The arrangement on the coffee table could only be from the version of Wes I met last night. The one with kindness at the core of him. Last night, I met the version of Wes who was raised in the same household as Summer, who learned how to care for people in an atmosphere of love instead of loss, and who carried that with him, even during his stint in the Army.

I almost pass out from the sheer patriotism swelling in my chest, the pure swooning love for timeless American values, for this small-town thing he has going on, before I pull myself out of it.

Or at least I try to.

I don’t go for this kind of guy. I like the moody blues, the powerful executives who moonlight in shitty bars, men with a complicated view of the world. I thought Wes was simple, selfish.

Yet there’s a bag of Chex Mix on the table, Sweet & Salty, the kind I like. Five different candies, including the Rolos I was pining after, are fanned out around it. And a Vitamin Water. He didn’t forget the drink.

This isn’t the mark of a selfish man.

Beyond that, the apartment is spotless. I can still smell the lemon scent of the cleaning solution we keep under the counter. Has he been here recently? Did he do this before he left for work? I get the whole neat-as-a-pin attitude, no doubt coming from his days in the Army, but this is beyond.

I wander into the living room, looking for something to straighten, but not so much as a pillow is out of place.

There are flowers too.

It’s a little bouquet from the bodega, the kind they keep by the cold drinks for a few dollars, but it’s bright and happy, stuck into a little vase he must’ve found under the sink. It’s not the kind of bouquet you’d get for someone on, say, Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t scream I’m trying to impress you. It screams something else entirely. A friendship bouquet?

Heat rises to my cheeks. Sure. I’ve never had a friendship this tense.

I pick up the bag of Chex Mix and hold it in my hands. It shouldn’t be bringing up this level of emotion. This is a normal bag of Chex Mix, but in my hands, it seems weighty with meaning. He chose these for me. He remembered. I’m not much for showering men with praise for remembering simple things, but Wes is a different story. The Wes I met in that hotel room wouldn’t have bothered using the brainspace for this. That version of him would have considered last night to be more than enough.

I hug the Chex Mix.

“Oh, my God, you’re ridiculous.” Hearing it out loud doesn’t make it any less true.

His keys rattle in the doorway. How should I be standing? Next to the coffee table? In the kitchen, with some cookies on a tray, since we’re apparently doing nice things for each other now? My heart flipflops in my chest. I drop the Chex Mix on the table, then pick it back up.

Wes cracks the door open and comes inside, bringing a burst of spring air with him. He looks a little drawn. I feel stupid, holding this bag, but now that he’s inside, there’s nothing to be done about it.

“Hey.”

He drops his bag on the table. Our eyes meet, and his face lights up. I’m grinning like an idiot and I can’t stop.

“That smile looks better on you than the tears,” he says gruffly.

“It’s highly offensive to tell a woman to smile,” I shoot back, but I can’t help it.

“I wasn’t telling you to smile.” He comes over to the coffee table and peers down at the candy. “I was only saying that you look nice this way. Your cheeks are all pink. You look happy.”

Of course I do. Of course I do. “Someone was...very sweet to me. Was it you, or should I be concerned about breaking and entering? I know the security here is a joke.”

Wes huffs a laugh. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you had a secret admirer like that, but it was me.”

“I take back what I said earlier. You’re only fifty-percent asshole.”

Wes’s green eyes widen, and his gaze searches mine. What’s he looking for? I mean every word. “What’s the other fifty percent?”

“Hot.”

He’s more than hot. He’s an inferno, the kind of tumbling heat that blocks out everything else, that makes me want to run straight into the center of the fire. I breathe in the scent of him. That Wes I dragged out of the hotel room—that wasn’t the real Wes. This is the real Wes, which is green eyes sharpening with need, the sunflower streaks around his pupils expanding along with them. He’s an asshole sometimes, but he’s also a good man. I was right. Something was happening with him that day, and it made him different.

Jesus, I want him.

I wanted him last night, curled into the crook of his arm. I wanted him with every single breath. I wanted to kiss him, and I didn’t want it to end at that kiss, didn’t want to tear myself away at the end. The only thing I wanted to shred was the clothing between us.

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t fuck around with roommates,” he says, voice low, a challenge.

“Then don’t fuck around.” The urgency sweeps through me, glittering in my veins. It’s been too long. I need someone. I need him. If I have to stand here, this close, for one more minute, all this need is going to burst out of me and make our apartment radioactive. “Just fuck me.”