They both take their contacts out first.

There are a few near misses, and some nervousness. “Feels like prom night,” says Robin, and “Feels like eighth grade,” April shoots back, and they laugh and try again.

They pull back their lids as far as possible, holding the lashes. They look as far as they can the other way–she left, he right. They lean in. Wetly, they touch.

April lets out a low, stuttering moan; Robin’s pulse hiccups. He’s painfully hard. He remembers being six, hiding under the covers, pressing fists to closed eyes until his vision filled with neon patterns.