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I kiss him in thanks, hoping I don’t have to tell him how I feel about that out loud, and lead him toward the bathroom. He hums around his toothbrush when we start getting ready for bed, occasionally bumping his hip into me and grinning when I meet his eye in the mirror. The shirt, which is just long enough to cover all the important bits, catches on his underwear every time he lifts his arm, offering little teasing glimpses of lace before hiding it from view once more.

“So, which side of the bed do you sleep on?” Oliver asks, yawning and lifting his arms in a stretch. The shirt rises all the way up to his belly button. “There’s all these studies about what your side of the bed says about you. Like, if you sleep on the left, you’re more cheerful, and if you sleep on the right, you earn more money.”

I snort, looking at him in a way that makes him laugh. I reach for the covers, and he mirrors me on the opposite side—the right side, I notice, which apparently means he’s a non-cheerful moneymaker.

“I’m serious, Nils. It’s science,” he adds gravely. “Left-side sleepers are the creatives, and right-side sleepers are the analytical ones. I don’t make the rules!”

Smiling, I slide into bed on the left side and wait to see if I feel more creative. Oliver, doing the same on the right, hums as he scoots his hips down until he’s lying flat.

“I can literally feel the logic flowing through my veins,” he whispers. I laugh again, trying to remember a time in my life when I’ve ever done it so much. Maybe when I was a child, in those few blissful years before I learned the easiest way to get through life was in silence.

Reaching over to the switch next to my bed, I dim the lights in the room. Oliver makes an appreciative sound, fabric rustling as he moves around and gets comfortable. When I turn over to face him, he’s on his side, pillow scrunched beneath his cheek, eyes on mine. Perhaps he’s onto something with the sleeping arrangements. Right now, I’d love to have the kind of talent needed to pick up a pencil and draw him.

“Your bed is comfier than mine. And your sheets softer. You’rereallygood at decorating, you know that? I don’t even want to finish my house; I just want to move in here.”

His eyes close as soon as he says it, as though he’s disappointed with himself. Honestly, I sort of wish he lived here, too. Even before we started dating, I don’t think I’d have said no to having him in my guest room. He spends probably half of his time here, and the half that he’s gone feels empty. Nothing smells good, nobody is singing, and only one pair of hands tends the chickens. It’s funny, but I don’t recall ever feeling lonely before I met Oliver.

“I’ve actually lived with quite a few people,” he continues, talking a little faster as though trying to cover up the slip. “But not really romantic partners. I had a roommate who I eventually got romantically involved with, though, and boy, did that end up being a mess. It didn’t work out, and then we were locked into a lease, and the whole thing was so awkward.”

I watch his face as he talks, listening intently. Sometimes it seems like Oliver has lived a dozen lives. It also seems like he’s got quite a bit more dating experience than I do. Which isn’t saying much, since almost everyone does. It’s curious to me that someone as vibrant and beautiful as him could have so much trouble finding a person they want to spend their life with. If even the perfect people are struggling, it doesn’t look great for the rest of us.

“Have you dated a lot?” I ask him, not really caring about the answer so much as the way he’ll say it. It doesn’t really matter to me how many people he’s been with, but his earlier comment about not liking how someone treated himdoesmatter.

“Mm, sort of, I guess.” He scrunches up his face a bit, thinking. “Depends how you define dating. When I left home and went to school, all of a sudden, I had so much freedom, and all I wanted to do with it was, well, touch dicks.”

I snort, and he smiles at me sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders where they’re tucked under the blanket.

“I don’t think I was very good at picking guys, though. I just sort of…went along with anyone who was nice to me, to be honest. Learned a lot, though. And did a lot of things that I would prefer not to do again. Like bottoming. I really, really don’t like to bottom. But there was a solid two years where I swear I did nothing but. I’ve been told I have a confusing vibe, and I doubt the lingerie helps. I’ve never had like a super-long relationship, though. Six months is my record. I’m just a lot, I think, so guys get exhausted and sick of me.”

He grins at me when he says this, trying to turn it into a joke. I frown. Exhausted by him? That’s like getting sick of happiness and light and wishing for depression. Oliver, seeing the expression, swallows and nestles a little further into the blankets.

“I just think dating was really hard for me in New York. It was almost like being spoiled for choice, and everyone is out there looking for something I didn’t have. It was tiring. Being ghosted by someone who’s seen you naked isn’t so much fun once it happens a dozen times. And my parents areobsessedwith getting married. The first thing they ask me when I talk to them is if I’ve met anyone. They don’t even care if it’s a man or a woman, they just want me to ‘settle down.’ Literally, because apparently, if I could settle my personality down a little bit, people would like me better.”

“Oli,” I say when he shows every sign of laughing again. That sounds a little too familiar to me, having spent my entire life knowing that if I could just get rid of my stutter, people would find it easier to be around me. Funny, how I’ve always tried to make my presence more bearable for others by being quiet, but my first instinct hearing that from Oliver is anger that he feels the need to be smaller in order to be loved.

“Sorry,” he replies immediately, and I wonder if he’sapologizing for the negative comment about himself or apologizing for what he perceives as him talking too much. After a moment, he adds, as though unable to help himself from finishing the thought, “I probably have too high of standards.”

I raise my eyebrows at that. I hate to say it, but his standards are in the gutter, as evidenced by the fact that he’s currently in bed with me. I shake my headno, trying to convey that high standards aren’t something he should be apologizing for. It does make me wonder, though, what sort of person Oliver might seek out. It’s incredibly difficult for me to reconcile the fact of him wanting me in any capacity. There is nothing I have that he couldn’t find elsewhere.

“Standards?” I ask, never more grateful for his ability to pluck full sentences from my single words as I am right now. I don’t want to lie in this bed with him, warm and sated and happy, and ruin it by stammering.

He thinks about it for a second, bottom lip rolled inward as he chews on it. After a second, he shrugs the shoulder not pressed into the mattress.

“I think what I really want is just someone who listens to me and remembers what I said.”

I close my eyes for a moment, oddly overwhelmed. Before I went to work on theDrifter, I’d never met a person I would classify as a good listener. Most people try, though, and the majority won’t outright interrupt or try to hurry you along. But struggling with speech has also made me hyperaware of how many people struggle to listen. Their eyes move away. They fidget—rocking back on their heels or scuffing their toes. Theybreathe heavier, sucking great lungfuls of air through their nose and letting it out through their mouth like they’re practicing yoga breathing. They roll their lips or click their tongue, eager for their chance to speak and wishing they didn’t have to wait their turn.

In my case, noticing these tells only makes it harder to talk. Anxiety isn’t a friend to stuttering. Being met with obvious frustration makes speaking feel impossible, which only makes the other person more frustrated. It’s the kind of endless cycle that fills me with dread and did most of the work in convincing me the best way to handle it was by not talking at all. Growing up, kids could be ruthless in their bullying, but somehow, that bothered me less than seeing the same discomfort from adults. Children and teenagers can be forgiven for bad choices or making fun of something they don’t understand. An adult should know better, should be better.

I know I’m not the only person with a speech impediment, and certainly not the only person who’s ever felt misunderstood. But it’s a lot easier to feel alone and let things like that isolate you than it is to find someone to help shoulder the burden. Hearing Oliver say something I’ve thought myself, a hundred times over, gives me a sudden feeling of falling—the bed gone beneath me, body weightless as I plummet.What I really want is someone who listens to me.

Oliver is that person. Oliver listens to me, ocean eyes unwavering, hands still at his sides. He doesn’t interrupt. He lets me talk in words and silence and has no trouble understanding either. He doesn’t laugh when I turn single-letter words intomulti-syllable monstrosities. He asks me questions and brings me into conversations when most people who know me don’t. People rarely stop me when I’m in Siren’s Point proper. I never get pulled aside for a chat in the grocery store or asked personal questions at the post office. People here know I can’t hold a normal conversation, and so they don’t even try. Oliver does. And there is no lie in his face when he listens, no frustration or regret from having started a conversation in the first place.

Making sure he’s watching me, I free an arm from the blankets and point at myself. He flushes, immediately understanding exactly what I’m saying.I’mthe person who will listen to him. I’m the person who will join him down the winding paths he takes when he’s telling a story. I’m the person who will remember everything he feels is important enough to share with me.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “You are my person.”

I park in front of Oliver’s house just as he’s walking out of the front door, hands clenched around a colorful bundle of fabric. He smiles, breath fogging in front of his face and beanie pulled low over his ears, as he shifts to try and free up his right hand. Climbing from my truck, I go to help him.