If asked why you like exceedingly intelligent boys, the only acceptable answer is that it's all the more satisfying when you manage to kiss him stupid.

Jason Peter Todd (six-foot-four and twice most people's weight) was a mess beneath you. Lights dimmed to the Tiffany lamp on a coffee table and Sade or Edith Piaf on the record player, your television was paused on Anna Karenina and he couldn't think beneath you.

Your mouth, all lipglossed lips and a Cupid's bow he swore shot him clean through his aorta, was the source of his misery. Your hands on his shoulders and his beneath your knitted sweater (and the way you felt on his lap, God, the way you felt on his lap) were just additional risk factors to his lovesickness. Your mouth was fatal.

Jason Peter Todd (again, six-foot-four and twice most people's weight) was entirely undone by a pretty girl in low-waisted jeans and the hauntingly lilting sound of jazz. When the music distorted, skipped, and repeated, he groaned into the inches of space you left between your faces as you pulled away.

"Hey, we don't need music. Music's overrated. A pyramid scheme for nepo-babies and sleazy record labels─c'mon!"