My nervous mount as I rap my knuckles twice against the front door of Wells's house. Turning around, with a bag of Thai food in hand, I glance out at the street from the porch of his mom's quaint little bungalow while I wait for him to answer the door.

The weather hints at the changing season as summer nears its end, a subtle cooling settling in the air. Fall has always been my favorite season, and the idea of returning home with Wells to experience all the autumnal activities only makes me love it even more.

I just need to talk with him first.

We had dinner plans yesterday, but he canceled, which was more than okay because it gave me some time to organize my belongings and pack up before heading home tomorrow.

I don't know where we stand once we go back to work. But I'm thinking maybe we could discuss our situation with HR and try to find options that allow both of us to work at the Seattle Sun Times and still date.

Or maybe, I could focus on submitting my book to literary agencies with the aim of getting signed. But, I'm not entirely sure if I'm even that good.

Whatever path we choose, one thing remains crystal clear to me—I'm in love with Wells Hansen.

The last two days, I've been teeming with nervousness and excitement at the thought of seeing him. I've rehearsed in my mind what to say, how to convey that I love him and that I'm not ready to let go of what we have once summer ends.

All this time, I've been slowly falling for him. With Wells, it has been undeniably different. Beckett was just someone to fill the void, to pass the time. And while I thought I loved him, I'm now certain I never truly did.

But with Wells—God, with Wells, it's the kind of falling that would hurt if I hit the ground, the kind that would shatter me into a million pieces if things didn't end up working out.

So, I'm hoping—no, praying—that he shares the same feelings as I do because I'm not sure what I'd do if he doesn't.

I hear the door creak open, swiftly turning on my heel to catch sight of Wells. He's clad in his navy blue Hansen's Coffee T-shirt, paired with light-washed jeans. His tousled, wavy, espresso-brown hair gives the impression that he has run his hands through it too many times today.

He might be the most handsome man I've ever seen.

"Hi," I murmur, my lips forming a smile I'm trying hard to suppress.

"Hey," he greets me with a closed-lip smile as he stands there in the doorway. It's not his normal bracketed smile, but I love it all the same.

I edge closer to him, thinking we're going inside, but when he doesn't move, I say, "Um, I brought Thai food," raising the takeout bag for him to notice.

"Let's eat it outside," he suggests, stepping out and planting a brief peck on the corner of my lips before closing the door behind him.

"Out here?" I ask, shifting back a step to allow him to pass. My gaze drifts around the compact porch, taking in the two planters flanking the door and then the steps just behind me. There isn't really anywhere to sit aside from the steps. "Wouldn't you rather sit inside or in the backyard where there's a table?"

"No, here's good," he responds, settling onto the steps of the porch.

I huff out a laugh and scrunch my nose, a little confused, as I stare at his back from where I stand. "Okay," I respond tentatively, making my way over to him and easing myself onto the step beside him.

Handing him the bag, he opens it, extracting the two containers of Pad Thai. With a soft pop, he removes the lid from one and hands it over to me.

"Thank you," I say, smiling over at him.

"Mmhmm," he hums while lifting the lid off his food.

I grab one of the forks and look over at him. He's focused on his food, head slightly bowed as he swirls the chopsticks through the dish.

"How was your day?" I ask.

"Good," he responds curtly.

He's acting strange—quiet, withdrawn. Then again, maybe it's me acting out of sorts. I've been so nervous to tell him how I feel, that my body buzzing with tension, my palms damp with sweat, and there's a tightness in my throat.

I clear my throat, "Well, my day went well. I think I'm all packed up now. It took me two whole days, but finally, two large suitcases later and I'm ready," I nervously laugh. "I don't even remember how I managed to pack so much, but I guess I was in such a hurry that I just started tossing random things into my suitcases. Towards the end, I was so rushed that I even packed my winter coat without realizing it. The funny thing is, I remembered my coat but forgot my toothbrush. And it was the expensive electric one my mom bought me for Christmas last year. But, amusingly enough, the cheap one from Target works so much better," I finish, taking a deep breath after that rapid spill of words.

Oh god, I'm just rambling now.

He responds with a nod and a hum.

I just need to say it. Just say it, Juniper. Tell him you love him. Get it over with. Rip the bandaid off.

He loves you June. I mentally keep repeating Ellis' words.

"So, um," I begin, stabbing the noodles with my fork and idly moving them around. "I know that we haven't really discussed, um," I clear my throat again, glancing toward him and gesturing with my fork between Wells and myself, but he's not meeting my gaze. "I know that when we agreed to—"

"Juniper, I understand," he interjects, cutting off my words. "I feel the same way."

"You do?" I blurt out, snapping my head up and pivoting my body toward him.

He nods, his eyes drifting downward, chopsticks twirling in the noodles. "Yeah, I do. We really don't need to discuss it."

"Right, but, um, I think maybe we should," I stumble over my words. "Talk about it, I mean."

"That's all this was to me too," he inserts.

I pause, studying his profile. Tilting my head slightly, attempting to catch a glimpse of his face as he remains fixated on his food. "All what was to you?"

"The sex," he says, lifting his gaze from his food. I find myself staring at him, almost as if I'm waiting for a punchline, expecting a joke. But, when nothing follows, I quickly avert my eyes to my own meal, the realization of what he's implying slowly sinking in.

"It was fun, June," he utters. He never calls me June, always Juniper. "It was just for the summer, right? Like we agreed."

I pause, glancing at him before returning my attention to my food, my mind racing. Maybe I misheard him, or maybe I'm misunderstanding. I hadn't even managed to say what I was trying to say.

And then he repeats it. "Summer's over, and we have to go back to reality. We're back in the office starting Monday, so let's just pretend this never happened. Just like we planned. No hard feelings."

I know I heard him correctly this time, and I immediately turn my head downwards at my Pad Thai.

A heavy sensation grips my heart, sinking it deep into my stomach like a weighty rock, dragging me down. I instantly feel like I can't breathe, and I hate myself for feeling this way. I want to not care, but the buzzing in my ears, the heat in my cheeks, and the stinging in my eyes tell a different story.

"Right," I manage, my voice wobbly. "Of course."

That's what this was supposed to be. It's what I told him from the start. Why would he have believed it was anything beyond that? Why would I think any different?

I bite down on the inside of my cheek to hold back tears, fixing my eyes on my food because I'm not sure I can bring myself to look at him again.

"Right," I repeat.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

I carefully place the box of food down and turn slightly toward the street, ensuring he doesn't see the tear that slips from my eye. I subtly wipe it away with the sleeve of my shirt.

"Are you ready to go back to writing your article?" he asks, breaking the silence that has settled between us.

"Hmm?" I respond, pretending not to have heard him, buying myself a moment to gather myself.

"Your articles? You're going to have to write them now."

"Oh, yeah, I, um," I start, then clear my throat because it sounds too watery. "I'm excited to write them, yeah. You know what, I just remembered that Ellis, Delaney, and I are supposed to go out tonight. So, I should probably head out."

I catch a glimpse of him nodding in my peripheral vision, and it stings, realizing there's nothing more he wants to say to me. There's no attempt to get me to stay, he doesn't go to grab my hand and guide me back inside the house like he usually does—just a silent nod.

Standing up from the step, I brush off my pants. He rises too, mirroring my actions and setting down his container.

"I'll see you at work then," he says, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah," I barely manage, forcing a faint smile, avoiding direct eye contact because I know I'll break down in tears. Instead, I focus on a strand of his wavy hair that's fallen across his forehead, and then my eyes shifts to where the brackets usually line the sides of his lips and even that's too much. So I look down at his shoes.

"Yeah," I repeat, pivoting away, taking a step toward the gate of the white picket fence encircling the house. "See you at work."

"Juniper," he murmurs softly, almost with longing. I halt, slowly turning around, hope momentarily flickering within me, thinking he might take it all back. That he might admit he loves me too. That he's just teasing me as he always does. Instead, he continues, "I think you should submit your book to Sterling & Stratton Literary Agency. Emilia, my, uh... um, my..."

"Your ex," I offer.

"Yeah," he replies, clearing his throat as he extends a business card toward me, his gaze drifting to the floor. "I think she'd really like your book."

"Oh," I murmur, feeling my heart clench as I look at his hand for a moment before tentatively reaching out to take the card.

"She said she could help you with the whole literary agent process. Connect you with a few publishers."

I nod, looking up at him. My eyes find his for a brief moment—those familiar forest-green eyes I love to lose myself in. The ones I know have a thin brown ring encircling the green irises, a detail you'd only be able to see up close. They're the eyes I love staring into when we're close in bed, talking in the gentle golden light of the morning sun. And in this moment, I just want to get lost in them again, to curl into his arms, feeling him hold me tightly, pretending that all of this isn't really happening.

"Call her," he says, snapping me back to reality and jolting me from my thoughts. "She's expecting to hear from you."

I quickly avert my eyes because they are starting to sting and blur around the edge. I take a step back taking the card with me.

I hadn't realized they still talked. Maybe they never stopped. After all, he was engaged to her—why wouldn't they stay in touch? He probably still loves her.

Was I just a girl to pass time with? I must have been.

I look down at the card but I don't want it. I want to crumble it up, rip it into a million little pieces, douse it with gasoline, and set it on fire.

Instead, I twist it in my hands, tracing the embossed gold logo of Sterling & Stratton Literary Agency, anything to avoid seeing her name.

"Okay," I lie, nodding, knowing I'll never actually call her. Not a chance. "Thank you," I whisper.

I'm staring at my feet now, nodding repeatedly. It's as if I can't stop realizing it. That this is what it feels like—like I'm destined to spend the rest of my life coming to terms with the fact that Wells doesn't love me the way I love him. That this is what it truly feels like to be heartbroken. Like someone has reached in, taken my heart from my chest, and ripped it into pieces.

Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to run takes over as a tear escapes my eye. "I'll see you later," I whisper under my breath. And I turn and bolt toward the street, urging my feet forward.

When I make my way past the gate of the white picket fence, I tell myself not to look back. I never felt the need to look back when left Beckett, but with Wells, I can't resist. The urge tugs at me, just to check if he's still there, watching me, or maybe even chasing after me.

But as I turn to look, I find him gone. The door stands shut behind him, and only then does a sob burst from my chest, and I really start to cry.

Notes

How are we feeling about the last few chapters?

Do we think Wells might have took this to far?

We're down to just about five or so more chapter and it's makes me a little sad 🙈 Can't wait for you all to read the rest though