"I don't see butterflies," says Dean, cupping her face between his hands, holding her steady against the panic he can see in her wide eyes. If there is a virus, if it's as deadly as she says, he's already fucked, and if one or both of them is dying, Dean's not going to be anywhere but right here with her.

"I don't see anything but you, and I feel okay. How are you? You feeling okay?"