The truth, as he must have known, was that I had nowhere to be. It’s dangerous, to strip people of their routines, then tell them to fill their time wisely. Above the funnel of his collar, his face was white and vulnerable. He looked frozen. I went to kiss his cheek, and as I leant in to close the final gap between us, he turned his head, so that his mouth was on mine. Even as he did it, I was aware the night could still be rectified. I could purse my lips and transform the kiss into something sealed and comparatively chaste. Not a kiss you’d give your mother, but one you might plant on a friend. There would be space between what had happened and what we would pretend, but it would be slippage. A small, survivable loss. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to. What I wanted was for us to be alone. What I wanted was all of his attention, trained on me. His hands on me. His mouth on me. I could smell his skin. I’d forgotten what this was like. Comprehensive need. To be so soaked in another person’s presence that everything else cedes, as to floodwater. I stood there for a minute, flooded. Then I reached around, pulled his head down, and kissed him back.