"I think the first headline sounds better to me than the second," James Foster, the copy editor, remarks, pushing up his thick clear-framed glasses.

"No the second one sounds better," I counter, leaning in to reevaluate the headlines.

He taps his pen on his desk, humming softly before questioning, "But doesn't it come across a bit like a sexual pun?"

"That's kinda the point, James," I say just as the glass door clicks shut behind me.

We both turn, and my eyes inadvertently lock with Wells's. They widen in surprise before I hastily turn around again, avert my attention, trying to focus back on the headlines I was discussing with James.

Shit. I briefly squeeze my eyes shut before turning my attention back to James. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady myself, absently rubbing my lips together.

I came in here to hide from Wells. I had hoped I could manage seeing him today, but the moment I stepped into that conference room, and felt his eyes on me, I knew it was going to be difficult. I refuse to let myself be so affected by him. I told myself of no flutters, no butterflies in my chest, no heart-skipping beats. And I tried my best to avoid eye contact, but when it happened, my stomach did cartwheels. Traitor.

Nervously, I start toying with the hem of my sweater. I even dressed in my best outfit for work. Muted green everything – pants, sweater, jacket. The color of rebirth and stress relief, or so Google says.

I'm not so sure if dressing my best was to convince myself I'm fine, especially after Ellis and Delaney pointed out the state of my attire yesterday, or more so for Wells to see me looking my finest, to show him that he didn't have in impact on me in any way.

It's proving to be harder than I thought.

Why can't he just leave me alone?

"Hey, Wells," James says, swiveling his chair to face him. "What can I help you with?"

There's a pause as Wells clears his throat, and I feel his eye burning into the back of my head. "I, um, I was going to turn these in," he stammers, and I catch a glimpse of his hand as it enters my peripheral vision, handing a small stack of papers to James.

My chest squeezes when his cologne drifts into my nose—that familiar scent of bergamot and amber. God, I even miss the way he smells.

"Oh, nice," James says, smiling as he looks up at him. "I'll work on these this afternoon."

"I was thinking, actually, you could start with this one first," Wells suggests, moving to the other side of James' desk, entering my view. "Andrew wanted to swap it out for tomorrow."

He shuffles through the papers on James' desk, with me on one side and him on the other, James sitting in between us, and I seize the opportunity to look at him while he is distracted, willingly subjecting myself to torture. He's wearing a light brown sweater, sleeves rolled up to his strong forearms, a collared shirt neatly tucked underneath, and his grey pants cling to him in all the right places.

He looks obscene.

And I'm irritated with myself for how attracted I am to him.

He locates the paper he was searching for and glances up at me, catching me staring at his ass. Heat floods through my chest, rushing up to my face, and quickly, I veer my gaze away, determined to avoid making eye contact again.

I shift on my feet, clear my throat, and pull the collar of my sweater out because it feels a little too tight now. I can feel him staring at me from where he stands, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back at him.

"Hey, I heard you both spent time at the lake this summer," James says, pausing and looking up, his head turning between us. "Did you guys hang out at all?"

I wait for Wells to respond because I don't want to really talk about this summer. But when he remains silent, I steal a quick glance at him. His eyes are still fixed on me, lips pressed together in a subtle frown. I quickly look back to James, whose eyebrows are knitted together, eyes darting between us because neither of us has replied to his question.

"Not really, no," I manage to reply.

"Oh, that's right. I forgot you two only communicate when it's an argument," he jokes, chuckling and pushing his glasses up again.

James begins questioning Wells about something related to Hansen Coffee, but all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. I just want him to leave, to leave me alone, but all he's doing is staring at me instead.

"Juniper–" Wells starts.

"Maybe we can wrap this up later," I blurt out to James, realizing I might have interrupted him mid-sentence. I'm not entirely sure—I wasn't paying attention. But it seems Wells wasn't either.

"Oh, uh, sure," he responds, casting a glance my way as I turn and reach for the door, quickly opening it and stepping into the hallway.

"That was weird," I hear James comment, just as the door slowly glides shut. Then, I hear Wells call out, "Juniper," seconds later.

I'm walking toward my desk when I hear the door glide open again behind me, prompting me to glance back and catch sight of Wells stepping out of it.

"Juniper," he whispers, attempting to catch up to me. I quicken my pace, bypassing my desk entirely, rounding the corner, and making a beeline for the elevator instead. With a surge of urgency, I press the button repeatedly, willing the doors to open for me.

I watch the numbers above the elevator change at a frustratingly slow pace. Growing impatient, I turn towards the door of the stairwell, opting for that instead. I push the door open and I'm barely down the first few steps when I hear Wells open it again behind me.

"Juniper, will you please wait for one second?" Wells calls from the top of the stairs, his voice echoing down the stairwell as he begins to jog down the steps. I finally halt at the landing, caught between floors.

His footsteps stop behind me as I place my fingers on my temples. Closing my eyes, I take a moment before slowly turning around to face him.

"What, Wells?" I ask, exasperation slipping into my tone, making my tone a tad harsher than I intended.

Is this how it's always going to be? Me attempting to avoid him in the office, and him acting as if nothing ever happened between us. If that's the case, I need to get out of here because I can't pretend. I can't just forget everything that's happened between us.

Ellis's words ring in my head. Are you willing to spend the rest of your life without telling him how you actually feel?

Maybe she's right. I just need to say it. Maybe if I tell him, we can both move on.

When I open my eyes to meet his gaze, I find his forest green eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. My heart lodges itself in my throat, making it difficult to swallow, let alone speak.

"Juniper," he begins, taking a small step forward, then closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm doing," he whispers to himself. Opening his eyes, he locks his gaze with mine. "I didn't exactly plan this. Shit. Maybe I should have."

I shake my head slightly in confusion. "I don't know what you're saying."

He takes a deep breath and edges closer, but I instinctively take a small step back, not wanting to be too close to him because his proximity does something to me. It clouds my thoughts, blurs my focus. It's been almost a week since he's been this close let alone touched me in any way, and I miss it more than I can bear. The way it feels when his arms hold me tight. How warm and solid and perfect he feels. God, I miss him.

I just need to do it. I just need to tell him the truth. I'm going to tell him.

"Wells, I—"

"I didn't mean what I said, Juniper," he blurts out, interrupting me.

I pause, my eyes darting back and forth between his. "You didn't mean what?"

"This was never just a summer fling or a hook-up to me. It was always so much more than that. I think I got scared, the idea of you not feeling the same way. But if I don't try now, then I'll spend the rest of my life regretting not telling you how I feel."

My eyes widen in surprise. Am I hearing him correctly? Because just a week ago, I could swear he told me the complete opposite.

"I told you I'd do anything for you, and I didn't live up to it. I failed you. I should have fought for you, shown you how perfect you are, that you're worth being someone's first choice. Because, Juniper, you're mine. I want to take you out, show you off, kiss you anytime I want to, hold you close, and wake up beside you every morning."

"Wells," I say, trying to interject, but it comes out as a whisper and I don't think he even hears me.

"I want to see what you decide to wear in the mornings. I want to meet your parents, give you flowers, and steal all your favorite pens. I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you – you and me. I won't be perfect, but I'll give it my all because you're worth it."

"Wells," I try to interject again.

"I want to make this work. I'll talk to HR or whoever the fuck I need to talk to. I'll quit if I have to, find a different job here in Seattle. I'll reject the other one, just so you can keep this one if that's what you want. So please, tell me I meant something to you. Because, fuck, Juniper, you mean a lot to me."

My heart stumbles over his words, and I open my mouth to respond, but I'm so taken aback that nothing comes out. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, waiting for my response, but when I remain silent, he continues.

"I promise I won't get down on my knees and beg," he says, referencing Beckett from a few weeks ago. I snort out a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. "But if you want me to, I will."

"Wells," I whisper.

"Juniper," he pleads.

I bite my bottom lip, shaking my head, attempting to gather my thoughts, to find the right words. "This wasn't supposed to happen," It wasn't what I meant to say, but it's what slips out.

"What wasn't supposed to happen?" he asks, his face etched with worry.

"Falling—" My eyes flooding with tears, voice wobbly, "Falling in love with you."

He stares at me for a moment, studying my face, processing my words. "What did you say?"

"Wells, I love you."

The words barely finish leaving my lips when he crosses the landing of the stairwell, cradling my face in his hands, and he kisses me. Roughly, thoroughly, hungrily. Like he's trying to erase everything from the past week, scrub it from existence. My fingers sift through his wavy brown hair pulling him closer to me as his tongue skims along my bottom lip, and I melt into him.

"Say it again," he whispers against my lips, his hands gripping me tight at the hips as if he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. "I'm scared I'm just imagining you said it."

"I love you, Wells," I repeat, and he presses his lips to mine once more. One hand reaches to grip my neck, his thumb gently pressing on the column of my throat, holding me at the angle he likes.

There's a subtle click from the top of the stairwell just as Wells leans in, deepening our kiss. And it's only when the sound of a throat being cleared reaches our ears that we realize the click was the hushed sound of the stairwell door closing. Wells pulls away immediately, and we both spring apart, distancing ourselves.

I glance up the stairs to find Andrew Mitchell at the top, his eyes darting between Wells and me, arms crossed and jaw tensed.

"Andrew," Wells begins, his voice husky, pausing to clear his throat. "Juniper and I, um," he says, glancing over at me as I lightly press my fingers against my lips, feeling the heat spread across my face. "We were, uh..."

"Why don't we talk about this in my office?" he interjects, turning briskly without waiting for a reply. He opens the door and heads back into the Seattle Sun-Times.

I glance over at Wells as the door shuts behind Andrew. "It'll be okay," he reassures me, and there's nothing else I can do but nod in response.