Running in the morning has morphed into a daily ritual for me. I keep finding myself waking up too early, my mind cluttered with thoughts that refuse to let me sleep. So, I drag myself out of bed, change into my running gear, and run before the day becomes too hot.

Initially, I ran to purge Beckett from my thoughts, and I still do. But lately, Wells has started to occupy my mind as well. The internet at the house still remains unfixed, and every day I'm obligated to work at the coffee shop.

On top of that, I'm now being forced to work with him on my article.

I think I'm starting to master the art of ignoring Wells though, limiting our interactions to just emails. I suspect he probably feels bad about the last time we spoke. But He should feel bad.

And now, I'm constantly haunted by the fear that he'll steal all my other articles, leaving me to write the obituaries or, heaven forbid, the rant and rave column. The thought of it even makes me groan as I make the turn jogging onto Main Street. I already don't particularly love writing for The Seattle Sun Times, but obituaries? That might just be the death of me—

Suddenly, it's as if I've collided with a towering six-foot wall, my face taking the full brunt of the impact. The collision sends me tumbling backward onto the sidewalk.

"Ouch," I mutter, my hand instinctively reaching for my nose.

"Shit, Juniper, are you okay?" The towering wall speaks, concern etching into his voice as he leans down to check on me. As I look up, it becomes clear that the owner of this human wall is none other than Wells. Of course, it's Wells. Who else could it possibly be?

"Oh my god, Wells!" I exclaim, shoving his shoulder in frustration. "What on earth are you doing? Don't you pay attention to where you're going?"

"Juniper, shit, I'm so sorry. I was running and I didn't see you as I was coming around the corner," he says, his brows knitting together with genuine remorse. I quickly scan his running attire: black shorts and a black workout shirt.

He bends down more, making an attempt to move my hands away from my face in order to inspect the damage. My irritation bubbles just beneath the surface, and I swat him away.

I feel my nose begin to drip into my hand what I assume is now a bloody nose, that's covering my face. Shit.

"Here," he says, extending a hand to help me stand. I reluctantly accept his hand, feeling a strange, almost tingling sensation that seems to ripple through me. It's the same feeling I got when we sat next to each other the other day in the coffee shop. At the time, I assumed it was just from too much coffee, but this time, it has to be because of the nosebleed... right?

As I rise and straighten up, I can sense my nose bleeding even more profusely now, the blood seeping through my fingers.

Wells glances at me with concern. "I think you're bleeding," he says. I shoot him an irritated glare, clenching my jaw.

"No shit, Sherlock?" I retort, tipping my head back in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood. He chuckles and only irks me further though.

"What could you possibly be laughing at right now?" I demand.

"Nothing," he says after a moment. "It's just... Well, you don't ever really cuss. It's funny to hear it come out of your mouth." I lower my head slightly to glare at him.

"You're not supposed to tip your head back, by the way," he adds.

"I think I am," I snap back, trying to control the blood still flowing from my nose, but it's becoming too much. I reluctantly tip my head back further.

"No, you're not," Wells insists.

"Wells, what do you expect me to do, just bleed all over myself?" I shoot back in frustration.

"Here," he says, and I lower my gaze, taken back to see him removing his shirt. As he unveils his well-defined, muscular six-pack, my eyes widen ever so slightly, and I quickly tilt my head up more to avert my gaze.

Oh my god. He's ripped.

He attempts to hand me his shirt. "But it's your shirt," I protest, pushing it away.

"Yeah, I know, Nancy Drew," he retorts with a playful grin.

"I don't want to ruin it," I stammer as he places it on my face, causing me to dip my head back down and inadvertently meet his green eyes.

But thank God for the makeshift bandage, because I can feel my cheeks flush with warmth from seeing him shirtless.

Who knew a guy like Wells could have a body like that?

"It's fine. It's black, and I can wash it. Or throw it away," he reassures me.

Despite the blood now staining Wells' shirt and the metallic scent in the air, a faint whiff of fresh laundry and the subtle cologne he must have worn earlier reaches my nostrils. He smells so good, and my gaze involuntarily drifts down to his exposed chest, making my face heat up even more. I quickly look away.

"My house is just around the corner," he says, gesturing toward the nearby street. "You can clean up there, if you want."

"Oh, no, that's okay."

"Juniper, you're bleeding," he says, looking down at the floor. "Just let me help you."

I glance down at the floor, confirming the mess of blood, and then back at him. "Fine."

He leads the way, and I follow just a step behind during the one-minute walk to his house, situated around the corner in a quaint neighborhood of bungalow-style homes. We reach one of these small houses, and Wells pushes open the white picket fence gate as we make our way toward the front door.

Unlocking the door, he apologizes, "Sorry, if it's a little messy. I wasn't exactly expecting anyone."

I shake my head, still holding his t-shirt to my nose. "It's fine."

We walk in, and I'm half-expecting the house to be in a state similar to my apartment last week when I went to grab my things for the lake with Delany and Ellis. However, it's quite the opposite. As I step into the small living room, it's almost spotless, except for a half-empty cup of coffee sitting on the coffee table and a laundry basket on the floor.

This is messy?

Wells leads the way into the kitchen, which is also spotless, and instructs, "Sit here," before heading to grab a towel from the closet.

"Pinch the bridge of your nose for like five minutes, and it should stop," he says while swapping his shirt for a rag. I follow his instructions.

"Thanks," I say, appreciative.

He stands there, and there's a moment of silence. And he's still shirtless and I have no idea where to look.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't look.

I glance down. It's a mistake, I realize immediately. My gaze lingers for maybe half a second, just enough to get a good view. He doesn't have the body of someone that goes to the gym daily; but more of the naturally fit type. You know, the kind of guy who probably goes for a run now and then, does some push-ups, and calls it a day. He has that lean, muscular physique and that subtle shadow of the V-line that I'm struggling not to ogle.

Quickly, I avert my gaze, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks. Wells clears his throat, breaking the silence. "I'm going to grab another shirt," he mutters, taking a few steps back.

That's a really great idea, Wells. I nod as I watch him ascend the stairs.

As I wait for him to return, I take in his house. It's a cute bungalow with a hint of nostalgia, as if it hasn't been updated in quite some time. The kitchen has dark wooden cabinets, worn hardwood floors, and an assortment of quirky knick-knacks strewn about – a cow cookie jar on the counter and various rooster and floral decorations hanging on the creamy white walls. It doesn't quite align with the well-put-together image of Wells Hansen that I had in my mind.

"You live here?" I ask, my eyes scanning the surroundings, and I spot him coming down the stairs in a fresh white t-shirt.

"Just during the summer," he replies, walking over and leaning against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hmm," I muse, taking another look around the kitchen.

"What?" he says, amusement dancing in his eyes as he watches me closely.

"Oh, it's just... Well, it doesn't really look like you live here," I comment, shrugging slightly, feeling a bit awkward about the observation.

He huffs out a laugh, a warm and easy sound, making warmth spread through my chest. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a rude way. Everything just looks..." I pause for a moment, waving my hand in the air, searching for the right words to convey my thoughts.

"Outdated? Like you're grandmother lives here?"

I let out an unexpected laugh. "Well, yeah," I say, my gaze wandering around the room again, taking in the surroundings.

His eyes linger on me for a brief moment, like he's taking me in. "It's my parent's house," he confesses.

"Oh, your mom and dad live here?" I ask, a hint of nervousness seeping into my voice at the thought of having to meet his parents.

Wells sighs, his gaze never leaving mine. "Well my mom does but my dad passed away," he explains softly.

My head snaps back in his direction, and my face flushes with embarrassment. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't... I thought... I didn't think..." I close my eyes and let out an apologetic sigh, "I'm so sorry."

Nice Juniper.

I open my eyes as he shakes his head, his expression softening. "No, it's fine. It was a couple of years ago now."

The memory finally clicks into place. He had taken about a month off work around two years ago, just after I had started working at the Times. I remember he continued to work remotely even during that month. I'm not sure how he managed it, considering what had happened, but he did.

"Still, I'm sorry." I shake my head, my cheeks still tinged with embarrassment.

"It's fine." He offers a reassuring smile.

"Is that why you moved back from New York to Seattle?" I ask after a moment, my curiosity getting the best of me.

"Hmhmm," he responds with a hum. "The plan was to always go back, but things changed with my dad's health, and a few weeks turned into a few months. And well," he gestures with his hand, "here I am."

I nod, clearing my throat and shifting in my seat, attempting to change the subject. "So you live with your mom for the summer then?"

"Well, I usually crash at my sister's place or a friend's, but since my dad passed away, I try to spend some time here. Although she's off in Spain for the summer."

"Oh. That's thoughtful of you," I remark nodding my head. "I never imagined Wells Hansen could be so sweet, living with his mom in this cute little house."

He smiles, and I can sense the amusement in his voice as he responds, "You don't think I could live in a house this cute?"

"No," I say, shaking my head and returning the smile, even though he can't see it due to the rag covering my face. "In fact, I imagined you living in an old, scary, creaky house that smells like soup, and all the kids run past it because they're all scared of you."

He laughs heartily, and I can practically hear the joviality in his tone. "Well, don't worry. I'll make sure not to invite you to my house in Seattle then. Don't want you to see the vampire coffin I have hidden in my basement."

I laugh, and he responds with a warm smile as he straightens up. "You want water or coffee or anything?" 

"Um, water would be great, thanks."

He retrieves two bottles of water from the fridge and walks over, handing one to me before settling into the seat beside me.

"Thanks," I say clearing my throat. "I believe this might be the first genuinely civil conversation we've ever had, Wells." 

"Well, I did make your nose bleed, so I figured I'd cut you some slack," he says, flashing a half-smile.

"Let's see it," he says as he takes a seat next to me. I slowly remove the rag, releasing the bridge of my nose. He leans in, gently tilting my head with his hand to examine it more closely. I can't help but notice the tingling and fuzzy sensation returning where his warm fingers touch my skin. I think I'm still loose blood.

"It's stopped."

I nod as I look at him. He's never been this close to me before. I can see the subtle details of his features, like the brown ring encircling the green of his irises, something I've never noticed until now. And then there's his faint stubble, a detail I seem to have somehow missed before, or maybe it's because he has his face cleanly shaved all the time.

His eyes flick up from my nose to my eyes, and I clear my throat, trying to refocus my attention on something other than studying his face too intently.

"You can use the restroom in the hall to clean up if you want," he offers.

"Okay, thanks," I say, rising from my seat and walking around him to the bathroom. I close the door behind me and take a moment before turning to the sink and gazing at myself in the mirror.

"Oh my god," I whisper to myself as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, taking in the complete disaster that is my face.

Blood is smeared all over my nose, mouth, and chin, with an annoying smudge on my forehead. My once-neat ponytail is now crooked, probably from when I fell over. I am utterly mortified that Wells, of all people, had to witness me in this state. I can't believe he hasn't cracked at least five jokes since we arrived at his house.

I turn on the sink and quickly splash water on my face, attempting to wash away the evidence of my collision with the Wells. My nose is still bleeding, but only slightly now, and some of it has managed to find its way into my hair. I fix my ponytail, adjusting it as best as I can. Despite my efforts, I still look like a complete mess, with blood stains on my shirt. But it's the best I can manage for the moment.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for whatever reaction Wells might have, and then slowly open the bathroom door.

"All good?" Wells asks as I step out.

"Yeah," I respond with a faint smile. "I'm surprised you didn't make any jokes about how terrible I looked."

"Oh, don't worry, Juniper. I'm saving those for later," he quips as he walks towards me.

"Oh god," I say, rolling my eyes and glancing down at my running shoes. "I can't wait."

He grins, a touch broader than I've seen before. He doesn't really have dimples, but two creases that appear on either side of his cheeks when he smiles. How have I not noticed that before?

And suddenly that warm fuzziness returns.

I quickly avert my gaze, looking down at my shoes. "Well, I should probably head out and let you get back to your run."

"Yeah," he agrees with a nod. "Do you need a ride home?"

I pause, considering his offer. "Oh, no, it's fine. I can walk."

"Are you sure? I don't mind," he insists, a hint of concern in his voice. As I make my way toward the front door, he follows.

"No, really, it's fine," I reply, reaching for the doorknob. "I don't mind walking."

"Okay," he says, just as I'm about to step out. Then, he speaks again. "Hey, Juniper?" 

"Hmm?" I say, turning toward him.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Wells. My nose isn't bleeding anymore anyways."

"No, I mean about the other day. About Beckett," he clarifies, briefly looking over at me. "I had no idea. I really should just mind my own business. Just like you said."

Oh yeah, Beckett. I completely forgot about him for a moment.

"It's fine," I say, shaking my head. "How were you supposed to know?" I say with a sigh and then look over at him. "I was having a bad day anyway."

"Still, I'm sorry."

"Thanks," I say, shrugging one shoulder and looking into his green eyes. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, okay."

I walk out the door, Wells shutting it behind me, and start my walk home. I probably should have just let Wells drive me home because it's blazing hot outside now, and it's taking me twice as long to walk.

Finally, I make it back, open the door to the house, and walk into the kitchen where Ellis and Delaney are laughing over something while drinking coffee.

Ellis looks up from Delaney, her expression changing to concern. "What happened to you?"

"I ran into Wells," I say, walking past them and toward the stairs.

"Yeah, but what happened to your face?"

"I ran into Wells," I say, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. "I literally ran right into him."

Notes

What are your thoughts on the story so far? I've been contemplating whether to shelve this story as I'm not entirely sure if I'm liking it. Let me know your thoughts!