“I like wanting,” he said. “I like wanting you. I like coveting but not having—it is almost better, more satisfying to . . . to think about how very much I want something, to envision it, to play the scene out safely in my mind but not to do it. At least not yet.” He touched her wet hair. “I like knowing you’re here, listening to the rain with me. I’d like to sleep close to you, to feel your presence, to hear the rustling of the sheet, your breath, to sense your warmth without the uncertainty of entangling ourselves any further. That would provide me so very much pleasure, that alone, I think for now, at least.”