Annabelle stops with a jerk when Lauren stops to name constellations, and struggles to keep his language straight. Something about it is so wrenchingly authentic; she feels like this, all night, has been a demonstration of Lauren's truest self. His affectionate antagonism, forgetting his second language, staring at the stars and clumsily holding her hand.

She watches him as he's pointing haphazardly; then she takes his wrist, lowering his hand, and leans in to press a kiss against his lips. It's easy enough—they're around the same height.