“So, when are we going to meet this ladykiller?” Whitney asked, as I was lacing my hiking boots up.

I stopped mid-lace. “What?”

“The guy? That you’re texting? Oh, come on, Elle. You’re not the only observant one.” Whitney dropped onto the couch and did an imitation of me, curled up, typing on my phone like I’d frequently been this past week.

I grimaced. “Uh…never?”

She loudly tsked. “I tell you about all of my conquests!”

“This—he’s—” I sputtered, not exactly sure what the species and genus of my relationship with Byron were yet. Friends with Benefits who hadn’t had Benefits? Proto-boyfriend-girlfriend? We hadn’t even kissed—and he still, technically, might be some kind of literal KILLER.

Although truthfully, the more time we spent texting, the further his word felt away.

And then my phone buzzed. Work plans changed—I’m free this afternoon—are you? Byron sent me.

I stared at the screen. If Byron and I were ever going to be anything real…he would eventually have to meet Whitney. And for all of her MANEATER ways, Whitney usually was a good judge of character—she just wanted different things than I did from a guy, was all.

I looked up at her, sucking air in through my teeth. “Do you solemnly swear to not embarrass me if I invite him hiking with us?”

Whitney grinned. “No, because that’s no fun—but you’re still inviting him.”

**

Whitney, Chance, and I drove up to the trailhead together in Whitney’s car—there was an extensive series of trails in the hills south of the city—and Whitney could barely contain her excitement.

This, of course, bubbled over to Chance. “Wait—who is this guy?”

“He’s a friend,” I explained, from the backseat.

“A friend,” Whitney repeated, with emphasis.

“He is a friend, who is a guy, who I’ve been texting,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. “We’ve only been out a few times. I just wanted him to meet you all. So you can tell me what you think of him.”

“I, for one, am honored to give the great Elle Caputo my opinion,” Whitney said, pressing a hand to her chest like she was doing the acceptance speech for an award.

It took Chance a moment to catch up. “Wait—is this guy good enough for you?” he asked.

Whitney whipped her head in his direction. “Let’s find out,” she said, conspiratorially.

I wanted to melt into the backseat and die. “I’d say don’t make this weird, but clearly it’s too late.”

When we got to the trailhead, Byron was already there, lounging on his phone outside of his fancy sleek car, wearing jeans and another slightly tight t-shirt that was taking one for the team. KILLER was, once again, hovering right over his head, but he smiled at me as I got out and I smiled back—I was truly happy to see him, and I walked over like I was pulled by gravity. We hadn’t really touched or anything since he’d held my hand to drag me through the diner, but I wanted to.

“Can I hug you?” I asked him, maybe batting my eyelashes, just a little.

“What would your friends think?” he teased, but stepped forward right as I was about to tell him I didn’t care.

He was dense and warm and he smelled good—like soap, deodorant, and boy—and while his hands didn’t go anywhere untoward, I loved the way they wrapped around me.

“So hi, I’m Chance, one of Elle’s best friends,” Chance loudly announced himself from behind me. “And you are?”

Byron took a step away from me, but one of his hands trailed down my arm to find mine and take it, and that was almost as good as being hugged. “I’m Byron,” he said, all casual like, before giving me a grin. “Elle’s shadow.”

**

The hiking trail Whitney had picked was only medium difficulty, which was good, because I wanted to walk beside Byron, not behind him, or in front of him, and I definitely wanted him to keep holding my hand.

Strange how such a small gesture could feel so good.

And I knew Byron was enjoying himself too—when he wasn’t answering Whitney’s incessant questions, or withstanding Chance’s looks, he seemed happy to be with me, using my hand to reel me closer, and when the trail was wide enough, I leaned up against him like a cat, so he could swing his arm around my shoulder.

“So, Byron, what do you do?” Whitney asked him.

“My uncle runs an import/export business. I help him out a lot.”

“No matter how nicely she asks, Byron, don’t give her your mother’s maiden name. She’ll steal your identity,” I warned him.

Whitney pretended to glare. I stuck my tongue out at her as Byron snickered.

Chance, on the other hand, was reserved, until the trail’s final bend, when he dramatically turned. “And just what are your intentions towards our Elle?” The YEARNING over his head had neither flagged nor wavered.

I felt Byron tense for the briefest of moments, as I scrunched my entire face up, wishing that I’d melted in the backseat of the car when I’d had the opportunity.

“What the fuck, Chance,” Whitney said, having my back.

Byron let go of me and took a step forward. I had a sudden vision of him KILLERizing Chance, and while the idea of two guys fighting over me was vaguely sexy—I’m not going to lie—the horrible reality of it possibly happening was too great to bear.

Then I watched Byron gearshift down, as he looked back at me. “I don’t know all the way yet,” he said, before swinging his head back to the others, “and I can’t speak for her.”

I felt something like a star being quenched inside my heart, a very particular type of agony that I had thus far purposefully avoided in my life, for this very reason.

“But like I said, I’m her shadow—so I intend on being here until we figure it out, if she’ll let me.” He turned back toward me and put his hand out again, and I remembered all my texts full of his sunshines.

What was the sun if not a star?

And where was a shadow, without the light?

I put my hand into his, reignited, and danced back under the curve of his arm.

**

I hugged Whitney and Chance but decided to let Byron give me a ride home—he said he had just enough time to, before his uncle expected him back at work.

He drove confidently with one hand, while I held the other in my lap, getting to feel the light calluses of his palms and trace a nail around the edges of his fingers. I teased him about his so-far-theoretical-to-me tattoos and told him about the tragedy of my group project in person, and then we were at the fountain outside my apartment far too soon. He moved to get out of the car, for my door I was sure, but I shook my head quickly. “That’s silly,” I said, opening it up fast, like I needed to prove that I could.

And then I was kind of halfway out and even if I did change course now to kiss him like I wanted to…his KILLER was RIGHT THERE.

“See you soon?” I asked him instead, sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he said, with a deep nod, and then snorted. “That guy’s in love with you, you know?”

Yes. I knew that very much. I could pretty much read it over Chance’s head, every time I saw him. And I believed it—which was why I couldn’t disregard Bryon’s KILLER just yet.

“Who wouldn’t be?” I said though, sounding glib and tossing my hair.

Byron gave me one of his almost-a-smirk grins. “No comment.”