My cello almost falls. I snatch it and slide it under the chair. I don’t notice I’m sliding down with it until my knee hits the floor. He leans in, smelling like peppermint and aftershave. Clean. And just beneath that clean scent is something undeniably masculine. It makes my toes curl. It makes my other knee hit the floor. He stops, again, just before touching me. It feels like a strange sort of dance, like we’re two actors performing for an auditorium of ghosts. The feeling swelling between us pulls me to him like a dissonant chord trying to find home. He follows me down, crouching above me. I raise my hand to touch his cheek, finding his mask instead of skin. “Why do you wear this?” I ask again. “I already told you.” “No, really. Tell me.” “Because you wouldn’t love me—” “How do you know?”
