"If you say you can only go backward again, I will revoke your jacket privileges and tell Claire."
"I can go forward," he said. "I just like knowing you'd catch me. Insurance policy. Romantic kind."
She leaned in.
"I got you."
"That's supposed to be—"
"Our line," she finished.
Outside, it was not even December. Inside, it felt like Christmas Eve anyway, because some nights borrow the holiday's permission to be tender without asking the calendar for a stamp or a receipt.