It's very dark outside. It's also pouring.

I lean against the cabin wall, trying to get under the cover of the jutting roof, but the rain finds me anyways, slicking my curls against my cheeks and trailing its cold, damp fingers down my spine. Ronan stands quietly beside me, the rain dripping from the shingles and landing on his shoulder, leaving dark, circular stains on his grey sweatshirt. He's close. If it wasn't raining so hard, I would probably be able to hear his breathing.

I know what you're wondering— did I know that the bottle was going to land on Ronan? The answer is of course I fucking knew. I never would have played that stupid game if I didn't think I'd get the chance to make Finn upset. The vision hit me when Jasper uttered the words, you don't even know him, just like I predicted he would during my conversation with Giselle. At that moment, I knew exactly who the bottle would land on, and what would happen afterward.

Sometimes, it pays to be a psychic.

"I'm not actually going to kiss you," Ronan says, calmly, like he tells people this every day. Maybe he does— I wouldn't be surprised. He's the kind of boy my Abuela would call a rompecorazones. A heart-breaker.

He tilts his head back, letting it rest against the mossy wall of the cabin, and continues, "You're really not my type."

"I didn't think so." It doesn't take a psychic to know who Ronan's type really is— not that I'd ever judge him for it, or use it against him. I could care less about who he decides to kiss on a rainy summer night. "You like the strong, silent ones, right?"

Ronan smiles knowingly at me. I can't tell if he's playing along with the joke or if he's totally oblivious, because all of his smiles are knowing, even when he doesn't know jackshit. "Yeah, I'm a big fan of Sigourney Weaver in Aliens."

"That movie scared the shit out of me when I saw it in theaters."

"I can't imagine anything scaring the shit out of you."

"And why's that?"

"I think you know why."

"Humor me."

"Word travels fast around here. You must've heard some of the rumors by now."

"What rumors?"

"The ones about why you got sent to camp, obviously."

I gaze at him impassively, relaxing all the muscles in my face so my expression goes totally blank. "They're wrong," I say. "All of them."

"So, you have heard them."

"Don't need to hear them to know they're wrong," I tell him. "Sometimes, the truth is harder to imagine than the lie."

His grin broadens. "Really? Because I'm pretty sure I heard Levi telling people that you used to be an assassin for the Mexican mafia."

"There's no such thing as a Mexican mafia," I say, scoffing at the ridiculousness of the idea. "Also, I don't even live in Mexico. I'm from Arizona. And trust me, I wasn't very chummy with the gangs there. They hated me almost as much as I hated them."

"You're quite the woman of mystery, Becca Fisher."

I shrug. "Not really. I just don't like bragging about the stuff that sent me here. Not all of us got to joyride a Cadillac, you know."

"I know," says Ronan. "Just like I know that you only did this to piss off Finn."

"And you didn't?"

He nods at me, smiling. "I guess we're both here for the same reason, then."

"Maybe we're more alike than you think."

"Maybe."

There's a long pause, but I don't mind the silence. It gives me a chance to listen to the rain sloshing in the gutters, and the wind howling in the trees. I've always appreciated a good storm. They make the chaos inside my head look calm by comparison.

"So," Ronan says. He holds out the "O" for a comical length of time, almost causing me to crack a smile. "Any suggestions as to what else should we do during our seven minutes?"

I roll my eyes. "Does it matter? We'll probably be dead from hypothermia before Giselle lets us back in. It's ridiculous that she's making us stay out here for seven minutes."

"It's supposed to be like seven minutes in heaven."

"More like seven minutes in Hell. Does she not understand that it's freezing cold?"

"Sure she does," Ronan says. "But Giselle does what Giselle wants."

My teeth are chattering now; I have to bite down on my lip to get them to stop. "Damn Finn," I mutter. "This is all his fault."

The darkness settles in around me like a cold, damp blanket. It all feels so empty. Like a vacuum. Or a void. And it's cold. So cold. I've always hated the cold, longer than I've loved a good storm. The dry, desert heat of Arizona always made me feel at home, whereas the cold here just makes me feel alone. And then, out of the blue, I hear myself blurt out, "Ronan, have you ever kissed somebody?"

His black eyes shutter close just for a moment— black on black on black. They look even darker in the night gloom. "Yeah," he says. Not happily. But not unhappily, either. Just matter-of-fact. "'Course I have."

"Was it nice?"

"Maybe. I was pretty drunk, so I don't remember all the details."

I wrap my arms around myself, shivering violently. "It makes everything so complicated, doesn't it? All the kissing, I mean. Sometimes I feel like it does more harm than good."

"Maybe."

"You say that word a lot."

He smiles faintly. "Maybe."

There's another pause, and for a moment, the only sound I can hear is the falling rain. I check my watch. There are three minutes left."

Ronan clears his throat. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, have you ever kissed someone?" A crooked smile creeps across his face. "Aside from Fish, of course."

"I've kissed many people. But I've never kissed Finn."

"That's a shame."

"Oh, shut up. I don't like him like that."

"He does."

"Not my problem."

Ronan's grin widens. "So, tell me about those many kisses."

"There's not much to tell. I knew a lot of boys, and I kissed a lot of boys. I was a bored teenager, so it was just my way of passing the time. But I think I'm taking a break from kissing for a while, because the last person I kissed was a mistake."

"Why?"

"Because he turned out to be a heartless bastard," I say simply. As an afterthought, I add, "And also because I broke his best friend's arm with a baseball bat."

"Are you being serious right now?"

I attempt a shrug, but the motion reminds of how wet my shoulders are, and how tense my muscles are from the cold, and before I can stop it, I feel a full-body shudder tear through me like a seismic disturbance.

Ronan frowns at me. "Are you okay? You look like you're one cold breeze away from death." And then he offers: "Here, take my sweatshirt."

"No, I'm okay—"

But he's already tugging it off. Underneath his sweatshirt is an expensive and definitely non-camp-issued polo, and the slightest hint of pale skin. When I try to protest, he presses a finger against his lip and smiles.

"Please, take it so the Director won't blame me for your death," he urges. "I can literally see your lips turning blue."

"Are you sure?"

"'Course. You're from Arizona, right?"

I nod.

"Well, I'm from New York, so the cold doesn't bother me as much." He holds the sweatshirt out towards me. "It's the logical solution," he continues, and his voice is so utterly confident that I feel my resolve falter, and I grudgingly reach out to accept the sweatshirt.

I yank it on over my head. The static makes my hair stand up on end, but I'm not bothered— the humidity turned it into a frizzy mess long ago. The fabric of the sweatshirt smells like campfire smoke and sandalwood. I can feel the memories woven between stitches; can feel the thousands of adventures linked together like teeth in a zipper. The interior is soft and downy. And so, so warm. "Thank you," I say, and I mean it. "This will help our image, too."

"Our image?"

"You know, our image as a happy couple."

"I wasn't thinking of it like that."

"Don't play coy. I know you were."

Stray raindrops slide down Ronan's nose, and I watch carefully as it creeps down the delicate edge of his cheekbones and slips off the edge of his jaw. He grins, in a sort of ah, you caught me way. "I guess you were right. We're similar; you and I."

"Told you so," I say, teasingly. "I'm always right."

"But that's the thing, isn't it? You're always right. It's just like Finn said. You knew that bottle was going to land on me before it actually did."

Thunder rumbles in the distance. My forehead tingles with the vibration of it.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, slowly.