Page 197 of Override

I have no idea how we ended up on the couch.

There are pieces of the last hour that have become permanently embedded in my memory, moments I suspect I'll be able to recall with humiliating clarity when I'm eighty years old, and then there are entire stretches that seem to have disappeared beneath the haze that settled over my brain somewhere between Keaton kissing me in the kitchen and carrying me into the living room.

Now my head is in his lap. One of his hands rests absently against my hair while the other holds his phone above me, his thumb moving across the screen with surprising speed.

I watch him type. I don't know why. There's nothing particularly fascinating about watching someone send a text message, but I'm comfortable and warm, and every few seconds his fingers drift through the ends of my hair without him seeming to realize he's doing it.

My eyes trace the thick black frames sitting on his face.

The glasses shouldn't make such a difference. They do. They make him look—I don't know. Like Taibhse.

Which makes absolutely no sense because I had no idea what Taibhse looked like until yesterday.

But the man staring intently at his phone while frowning at whatever he's reading looks exactly like the person who would send me a three-paragraph explanation about why my question wasn't specific enough to answer properly.

"You keep staring at me." His attention doesn't leave his phone.

I smile. "How do you know?"

"I can see you."

"You're looking at your phone."

"I have peripheral vision."

"Maybe I'm looking at the ceiling."

"You're not."

I study his face. His mouth twitches.

"How long have you needed glasses?"

That gets his attention.

Keaton looks down at me. "Since I was nine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

I reach up before thinking better of it and touch one side of the frame. His eyes follow my fingers.

"I like them."

Something changes in his expression. Only for a second. Then he looks back at his phone. "They're corrective lenses."

A laugh bubbles out of me. "I know what glasses are, Keaton."

"Then I'm not sure what response you're looking for."

"I'm not looking for a response. I was giving you a compliment."

"Oh."

I wait. He continues typing.

I laugh again. "You're supposed to say thank you."