At 16, Sam Manson wrapped her hands around her boyfriend and laughed because she'd grown taller. Danny pushed her off with a good-natured shrug, and his cheeks grew bright red, flushing with just a hint of green, framing the wry smile on his lips. He rose to his tip-toes, planted one light kiss on her forehead, and muttered, "No fair, you're wearing combat boots."

At 17, Sam insisted on asking her boyfriend to prom. Tucker, with a light coating of stubble and a deep, crackling voice, took utter delight in this.

"She's wearing the pants, Danny, just accept it. No way you'll ever be half the man she is."

And Danny laughed along, but with a thin, trembling chuckle that never touched the rest of his face. His eyes had grown too wide, his breathing too quick, and his nervous gaze darted over his best friend's scratchy chin. Danny rubbed his own smooth jawline.

"Yeah, never."

At 18, Sam Manson brought her boyfriend into her room in the dead of night. He'd phased himself seamlessly through the wall, a light dusting of snowy white camouflaged in his hair, and blushed bright green when he noticed the present waiting for him on the bed. Lace black panties were hiked up high on her hips, and nothing but a thick, velvet ribbon covered her chest.

"Merry Christmas, Danny," she purred, and grabbed hold of his hand. She set his fingers on the end of the bow, daring him to tug it, and smiled when his quick jerk sent it to the floor.

Her boyfriend shook with anxious delight, but her own stomach started to solidify. A deep, pressing anxiety ate through her like acid as she watched Danny transform back, hastily yanking on the neck of his shirt.

Childish eyes glowed with his joy, his cheeks round and (she hated to think it) pinchable. A thin ribcage and scrawny arms appeared in the wake of his shirt, peppered with scars from a million ghost encounters too many. She remembered the guilty pleasure that used to claw at her stomach when she traced those scars with her eyes.

At 18, she only wanted to dab her boyfriend's cuts and scrapes with neosporin, smooth bandaids over his skin, and send him off with a pat on the head. She envisioned herself shooing him off to the playground with the other kids.

He started fumbling with his pants, and the clamor of his belt brought her back to her senses. More importantly, Sam remembered with icy shock, he was 18 too. Hardly two weeks younger than her, in fact.

And he just looked so precious.

In the spring, Danny inched closer to Sam on their checkered blanket. A soggy sandwich, soaked in mayo and sparse on lettuce sagged in his grasp. He stared at it with clouded eyes, and set it down with a sigh.

"Sam?" he asked.

A delicate paused pierced the air. She stopped chewing, succumbing to the stillness, and squirmed under the weight in his voice.

"Yeah, Danny?"

"Did I…do something wrong…last time?" He stared down at his off-white sneakers, wiggling his toes and seeing none of them. "I get you want to take it slow…totally get it—a-and I don't want to force you into anything…but I really have to know. Because we haven't—you know," Danny rocked forward, "done anything since."

Sam smiled through the knot in her stomach and dug her hand into the malleable ground, leaning with her weight, until her eyes locked with Danny.

"No, it's nothing you did," she reassured, and she let her own lunch drop, twisting her wrist to run it through his dark hair. "Trust me, you were…wonderful. It's just been a busy few months with colleges."

Danny nodded fervently and jammed the reassurance into his head, forcing himself to believe it.

Sam pushed her face to his, running her tongue over his lips, which parted happily in welcome. Her second hand wrapped itself in his hair, grabbing fistfuls of black and destroying her balance. She fell on top of him, swung her leg over, and straddled him like a horse.

"No one's around," she whispered in his ear, pausing momentarily to bite his ear. "You feel like it?"

His breath was hot and fast on her neck, his gasp sharp when she bit harder.

"Yes," he nearly choked, and he pushed her onto her back, trembling hands taking command. He pressed both his palms into the blanket, one on either side of her face, while he reciprocated with a bite to the collar of her shirt. She gasped at the proximity of his teeth and shivered through the chill of having her shirt phased off her body.

Sam had never been one to wear bras, and her boyfriend never knew the frustrating satisfaction of unhooking one, but he never cared for it. The impact was always better this way. Instantaneous. Euphoric.

After a few thick, palpitating seconds, Danny swung his eyes to look at hers. The fire in his chest died in an instant, solidifying like ice.

"Sam what's…wrong?" he asked as he pushed himself off her.

"What? Oh, nothing's—" She shook her head, reaching out a hand and balling up his shirt in her fist, "Nothing's wrong. Just…don't stop."

He stared at her hand, dejected, and phased his shirt intangible, watching Sam's grip fall away. His rumpled shirt stayed put on his chest.

"No, something's definitely wrong. You look…you look uncomfortable. You don't want to do this." His dim, defeated eyes locked with her. "Why?"

Sam pulled herself into a sitting position and hugged her knees, her gaze falling to the far right. "I might just…not be in the mood right now."

"I don't think you ever are." It sounded like an accusation. Danny took her jaw in his hand, forcing her to look back. "Which is…totally okay. But I have to know, Sam." The line of his mouth grew thin. "Do you…still have feelings for me, Sam?"

"Of course!"

"It's been a while since you've acted like it…"

Her mouth was dry, her cheeks warm, her heartbeat deafening, and every sound that bubbled in her throat died, formless, in her mouth. Danny stared down at his hand, removing it from her chin, and watched it, almost fascinated, as he flipped it around.

"I haven't…I keep thinking I will and I don't. I keep hoping if I wait it'll happen—like I'm a late bloomer or something—but I'm starting to think not." He stared up at her with scared desperation on his boyish face. "I'm not getting older, am I?"

Her head shook lightly, her eyes scanning the same sight. The tousled black hair and lanky body. The wide eyes and round face.

"You look exactly the same as when…in the portal." She ran her hand over his cheek. "I guess you've noticed too."

He slapped it away suddenly as quick anger clouded his face. "Of course I've noticed. How could I not notice? I can hardly keep my life together anyway and I just have to keep this thought buried in the back of my head and yet you…it's like, every time you look at me I can tell."

"Maybe it'll fix itself," she offered weakly.

"And maybe it won't," he countered. Hard eye stared her down. "That's it, isn't it? That's why you've been acting like you don't want to touch me?"

"It's just hard…"

"But why?" Danny threw his arms out, framing his body. "I'm still me! I'm still 18! Why should…why should it be any different?"

"It's just…hard Danny. It's hard for me."

"Oh, it's hard for you?" Danny laughed. "How do you think I feel?"

She took it like an electric shock to her system. A quick, tense moment passed before she found her voice. "I never said it wasn't hard for you, Danny. Just for me—"

"But why?"

"Why do you think? I'm—I really am trying, Danny. Can't you tell?"

"I don't care if you're trying—I don't want you to try, actually! How's it supposed to make me feel better that you're 'trying'?"

"Well what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to do this for real!"

"Do what for real?"

"Danny threw his hands out, encompassing both of them and the blanket. "This! This relationship. Explain to me why it can't just be normal."

"It's complicated."

"Explain."

"It's just difficult," Sam ground out.

"But why?" Danny answered with just as much fire in his voice.

"Because I feel like I'm fucking a child, Danny!" Sam seethed. Her half-crazed eyes roamed over his young face, angry, indignant, accused. "I'm not a pedophile."

The anger on Danny's face melted into icy shock—hurt, even. His eyes flitted back and forth between Sam's, waiting for her to take it back, waiting for an apology he wasn't getting.

"…But I'm not…" his wispy voice pleaded.

"But you are…Mentally, physically." She looked back with muted regret on her face. "You see it, don't you?"

His eyes fell into his lap, clouded, hurt.

"You're gonna be 19 soon, Sam. We're gonna be 19. What'll you think of me then?"

"How can I—"

"What about when we're 25? Or 30? Would you…would you even be seen in public with me?"

"Danny—"

"College, Sam. We're going to the same college."

"Just let me talk, Da—"

"Would you be seen with me?"

Her soft eyes, wet and trapped, met his gaze with cold certainty.

"…No, Danny, I wouldn't."

A cold second passed, silent, his heart stopping with his breath.

"You're joking, Sam…"

She threaded her arms back through the straps of her loose shirt, tugging it over her head. As a second thought, she grabbed her sandwich and dropped it into the sticky Ziploc bag.

"You're joking."

She ran her trembling nails over the plastic seal.

"Sam, you're…joking."

Her eyes swung to meet his.

"I'm not."

He'd seen buildings crumble, cities burn, entire streets leveled to ash, but Danny had never looked so wholly lost as he did when Sam whispered her answer, gathered the blanket up, and disappeared, alone, into the street below.