as we're about to sit down at a picnic table, Madge leaps to her feet. "Hey, there's Lavinia!" she says. "Vinny!" she calls, then addresses us. "I'm gonna go say hi. Be back."

She scurries off, then Katniss and I are left alone. She eats her ice cream slowly, clearly savoring every bite, and looks up at the clear, blue sky.

"Pretty day," she says, closing her eyes against the sun.

"Very," I say, taking a big bite of cookie dough. We're quiet for another minute, then I bring up what Madge said in the car. "So, today… you were showing the other girls how it's done?"

Katniss rolls her eyes and smirks around her spoon. "No," she says. "It wasn't like that."

"You were showing off, you can say it," I say, playing with her.

"I wasn't," she says, blushing a little and stabbing the ice cream. "Miss Effie asked me to."

"And you said yes, 'cause you're the best."

"Now you sound like Madge," Katniss says. "I just practice a lot."

"That's cool," I say. "How long have you been dancing?"

She looks up and to the left like she's trying to remember. "Since I was two or three," she says. "Or around there."

"Damn," I say. "So little."

She shrugs. "Apparently, I would dance all over the house, and my dad was impressed that I actually had rhythm. So, he and my mom put me in classes."

I know about Katniss's dad and what happened to him. The whole town does. But her voice has such soft edges, and the last thing I want is to ruin the moment by offering my condolences and bringing her back to earth. That would interrupt her escape.

"And the rest is history," I say.

"I guess," she says.

"Why do you like it so much?"

She takes a deep breath, sucks on the plastic spoon after she takes a bite, then chews her lower lip. "I don't know…" she says. "When I'm dancing, that's when I feel the most like me. My thoughts are clear. I'm not worried about anything. I don't have to try and be something that I'm not. I just lose myself in it, I go to a completely different place. A really nice place." She smiles and it reaches her eyes, those pretty gray eyes. "I don't know," she says. "It probably sounds strange." She covers her face. "Forget all that. It sounds too weird when I say it out loud."

"No, it's not weird at all," I say, carving around a chunk of chocolate. "I know exactly what you mean."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I say. "I make art." I laugh at myself. "That sounds pretentious. I mean…all I do is draw and paint. It's not much. But when I do, I get lost in it, too. And it feels just like how you're saying."

"Yeah," she says, sounding wistful. "And, when I'm dancing, the music helps too. It just takes me to this whole new… I don't know, world. It's like all that exists is me and my shoes and the music. Is it like that for you?"

"Exactly," I say, grinning. "Just no terrifying pointe shoes." She mirrors my smile. "I like music," I say. "It helps me a lot."

"Me, too," she says.

"What kind?" I ask.

"I don't know…" she says, dragging her spoon around the bottom of the styrofoam dish. "I listen to what my sister listens to. Pop, you know… Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, Harry Styles. But Ravel, Stravinsky, and Chopin, they're my favorites when I'm dancing."

She can't stop smiling when she talks about them, those composers, which makes me realize just how much I don't know about her.

"Who do you like?" she asks.

You, I wish I could say. You, you, I like you so much.

But I contain myself and say, "I listen to a lot of Arctic Monkeys, The Black Keys, Drake. That kind of stuff."

"Pretty different from me," she says.

"Really different," I say. "But I like all kinds of music." She nods and takes another bite of ice cream, then a great idea comes to me. "I could make you a playlist of my favorites," I say. "And see how you like them. And you could do the same for me."

"Really?" she asks. "You'd want to hear my music?"

"For sure," I say. "Even the classical stuff."

"Even that?" she says, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted. She's smiling more than I've ever seen her do, and it's nothing short of magical. It sounds cheesy, even to myself, but I don't care. It's true. Her entire face changes when she smiles - she goes from beautiful to something past radiant.

It makes me feel unbelievably good knowing that I'm the one putting that smile on her face.

"Yeah, even that," I say. "I wanna hear."

"Okay," she says. "I can do that."

"Maybe I'll even dance to it, you never know," I say, teasing her.

She giggles and lifts one shoulder, then presses a hand to her cheek - she's blushing again. And I am in so, so deep.

Before long, Madge comes back. "You guys ready to go?" she asks. "Sorry, Vinny can really talk. I don't wanna keep you for too long, Katniss."

"Oh," Katniss says. "Sure."

We both get up, then I say, "Hold on a minute. You guys can wait in the car, I'll be right there."

They go on ahead, and I turn back to the counter and order a single cup of chocolate, exactly what Katniss got, to go. The employee puts a lid on the bowl and takes my money, then I amble towards the car.

I get in and hand the cup to Katniss. "For Prim," I say.

"Oh," Katniss says, gently taking it from me. "You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't want her to feel left out," I say, starting the car and backing up. "I wasn't sure what she liked, so I got her chocolate. Like you had."

"Yeah, chocolate is good," Katniss says. We make prolonged eye contact as she wears a subtle, sweet grin on her lips. "It's perfect."

"Oh, my god," Madge titters, leaning in to pop her head in between the front seats. "Seriously. Would you two just kiss already?"