Astronaut Corps.”

My eyes widen. “Did you do it?”

“Yep.”

“And?” I’m leaning closer and closer. This is engrossing. “Did you get in?”

“Nope. Didn’t even make it through the elimination round.”

“No! Why?”

“Too tall. They recently tightened the height restriction— can’t be taller than six two, or shorter than five one.”

I briefly contemplate the notion that neither Levi nor I fall within astronaut height requirements, but for dramatically different

reasons. Wild. “Were

you heartbroken?”

“My family was, yeah.” He looks me straight in the eye. “I was so relieved, my friend and I got passed-out drunk that night.”

“What?”

He tips back his head and downs the rest of his drink. I’m not staring at his Adam’s apple, I’m not. “Outer space is fucking terrifying. I’m thankful for the ozone layer and the gravitational pull of the moon and whatnot, but

they’d have to tie me like a spit-roasted pig to send me out there. The universe keeps expanding and getting colder, chunks of our galaxy are sucked away, black holes hurl through space at millions of miles per hour, and solar superstorms flare up at the drop of a hat. Meanwhile NASA astronauts are out there in their frankly inadequate suits, drinking liters of their own recycled urine, getting alligator skin on the top of their feet, and shitting rubber balls that float around at eye level. Their cerebrospinal fluid expands and presses on their eyeballs to the point that their eyesight deteriorates, their gut bacteria are a shitshow—no pun intended—and gamma rays that could literally pulverize them in less than a second wander around. But you know what’s even worse? The smell. Space smells like a toilet full of rotten eggs, and there’s no escape. You’re just stuck there until Houston allows you to come back home. So believe me when I say: I’m grateful every damn day for those two extra inches.”

I stare at him. And stare at him. And stare a little more, open-mouthed.

I stare at this man who is six four and two hundred pounds of muscle and just vented to me for five minutes about the fact that space is a scary place.

God. Oh, God. I think I like him.

“There’s one single format in which space is tolerable,” he says.

“Which is?” “Star Wars

movies.” Oh, God.

I jump out of my seat, grab his hand, and pull him out of the bar. He follows without resisting. “Bee? Where are we —?”

I don’t bother looking back. “To my hotel room. To watch The Empire Strikes Back.”

• • •

“YODA’S A BIT of a dick.” I lean over to steal a handful of popcorn from Levi’s lap. My own bag, sadly, is long gone. Should have paced myself.

“All Jedi are dicks.” Levi shrugs. “It’s the forced celibacy.”

I can’t believe I’m on a bed. With Levi Ward. Watching a movie. With Levi Ward. And it doesn’t even feel weird. I steal more popcorn, and inadvertently grab his thumb. “Sorry!”

“That’s not vegan,” he says, a hint of something in his voice, and I am mesmerized by the shadows the TV light casts on his face. His elegant nose, the unexpected fullness of his lips, his black hair, blue-tinted in the dark.

“What?” he asks, without taking his eyes off the screen.

“What, what?”

“You’re staring.”

“Oh.” I should avert my gaze, but I’m a bit drunk. And I like looking at him. “Nothing. Just . . .”

He finally turns. “Just?”

“Just . . . look at us.” I smile. “It doesn’t even feel like we hate each other.”

“That’s because we don’t.”

“Aw.” I tilt my head. “You stopped hating me?”

“New rule.” He turns more fully toward me, and his ridiculously long legs brush against mine. In the swampy forests of Dagobah, Yoda’s torturing poor Luke under the guise of training him. “Every time you say that I hate you, you have to come over and express Schrödinger’s glands.”

“You say it like it wouldn’t be enjoyable.”

“Since you clearly have a fetish: every time you mention this nonexistent enmity I supposedly feel, I’ll add a mile to the race you owe me.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You know what to do to make it stop.” He pops a kernel into his mouth.

“Hmm. Can I say that I hate you?”

He looks away. “I don’t know. Do you hate me?”

Do I hate him? No. Yes. No. I haven’t forgotten how much of a dipshit he was in grad school, or that he reprimanded me about my clothes on my first day of work, or any of the dickish things he’s done to me. But after a big day like today, when he saved me from total, catastrophic implosion, it all seems so distant.

No, then. I don’t hate him. In fact, I kind of like him. But I don’t want to admit it, so while Han and Leia bicker about how much they love each other on the screen, I punt.

“What are you wearing tomorrow?”

He gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. Is it relevant?”

“Of course! We’re spying.”

He nods in a way that clearly showcases how full of shit he thinks I am.

“Something inconspicuous, then. A trench coat. Sunglasses. You brought your fake mustache, right?”

I smack his arm. “Not all of us have a long history of espionage—by the way, what’s the story behind the