were on the day they flew back to the States. Justin telling him he’d landed, that he missed him so much, that his parents were shocked at how happy he was. That they knew, right away, he’d met someone special. Him, texting a horrible selfie and saying they were back on the same continent. He’d felt like his arm had been cut off when Justin’s flight took off from Paris. He’d been anxious his entire flight, desperate to be on the same land as Justin again. Irrational, but he couldn’t help it, and he couldn’t wait to text Justin when he got to New York. Then his flight to Austin, and then—
I can’t do this. Forget you know me. I’m sorry.
Two months later, Justin had finally texted back. I’m outside with your keys. Do you want me to throw them up through the window?
He almost smiled, imagining his keys sailing through the open window. No, come in. The front door is unlocked. I’m the front bedroom at the top of the stairs.
I know.
He heard the door open, and then the lightest footsteps the house had ever felt danced up the stairs. “In here,” he called.
Justin’s head poked through his open doorway. He frowned. “This isn’t really a bedroom, you know.”
“It’s what I can afford.” He shrugged as he sat up, his heart suddenly racing, his palms going slick, his stomach turning inside out. Justin was here, in his bedroom.
He was all elbows for a moment, trying to straighten his comforter while he was still sitting on it, trying not to jostle his knee, trying not to fall on his face or look like an idiot. He managed none of those, and finally, Justin took pity on him, helping him straighten his blanket as Wes rocked right and left. Justin reached for Wes’s pillow to help prop up his knee when Wes tried to bunch the blanket beneath him.
Too late, Wes realized what Justin would find. “Wait, don’t—”
Justin froze, pillow in hand. There, in all its glory, was the rumpled photo of the two of them, crease lines, ragged edges, tearstains, and all. Wes grabbed the photo and hid it beneath his thigh.
Justin’s eyes closed, and he breathed in. Held it. Exhaled and turned to Wes, giving him the pillow like it was radioactive. His eyes flicked over Wes’s shoulder, to the Paris photos on his wall. He frowned, and his gaze skittered away before he turned his back on Wes to wander Wes’s tiny room, perusing his desk and running his fingers over his textbooks. Microbiology. Epidemiology. Biochemistry. “Did you have Rajas for biochem?”
“Yeah. She kicked my ass.”
“Same.”
Justin had a canvas bag over his shoulder from the co-op down the street. After he completed two circuits of Wes’s bedroom, he seemed to remember he had the bag, and he started. Stared down at it. Then jerked it off his shoulder and passed it to Wes. His eyes never met Wes’s.
Wes pulled open the bag like there might be a rattlesnake inside.
But no, no rattler. Instead, there was a stack of single-use ice packs, the chemical kind that froze when you mixed them up, a couple of elastic bandages, a bottle of painkillers, IcyHot, and a car air freshener in the shape of a Christmas tree. He pulled the air freshener out, smiling, ready to joke about how disgusting his truck smelled—
Whatever he was going to say died when he saw the scent Justin had picked: lavender.
Lavender and baby’s breath tickling Justin’s cheek. His lips kissing the tender blooms. His eyes, so full of joy, gazing at Wes as he held the sprig of petals to his nose and squeezed Wes’s hand.
“Just some stuff I thought you could use.” Justin stared at the wall. At his nails. At the floor. He was still in his running tights and his T-shirt, and his hair was still piled on top of his head. Wes wanted to drag him into his lap, bury his face in Justin’s chest. Wrap his arms all the way around Justin and hold him close, effortless and carefree like they were in Paris. Tip him over sideways until they were pressed together from head to toe, hands interlaced, noses and lips brushing as they whispered sweet nothings to each other.
Say something. Say thank you. Say please stay. Say I love you. Say something.
“How was dance this morning?” His voice was ragged, like he’d strained his vocal cords through a cheese grater. He wanted to snatch the words from the