"What are you doing?" His hand slammed down before I could think. "My—" I tried to pull back, but my fingers had already brushed his cheek. The skin was warm and real and completely wrong to touch like that. "You okay?" Fisher asked. His voice was low and calm, but the calm had an edge that made everyone around us glance over. "No—I'm fine." The words came from my mouth before my brain caught up. They sounded like someone else's words, thin and too polite. "I didn't mean to..." The girl who had been confessing stepped forward, small and bright-eyed, and her voice trembled. "Fisher, I—I've liked you since sophomore year. I thought—" He cut across her with an apology so practiced it sounded rehearsed. "I'm sorry. I stepped out of line. I didn't realize—" "That's not what I meant." The confessor flinched and looked at me like I had ruined a scene. "Please, just listen." I wanted to slam my head against a stack of reference books and wake up in my own bed. I wanted to tear off the skin that wasn't mine. Instead I held my hand limp at my side and watched Fisher's face, the way his jaw tensed when he tuned out public drama. "Are you hurt?" he asked me, gaze switching like a light. His hand stayed on top of mine for a fraction of a second, like he was checking for