I shift from underneath her, hooking a pillow with my elbow to prop myself up. The joke's given away to something more serious, sincere, and I'll give it its due process. Some traitorous part of me thinks I ought to tell her no, to protect her from the life I've not so much as hinted at since we've met. I'm no one to covet, not with the baggage I've tried to bury. I ignore the impulse to tell that particular truth. There's a better way to tell her about my past, perhaps one no less flattering, but wrapped in a more neutral context.

"C'mere."