Tate could fall for Persimmon; he knew this. He wouldn’t, though, and promised himself that. It seemed preposterous to think that he could, lacking such a history with his previous strings of dates and very few, short-term boyfriends. The concept felt awkward, unreal, and challenging. Yet, there it was, right on the table of life and staring at him with all its strange eyes, affection for Persimmon surfacing somewhere in his chest, near his heart, and flooding his mind. Warm and fuzzy feelings that sometimes occurred in people at Christmas, weddings, and other special moments in life. Happiness. Uncontained niceness and liking. So obvious that it could have slapped Tate in the face, burning one of his cheeks, causing it to go aflame with heated emotion, something.
He thought he could tap
