"Ow!" I slap Newt's hand away. "That hurts."

He laughs out loud. Offended, I glance at him.

The wounds on my stomach have obviously not completely healed yet. According to Newt, I'm moving way too much. And I mean, I did lose some blood when I ran into the cornfields, but new scabs have grown onto it and I'm fine.

"It needs to be cleaned once a week," he replies. "Sit still."

Squirming at the cold feeling of the disinfection on the cotton pad, I press my lips together. Once Newt's done, he places a kiss on the white line I've formed.

"Maybe I should apply band-aids—"

"No!" I fly up. "Enough. This stresses me out. I'll tell Jennifer you're the cause of my anxiety."

He gasps. "Damn, okay."

I think the talk Minho and I had did something to me.

"Did you know Minho's jealous of your muscles?" Newt then suddenly says, eyes mischievous.

I pull a face.

"What? Is that bad?" He chuckles.

"Eh, no. But I'm aware that he's jealous. He asked my routine, but the last time I went to the gym was like... months ago. I don't know."

"How do you keep muscles after not sporting for months?"

"I don't know," I say again. "May have to do with the fact that he likes to order pizza and would eat it every night if he could, and I don't."

"That's bloody weird. Why would you not want to eat pizza every night?"

"I don't like tomatoes that much," I say.

Newt squints his eyes at me. "Pizza without tomato sauce exists."

"I don't like the texture of the dough without sauce," I add.

"Have you tried pesto sauce? I'm sure that exists."

"Yeah. That's nice."

"See? Easy conclusion: Lyndon Blake can easily order pizza for dinner every night."

"I once ate a whole pot of pesto and got sick for like a week, so I never ate pesto again," I announce.

He stares at me for a few seconds. Blinks. "Oh my God."

I shrug as the heat rises to my cheeks.

"Okay. We'll quit talking about pizza." With more laughs, Newt pulls me to his side. "What now?"

I don't care if it's pizza or freaking fries we're talking about, I'm just happy my mind is off the bad things for once. Sitting here, with Newt, and talking is enough.

"I don't know." I let myself fall backwards. Newt follows along. "Painting will immediately take in a lot of time."

"If you want to paint, go do it," he encourages. "I'll be perfectly fine watching."

But I shake my head. "Nah. I'm fine just talking."

"Okay. Tell me about your paintings. I want to know more about stories behind them. The happy ones. You do have happy ones, right?"

"Mhm."

My face grows bright red at the first happy canvas that comes to mind; the one that I made from Newt, even though I denied it was actually Newt.

So I tell him that, waiting for his reaction.

"I figured it was me. The cookies and brownies on the blanket? Blonde hair?" His eyes almost close from smiling. "I love it. Where do you keep your paintings?"

"Either give them to people or keep them. I throw the really bad ones away."

"You could draw a stick man and I'd still think it's the most perfect thing ever," he replies.

Warmth fills inside of me. Newt leans closer, which does not help with my blush at all. His eyes are so beautiful and reassuring. I keep staring at them until he closes the gap between us with his lips.

"I love you," he whispers between the kiss. I try to ignore the fluttering in my stomach, but it's hard.

"I love you," I reply.

More experienced than I am, Newt guides my hand to the side of his face. I relax a little more than before. Lean into his touch. Close my eyes for a second.

Our lips move together. It's the slowest and most gentle touch ever, yet anxiety nags at me. I don't know if it's the type of stress I'm supposed to feel as we kiss. It feels a bit weird.

Then I'm distracted by the softness of his lips and breaths. Only for a minute, I try not to match the pace of my lips with his, but the nervousness starts to build. When his hand slides to the back of my neck, I feel a rush of excitement and worry.

Breathing unevenly, I break the kiss. "Can we... you know— stop?" I swallow a bundle of nerves away. Idiotic stupid little—

"Yeah, of course." Newt takes my hand. He quickly kisses my forehead.

I avert my eyes. "Sorry. I don't kn—"

"It's fine, Lynn," he says sternly. "Even though I wouldn't have taken it far in the first place, it's totally fine."

Nodding, I hope to return a smile.

☀︎︎

"They figured out the dead guy's name," Dad announces at dinner. Everyone looks up, surprised.

"What is it?" Teresa asks.

"Marcus Marston," he says.

Eli's water flies out of his mouth like a giant wave, and he starts coughing.

Horrified, Newt looks down at his now wet clothes.

"What?" Through his coughs, Eli looks at Dad. "What's his name?"

"Marcus Marston," he repeats.

Something sounds familiar here, but I'm not able to figure out what.

But Minho's expression betrays he did figure out.

"Eli Marston," he mutters before he looks up. "You're Eli Marston."

"I— yeah—" Eli stammers. He seems as shocked as everyone.

"...you said you don't have a father," Brenda says slowly.

He nods. "Because my mom and him divorced when I was just a kid. She never wanted to see him again and told us to choose who we wanted to stay with."

"We?" Brenda asks.

"Noelle," Minho, Newt, and I realize in unison.

If Marcus is Eli's father, then Noelle is his sister.

He blinks at us. "How do you..."

"We figured it out when we broke inside his house."

"This is crazy," Dad mutters.

"Yeah," Minho agrees. "It is—"

"The girl who was found dead, the one we identified, is named Noelle Marston," Dad blurts out.

One way to get the whole table silent.