[it doesn't matter that Anna's response is fumbled. Me too, she says, and that's all Will could ever ask for. and suddenly, it's like. . . someone flipped a switch, the way he stands up a little straighter, expression brightening like the city lights laid out before them, eyes twinkling like stars in the sky]

[Me too, she says. I wanna be your match, perfect or not.]

[. . . if asked, Will probably wouldn't be able to pinpoint the moment he stopped pretending. perhaps it was the embrace space that second week? the thrill of being able to steal her away, and everything said between them while they basked in each other's company. or maybe. . . every little thing between them had just. . . built upon something before, until suddenly he was faced with something so much bigger than himself. sharing with her his novel, telling her about his dreams, confiding in her his secrets. . . chasing crabs on the beach, and eating her rendition of redgrass-roasted bidou, and sitting on the couch watching that movie, and observing her work so hard to find everyone's matches, and--]

[. . . maybe it was a little bit of both. a combination of that spark, and all of the kindling around it that allowed it to burn into a roaring flame]

[and he reaches out for her hand, grasping it tightly in his own gloved fingers. he doesn't do much after that, because. . . for now, just holding it is enough]

I feel like I could fall and fall and keep falling forever and I'd never be able to stop. [but he likes that] But I don't want to stop, so it's okay.

. . . I want to be your match, too. Perfect or otherwise.