The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeates the air when I step out of Paxton’s guest room.

My mouth waters, and I realize I’m like one of those Pavlovian dogs. If Paxton is my weakness, then coffee is my drug. I’m one of those people who could drink a whole pot and still go to sleep. My tolerance has become so high that I now drink it black, the bitter grounds fueling my veins when I get to the bottom of the cup.

In the two months since we’d begun seeing each other … again, I had refused to come here. Call it post-traumatic stress disorder from all the late-night booty calls in college, in which I’d walk by myself through the dark campus over to his dirty, groupie-filled house.

I didn’t want to seem like the one who needed him this time around, so I’d always have him pick me up from my place, or meet on neutral ground. The night of the gala was the first and only time I’d allowed him to stay over. And now I was here, in the one place I’d feared going. Even though Paxton’s house was now a beautiful, industrial-but-cozy three-bedroom sprawling apartment overlooking downtown Charlotte.

He’s standing at the stove in gray sweatpants that show the grooves of his muscled ass underneath, and a plain navy blue T-shirt. His blond hair is tousled and sleep worn, the longest pieces tucked behind his ears. The small stud in his left ear is a black stone today, and it flashes me back to when I suckled on the lobe just a week and a half ago.

Internally, I shush my lady parts, which were all too aware last night that this sexy piece of man meat was asleep just feet down the hall. I had taken the guest room, while Pax had closed the door to his room with a disappointed sigh. I’d left the door unlocked, half-hoping that he’d come in in the middle of the night, and half-hoping he wouldn’t.

It turns out, both of my wants were met. Not intending to sleep over, I had nothing but the casual jeans and blouse I’d worn over here the night before. When I’d awoken, in my underwear, there was a T-shirt and shorts laying on the chair in the corner of the guest room. Which meant Pax had come in, but he had honored his promise not to touch me.

The clothes were swimming on me, but it was more comfortable than eating breakfast in jeans, and I loved the smell of him.

“Good morning,” I said shyly, feeling out of place in his kitchen.

Pax turns, and a bright smile paints his face. “Good morning. I like you in my clothes.”

His eyes roam my body, and I feel like he just lit me like a match. I shuffle my feet. “Thanks … what’re you making?”

Pax moves to the coffee pot, pouring me a mug, and walks it over to me. “Sit, I’m serving you this morning. Eggs and bacon … I’m not a fancy cook but I think they’re pretty good.”

“Smells great.” I’m not really functioning until I gulp down my first cup, so I start drinking coffee.

“How did you sleep?” He peers over his shoulder at me, scrambling the eggs.

“Well … thanks for convincing me to stay over. It’s nice to wake up and see you.” I need to make an effort, to open myself to him.

Our fight on the roof played over and over in my head as I watched the ceiling in the dark last night.

Pax walks over, on a mission, and bends down to kiss me. We’ve both been yearning for it, I can feel it in the urgency of the kiss. He cups my face and I tug on the strands of his hair. I needed this, an affirmation that things were going to be okay between us.

He was right, I had to let this go. I had to give us a fresh start … and even Chelsea agreed that if I wanted to take a stab at it, like she wanted to at Paxton, that I should take the leap.

I pull back, taking a minute to smile at Pax.

“You wanted me to try to be more open with you, and … I’m going to try. Starting now.” I take a sip of coffee before I begin. “I believe that all dogs go to heaven. I believe that chocolate is just as good of a medicine as any drug. I believe that Sundays should be spent in bed, and that the calmest place on earth is sitting in a rocking chair, listening to the ocean after dark. I believe that the book is always better than the movie, that you should open only one gift on each night of Hanukkah, none of this massive one-night present bonanza. And I believe that everyone is entitled to one big mistake in their life. And you … you used yours already. So please don’t hurt me again.”

He nods. “I won’t. I promise. Now, I want to hear more, but I think I’m burning our eggs so I’m gonna pause you for just a minute.”

Racing back over to the stove, he finishes up cooking our breakfast before bringing over two heaping plates.

“This is enough food to feed about six people …” I stare down at my plate.

“We’re learning about each other, so learn about me. I eat roughly four thousand calories a day, and I am a man who loves breakfast food. Therefore, I will always give you way more than you can eat, and I’ll probably end up eating off your plate.”

Giggling, I dig in, because apparently fighting and then making up leaves me with a huge appetite. We banter over the breakfast table, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in the first good place I’ve been in in many years. I’m happy, but more than that … I’m content. Wholly comfortable and satisfied just sitting here in Paxton’s clothes, with him, chatting and munching on bacon.

When we’re finished, and I’m sipping my fourth cup of Joe, I bring up the one subject I’ve never really spoken to anyone, besides my parents, about.

“I know I mentioned that I love my job, and love helping families and kids in need. But … I don’t think I ever mentioned why it is I started Wish Upon a Star.” I collect myself, taking a deep breath.

As if he knows this is serious, Paxton doesn’t say anything. Just holds my hands and focuses on me, allowing me to talk.

“I had a little brother, Ezra. He was four years younger than me, with the curliest, darkest hair you’ve ever seen. He loved toy trucks and was obsessed with trains … we used to joke that he would be the world’s youngest conductor or engineer. When he was seven, he passed away from the same kind of cancer that Ryan has. It took his smile, his energy, his love of all of the things he used to do with it. I was only eleven, and I had no idea how to deal with that kind of loss. For a long time, I couldn’t see other children without getting emotional … my parents had us in family therapy up until I was in high school.”

Pax moves his chair closer to me, both of his hands gripping mine now. “Demi, I’m so sorry. I had no idea …”

I smile, tears in my eyes. “It’s okay, and thank you. It still hurts, to this day. But I try … I try to remember the good times. I keep his picture on my nightstand and his face in my memory. And that’s why I started my company, to give good times back to families like mine. Families who are suffering, who can’t remember the fun they used to have. For children who are in pain, who might not have the time or energy that we do. I want to help them, and to honor Ezra. That’s a big part of me, and I want you to know it. So … there it is.”

I’d never really talked about Ezra, except to my mother. And talking to someone who lived through his death … it was different. More emotional. Often, I was a crutch for her, holding her up while she vented her emotions and anguish.

Talking about the good times in his life, about his happy moments … it felt cathartic. The smile that stretched my mouth was genuine and giddy. I missed him terribly, but I was also so thankful to have had him as a brother.

“Thank you. Thank you for telling me, for letting me know you in this way. I think you’re so brave, and incredible to give these families just a little bit of hope back. The fact that you can watch these children go through what your brother did … I don’t know if I could be so strong.”

Pax pulls me into his lap, and I curl into him, basking in the warmth of his hug. He rests his chin on top of my head, and we listen to the sounds of the city outside the window.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more perfect moment.