“I wanted to be afraid, especially when I saw the long,thin sword he carried in his hand, but I couldn't.The man was wearing a Snuggie.”

“I paused when Mort's wormhole of stuff opened up to a surprisingly pristine - and open - kitchen."Whoa," Alex whispered, peering over my shoulder, then back over his at the army of crap. "It's like we hoarded our way back in time.”

“Fanpires ?""Breathers who pretend to be vampires. Anytime a new vampire movie comes out, they're out in the droves. Thanks a lot, Twilight.”

“You told me to tell the truth, and this is exactly why I didn’t want to. You want me to think I’m selfish.” “I want you to own your thoughts and actions, and not be afraid of them. Accepting your limitations is every bit as important as embracing your strengths.”

“Then I’m suddenly reminded of how I get engulfed with nightmares of Mom’s death as soon as I fall asleep. Hesitantly, I call to him, “Hey, Adrian?”“Yeah?”“Can you hold my hand the entire night?” My voice comes out as a quiet whisper.There’s a pause. I’m almost afraid to meet his eyes. Heartbeat picking up faster, his fingers interweave with mine and lace them together. I turn almost reflexively and I’m faced with his eyes—burning so green that it’s hard to look away. And for a second—one second, there is this feeling that flits in my chest, making my breath catch.Then his eyes close and I blink slowly—feeling as I’m in a dream-like trance. Then mine slide close too after a while of memorizing this moment, this moment of silent peacefulness.The gentle pressure of his hand holding mine coaxes me into sleep.This time, there’s only a soothing blankness. And we sleep just like that; backs curved together, my head folded in his chest. As we hold hands, I fall into the awaiting darkness.”

“What were you doing with her?” The words burst from my lips. Before I can take them back, he stares at me.I stare back at him as the silence stretches onwards.We’re both stiff. He says nothing. “Maybe I should ask you the same thing.”I shake my head, my nails digging into my palms.Then before I can react, he has pushed me roughly up the wall, his eyes now dark and fiery, like a storm ready to unleash itself. Good. He’s mad too. His hands force me to the wall as he presses his body against mine. The intensity of the move, the feel of him makes my breath hitch.“Get off me,” I seethe, pounding my fists into his chest but Adrian keeps me locked in place, so that his breath caresses my ear.“Were you guys too rushed?’ He mocks. “Too desperate to book a hotel room?”I can barely stifle a disgusted snort. “What are you talking about?” Fury pumps through my head. “A hotel room? What kind of girl do you think I am—mmf?”He moves against me, moving to kiss me. The moment where his lips meet mine hard and unyielding. He tastes of smoke and lipgloss—and I’m reminded of the scene earlier where he and Lauren got out of the closet together. Disgust fills me as I squirm in his arms.He groans, fire burning in his voice. “You want me, you’re trying to hide from it.” “No,” I try to bite the words at him but it comes out strangled.I try to push him away but before I have to, he releases me.I try to put as much distance between him and myself, shaking. Loathing is my voice. "Get away from me. I hate you."He swallows and looks away, his breathing slowing. He pushes himself from the wall, still very pale.Then closing his eyes and turning, he starts walking away, heading towards the parking lot. "I hate you!" I scream again behind him.Adrian stops for a moment, his back to me. “I’ve told you from the very beginning. You should.”He keeps on walking, never glancing back.”

“I can be in control of my own actions, despite what my track record might imply to the contrary, and suddenly, I just feel like, sure. I can hold my boyfriend-yeah-that’s-right-world-boyfriend’s hand wherever I want to, and not because I want to be all, ‘Check it out, humanity, there’s someone out there who’ll hold my hand,’ but because we’re walking close enough that his arm is against mine and he’s musing over the meaning of ‘crunk’ like he’s sixty-five and somehow, by some mad glorious stroke of luck, he is mine to touch. He looks down at our hands. Ever sensible, he’s wearing gloves, nice leather ones. I left in a hurry, and I’m not exactly the most practical guy to begin with; I’m barehanded, and my fingers are cold. He tightens his grasp on my hand, smiles at me a little bit. I smile back. Beats pockets.”