Art had been about to talk her through the tripwire (Marian had been dubious about that one, but Art reckoned he'd feel naked bunking down somewhere new without a good bit of tripwire, so he was hardly going to make his girlfriend go without), but he looked up when Michaela said his name, and what she said after that blew every other thought fair out of his loaf.
And since Art had no brain-to-mouth filter, what burst out of him was, "You do?" He stared back at her, at the sweet curve of her mouth, the touch of shyness in the dark of her eyes, and he felt it again right then, that funny jittery feeling springing on him like a swift shot of adrenaline. "Well, blow me pink!" She loved him. She'd said that, there was no mishearing it, she'd said I love you.
That quivery strangeness curled around his heart, and he realised with a shake he was supposed to say something back. "Oh—! I mean, I love you too, obviously." But it didn't sound proper when he said it, it came out too quick, too jumpy, not soft and weighty like Michaela's confession, and the words tumbled out of him faster in an effort to rectify it. "Shit, that sounded— you know I'm not blowing smoke, right? Cos I mean, you're like, you're—" and maybe it'd got into his voice too, that jitter, cos the sentences bucked about and broke apart, and what were words? "—you, y'know? Like, amazing, like you, you're, you— sparkle. I mean, without the glitter. And with the glitter, but— well, then it's a sort of double-sparkle situation—"