Her heart jumped when he touched her — partly because she couldn’t see and therefore didn’t know he was going to do it, and partly because, well, it was him, touching her, on purpose. She sighed and dropped her arm, looking up at him. “You’re biased,” she told him, and made herself look away.
“So? Does that make me wrong?” He arched an eyebrow then and smiled over at her, refusing to move his fingers just yet, and hoping that it wasn’t making her too uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”
“It makes you uninformed. And, and, and blinded. You’ll overlook things that are bad because you’re biased.” Summer wanted to take his hand, but she wouldn’t let herself. She didn’t deserve it. Him. As a friend. As anything. He would get hurt, because of her; she would hurt him. Underneath that surety was a little voice of reason, but it was drowned out by the self-hatred.