Mint opens the door for me.

He doesn't mention my conversation with Duke. He just traps me in his arms, and he doesn't let me go. There's no way I can break free from there, I know.

"Do you live here?" I ask him. "You seem to have a key."

"Only for a short time," he answers. "We can't stay here for long, right?"

"They said this lock couldn't be picked without breaking."

"They say so many things. So many lies. To you, and about you. You shouldn't believe everything, baby."

I rub my forehead against his neck. He might be right. About the lock.

"What is the truth, then?" I ask.

"The truth is simple. And logically correct."

That's something new. I try to raise my face to look him in the eyes, but he holds me too close to do that. And I feel too weak to move, anyway. So I just lay my face on his chest, listening to his even heartbeat. They say it betrays when someone tries to lie, but I shouldn't believe everything.

"So," he says, "if my truth doesn't match your calculations, I'll go."

Okay. That, I can trust. My calculations aren't lying. Numbers are a girl's best friends.

I wrap my arms around his waist. That's the best position to evaluate complicated scientific facts, according to my previous research studies.

"So here's the result of my analysis," he goes on. "If you told me all along what I needed to hear, then the thing I needed to hear to save the world from the virus was precisely the same thing that was needed to make me fall head over heels in love with you. So, there is a possibly random, yet 100% accurate correlation between your goal and my goal."

I hum into his chest. That sounds logical, indeed. No one can discuss a correlation that tight without facing the risk of being called out on methodological inconsistency.

"And now, on to the conclusion," he says, kissing the top of my head. "It doesn't matter what you do, baby. Because, apparently, anything you do, you have this effect on me. So you can stop worrying about buttons and such. We'll work it out, okay?"

I keep listening to his heartbeat. It's still as even as a faucet dripping. A sound everyone seems to abhor, except for me. I love it so much. I try to focus on that instead of his dubious deductions. But my mind, of course, can't stop running calculations in the background. Precise, merciless calculations, delivering me numbers about the possibilities I might or might not be facing in the future.

"What do you think, baby?"

Mint's voice is almost as warm as his arms are. I bury my face in his chest to absorb as much of his smell as possible, as if it was something I can take with me.

I sigh, and I kiss his chin. Then, his mouth. Then, I look in his eyes, finally.

What I see there, takes me by surprise. He seems to have finished his own calculations sooner than I did, and he's only working with one variable. Which, being the only one, isn't a variable, really. It's a certainty, rather.

He's not worried. He has no doubts. I don't even know what I'm going to say, but he knows, with 100% confidence. Something I never ever reached myself.

"So?" he asks, smiling.

"Sounds logical," I answer.

"I know. Numbers never lie, right?"

"Except when they do," I discuss. "Just think of the lottery. Or someone dying suddenly, in a totally nonsensical way."

"Or just think of the people growing old together. Against all odds."

That's something that leaves me speechless again. He's never been this good at rational reasoning before. He upped his game without me noticing it.

"So." He clears his throat. "Back to your original question. Do I live here until we leave town?"

"There are a few things we need to discuss first."

"All right."

"One, you'll let me experiment with your body."

"That goes without saying. For science, all the way."

"Two," I go on, "we'll sleep in separate beds."

"Okay. As long as it's after, not instead."

"Three, you'll do the laundry."

"The laundry?" he asks, sounding confused.

"It's problematic," I confess. "I hate to touch it."

"Your own laundry?"

"Yes."

"So it wasn't just a random codeword you came up with, huh?" He grins. "It's something serious. I didn't know that."

"I have too many serious problems to count."

"I'll map them one by one, baby," he says. "And I'll do the laundry, don't worry about that, okay?"

"Okay. Then yes, you live here."

"Wait a minute. There's one more thing we need to talk about."

I hate to talk about things when they are not the things I bring up. But what could I say?

"Mary is not your real name either, right?"

That's precisely why I hate to talk about someone else's problems. I feel the smile leaving my face.

"You just said that because Mary had a little lamb, right?"

I nod. There's no reason to cling to a name I don't even respond to.

"Why don't you tell me the truth then, baby?"

"I told you the truth already," I answer, with my mouth going dry. "But you never take the things I say seriously."

He notices my change of mood, and he takes me in his arms again, hugging me tightly.

"Sorry, baby, but—"

"I don't listen to names very much," I whisper to him while he plants a trail of kisses on my face. "I told you before that I had this problem. Someone says my name, and I fail to react properly. And then, something bad happens."

"Names are overrated. You said that, too."

He pulls me in an even tighter embrace, straightjacket-style, as usual. And I tell him everything.

"I was more or less happy until I reached the age when I should have listened to my name. But I didn't. So people realized that there was something wrong with me, and everyone I loved became displeased and angry with me. That was the first time, but not the last, obviously. My whole life changed. So I'm fucking serious when I say that I don't like names, Mint."

"Okay. Point taken. I'll call you Gabriel, then. You seem to listen to that."

I nod. Yes, it's as simple as that for Mint. Problem solved, topic closed.

I couldn't be more grateful for that.

"I was wrong about you," I tell him. "You're the only person I've ever met who knows, in fact, how to separate facts from his preconceptions and beliefs."

And how to concentrate on the former. That, I don't say out loud. It's still a theory in the making, anyway. Proving it will require further calculations for a prolonged time.

I hug Mint as tightly as I can, using all my strength, straining my muscles until they go sore.

He lets out a contented sigh and releases his arms around me. He sees no reason to guard me from running away screaming, anymore.

I must admit, grudgingly, that his calculations were correct.

There's a 64 % chance that I have feelings I shouldn't have.