Quan grins. “That’s him.”

The next picture shows Quan surrounded by a pack of little kids in full kendo armor. The next is a snapshot of two little kids as they spar. Another sparring photo of kids. Another. Another. Little kids in kendo uniforms, grinning. A selfie of Quan and a little boy who’s missing one of his front teeth. Another selfie with another little kid in glasses. Quan and kids in T. rex T-shirts in front of the kendo studio. Quan getting hog-piled. Quan with kids crawling all over him. He’s trying to look aggrieved, but he’s smiling too hard for it to be believable.

“You like kids,” I observe.

His expression immediately grows serious, but he nods. “I do.” After the briefest hesitation, he asks, “Do you?”

I shrug. “They’re okay. I’m not good with them like you clearly are.” I flip through more pictures, and I find one of kids striking poses in trendy MLA outfits that include T. rex shirts, plaid skirts and shorts, and newsboy hats for everyone. “Was this for a company photoshoot?”

“Yeah, I had my kendo kids model for us. It was so much fun,” Quan says, and he smiles at the picture like a proud parent.

“That’s not the kind of thing that I’d generally think of as ‘fun,’ ” I say with a laugh. “Isn’t it like herding cats, getting kids to listen to you?”

“Nah, I mean, I don’t bark orders at them and expect them to obey. We were just goofing around together, and the photographer snuck in some shots.”

“You’re going to be a good dad someday,” I say with absolute certainty.

I expect him to laugh or be modest about it or say something like I hope so. Instead, he stiffens, and he’s distant from me even before he gets off the couch and walks over to the balcony. I can’t fathom why he looks so lost as he stares down at the street below.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I approach him slowly, my heart skipping with unease.

He tucks his hands into his pockets and hangs his head. For the longest time, he says nothing, and I can hardly breathe as I wait. It has to be me, what I said. It’s always me. And like always, I don’t understand why.

Without lifting his head, he asks, “Do you want kids someday?” His voice is oddly gruff, vulnerable, and it sends shivers over my skin.

“I honestly don’t know. I haven’t thought about it a lot,” I reply.

He takes a long inhalation, exhales. “I can’t. Have kids, I mean.”

I stop several paces away from him, my mind reeling as the meaning of his words hits me.

“I should have told you before now. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice even rougher now. “I tried. But the words wouldn’t come out.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You’re telling me now,” I say.

He draws in an unsteady breath and swipes a hand over his face and across his scalp before he clasps the back of his neck. There’s such defeat in his posture that it feels like part of my heart is tearing open, and I close the distance between us and reach up to rest my hand on top of his. He flinches at first, but then he pulls me close and presses his cheek to mine.

Holding him tight, the way I like to be held, I ask, “D-did it happen when you were sick?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t know what to say now, so I touch him, his back, his neck, his cheek. I kiss his lips softly, hoping to comfort him, but he doesn’t kiss me back.

He pulls away and is quiet a moment before he says, “I get it if this changes things. For you. For us. But I guess I would like to know either way, so I don’t …” His words trail off, and he doesn’t finish.

“So you don’t what?” I ask.

His gaze meets mine, and he says, “Anna, I’m in love with you.”

My breath catches in my lungs, and my chest expands, expands, expands.

“I’m not asking you to say it back if you don’t feel it, but I want to know if I have a chance. Or has what I told you made things impossible? I understand if that’s the case, and I’d never hold it against you,” he says, and the steadiness of his words makes them sound like a promise.

A completely unnecessary promise.

I reach up and stroke his stubbled jaw, because I feel the need to touch him. “This doesn’t change anything for me.”

A pent-up breath gusts from his chest, and he pulls me closer and presses a hard kiss to my temple, holding me like I’m precious, like I’m important.

“I love … being with you. You’re the one person who I can really be myself with. But I don’t know if I’m in love with you yet,” I confess.

Julian and I exchanged those words. He started it with a casual love you, babe over the phone, and it seemed like I should say it back, so I did. But it didn’t mean anything.

With Quan, I want the words to matter, like his words matter to me. I’ve tucked his I love you into my heart, where I can carry it forever, safe and treasured.

A smile slowly forms on his lips as he searches my face, and he leans down to kiss the corner of my mouth. “You said ‘yet,’ ” he whispers. “That means you think it’s going to happen.”

“I do.”

“Maybe you already do,” he says, kissing his way down my neck. He opens my robe to expose that sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and when he scrapes his teeth over my skin, I gasp and cling to him.

“I might. I’ve never felt this way with someone before.”

“You think I have?” he asks in a low voice by my ear, making me shiver.

“You’ve been with so many people. I guess I thought—”

“They weren’t you, Anna,” he says simply.

He kisses me with hungry strokes of his tongue, and I’m swept away, weak with longing. I sneak my hands under his shirt, so I can feel his hot skin against my palms. I love the way his muscles tighten and bunch as I touch him, the way he kisses me deeper.

“I want it to be tonight,” he says, running his hand up my inner thigh, cupping the flesh between my legs possessively. “Me, inside you.”

“Are you sure—” My voice breaks when his fingertips slip beneath my underclothes and touch me intimately.

I haven’t touched myself in any way over the past two months. I haven’t wanted to. But now, with Quan, my body is coming to life, soaking his fingers.

“Want you so bad,” he groans before he sucks on my neck and circles my clitoris with gentle teasing motions that are so close to being what I need.

I seek out his mouth and kiss him as I arch into his touch, rubbing against him, trying to turn the caress into something that works for me. But no matter what I do, I’m left unfulfilled and aching.

“Bed,” he says roughly. “Need to get you in bed.”

Without warning, he picks me up and carries me to my bedroom, where he lays me down on the mattress. He touches the side of my face almost reverently and kisses me, but his kisses are different all of a sudden. They lack the intensity from earlier. They’re tentative, distracted.

He goes to shut the door, shrouding us in darkness, and when he doesn’t return to me right away, I sit up in bed. I can see his silhouette in the middle of the room, standing, motionless. Something is wrong.