"Okay, here it is," I say, holding my book in both my hands. He reaches for it, but I pull it back slightly. "There are probably a lot of typos and errors."

"That's fine," Wells says, reaching for it again, but I pull it back once more.

"And it's only the first draft, so there are probably a lot of plot holes too," I continue, biting my lip.

He reaches for it again. "I'll tell you if I find any."

I pull it back, again. "Also, I'm not sure about the ending. I'm still debating it."

He chuckles softly, hands resting on his hips. I glance up at him, catching his smile. His left eye bears a black hue now, not as dark as expected, but still noticeable.

Guilt gnaws at me for what happened the other day. He keeps reassuring me not to worry, but I know it's my fault. I should have communicated with Beckett sooner. I regret it now, not answering his calls earlier. None of this would have happened if I had just talked to him.

"Are you going to let me read it?" He asks, playfully impatient.

He watches me, observing as I contemplate my thoughts. I cradle the manuscript back up against my chest and hug it tightly. "You know, on second thought..." I start to turn on my heel. "...I really don't think–"

"Hey," Wells interrupts with a laugh. He grabs my hips, preventing me from moving farther. Drawing me close to his chest, he attempts to pry the manuscript from my grasp. "You're the one who told me you wanted me to read it in the first place."

"I think I changed my mind," I grunt, struggling against his strength, which proves to be too much for me.

"Juniper," he says, pausing in his efforts.

With a resigned sigh, I relent, releasing my grip on the manuscript. "Fine." And finally, I pass it back to him over my shoulder and I turn around to face him again.

Letting him read my book makes me nervous. Articles are one thing—they're based on real-life events. But this book, this story, it's all made up from my imagination. Wells has never been easy on me when it comes to writing, and the idea of him reading into a world I've created in my mind and possibly hating it is nerve-wracking.

But, strangely, he's the first person I want to read it.

He holds onto the side of my hips, leaning in to plant a tender kiss on my lips. "Thank you," he murmurs softly.

Tucking the manuscript under his arm, he grabs his coffee cup, and I nervously chew on my bottom lip, watching as he takes a sip and heads toward the living room.

"You coming?" His voice drifting from the hallway.

"Yeah," I respond as my whole body sighs, grabbing my coffee from the counter. He's already seated on the couch, taking another sip of his coffee and setting it down on the coffee table as he flips open the first page of the manuscript.

Joining him, I try to focus on a book I picked up from the bookstore the other day, but I find it hard to concentrate. It's impossible with Wells reading my book right beside me. I end up turning on the TV, aimlessly browsing the internet and scrolling through Instagram, all the while trying to sneak glances at Wells from where my head is resting in his lap.

He remains mostly expressionless as he reads, but there are occasional moments when I look up to find the faintest smile or a brief frown crosses his face.

At one point, he snorts out a laugh, and I set my phone aside, intrigued. "What part was funny? The part where she throws up all over her?" I ask, trying to coax an answer from him.

He just furrows his brows at me and shakes his head dismissively, refusing to give away any hints, and resumes reading.

Around noon, he pauses, and we decide to leave the house for lunch at the sandwich shop down the street. As we eat, I try to extract thoughts about the book from him.

"Did you like the part at the beginning where they fight over the parking spot?" I ask casually, taking a sip from the soda we're sharing. It's a mix of Dr. Pepper and root beer; he wanted root beer, and I wanted Dr. Pepper, but neither of us wanted a full cup of soda to ourselves.

He glances from the window back to me, grinning. "I'm not telling you anything until I'm done reading," he declares, taking a bite with mustard smearing the left side of his lip.

I think about leaning over and kissing it off, but instead, I hand him a napkin and gesture toward his lip. He wipes it away.

"You didn't like it, did you?" I say, setting down the plastic red Coca-Cola cup. "Was it too much? Maybe I should've toned it down a bit, shouldn't I have? I mean, they've been best friends since high school. They probably wouldn't fight over something so trivial."

He chews his bite, and I anxiously wait for him to swallow to answer me, but he just smiles at me, glances down at his food, pops a chip into his mouth, and takes another bite of the sandwich.

I huff, rolling my eyes at him, and grab my sandwich, feeling irritated. "I hate you."

"You love me," he retorts, grabbing the soda and taking a sip.

I shift uncomfortably in the hard plastic booth, taking a bite that's probably a little too big for my mouth because I don't know how to respond to that. He says it like a joke, but I'm not sure if I'd be able to deny it.

And I'm scared to say anything about it because there are only two weeks left. Less than two weeks actually. Ten days to be exact. I don't want to ruin this final stretch of our time together because I'm not sure where we go after all of this.

I keep finding myself late at night searching the internet for other jobs—different newspapers, blogs, magazines, TV stations, anything—but I'm not even sure if he wants to keep this relationship once we leave here.

The agreement was that after summer ends, so do we. And maybe he hasn't changed his mind about it like I have.

The thought of it makes my chest tighten, and suddenly, I'm not as hungry as I was a second ago. I place my sandwich down and grab the soda, taking a sip, attempting to wash down the knot forming in my throat. I divert my attention by looking outside.

"You okay?" His voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance over to find his brows knit together and concern etched on his face.

"Um, yeah," I reply, forcing a smile and glancing down, idly shuffling the chips on the sandwich paper laid out in front of me. "Just worried you won't like the BDSM chapter," I joke, attempting to deflect.

He huffs a laugh, a hint of skepticism in his expression, but he doesn't press further. Instead, he takes another bite of his sandwich.

We sit in comfortable silence, me trying not to dwell on the future, simply people-watching through the window while we eat before eventually heading back to his mom's bungalow house.

His hand finds mine, our fingers brushing up against each other until he slowly intertwines them with mine. We take our time walking back because I think we both enjoy holding each other's hands. It all makes me feel like I'm in high school again, like he's my first boyfriend, but so much better.

When we get back, we settle on the back patio, basking in the sunny 75-degree weather. He continues reading my book while I sit with my laptop, soaking in the warmth of the sun. I attempt to sneak glimpses at what page he is reading to follow along on my laptop, but he playfully closes the book each time I try to peek.

"I know what you're trying to do," he teases, catching me in the act.

Feign innocence, I shrug my shoulders and divert my attention back to my computer. "I'm not doing anything."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Eyes to yourself, Jenkins."

It's not until I finish cooking the spaghetti, serving it on plates, and settling on the couch beside him that he finally closes the book, gently tossing it onto the coffee table with a soft thud.

Glancing at him, I place the plates of pasta down, adjusting myself on the couch beside him and tucking my feet underneath me.

He shakes his head, rubbing the scruff underneath his lower lip, deep in thought. His expression remains unreadable as he stares at the book.

"So?" I ask, feeling the hesitation in the air. He looks up, draws in a deep breath as though he's on the verge of saying something, but then holds back, remaining silent.

After a beat, I press on, "What did you... Did you like it?"

He adjusts his posture, sitting up slightly, and clears his throat. "Have I ever told you what a terrible journalist you are?"

Oh. I pause, briefly meeting his eyes before glancing at the book on the coffee table. My heart sinking."Um. You may have mentioned it once or twice before. Yes."

"Juniper." I bite my lip, hesitant to meet his gaze again. "You're a terrible journalist," he says, shaking his head. Then, he continues, "But you are an exceptional writer."

My head jerks up to meet his gaze. He's smiling at me with my smile. The smile with brackets on the sides. "Really? You really liked it?"

"I loved it: the characters, the plot, the rom-com references, the romance. Every aspect was so good and so well-written. So witty. So you."

His words wrap around me, and I feel like I could cry. "You're not just saying that, are you?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Juniper, when have I ever held back my thoughts about your work?" he asks dryly.

I grin in spite of him, letting out a chuckle as a tear of joy escapes my eye. I quickly use my sleeve to wipe it away. "Wells, you really need to work on your delivery."

"No," he chuckles, shaking his head, "I like seeing you get all riled up."

"Cruel," I say, pushing him, but he catches my waist, drawing me closer and onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me.

"I think you should try to get it published," he suggests.

I huff out a laugh. "Where on earth would I even begin to find a publisher? I mean, I've never written a book in my life."

"You could self-publishing, or I might know someone who can help," he suggests, running his palms along my thighs.

I shake my head, my hand finding its way to my forehead. "It's just the first draft. I'm not sure if anyone would even consider it. I doubt it's that simple."

"Well, I think you should at least try. Because this," he leans over to grab the manuscript off the table and shakes it in the air, "is really fucking good, Juniper."

I smile at him, my hands resting on both of his shoulders. "Even the sex scene?"

"Even the sex scene. I thought it was very tasteful," he remarks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "And I would know. I've read 'The Hot Doctor.'"

A laugh bursts out of my chest and I lean in to kiss him. His hands slip beneath my sweatshirt, pulling me closer, deepening our kiss. "I think we should test it out actually." He murmurs against my lips. "You know... to make sure it's realistic enough for the book."

"Right, for the book," I nod in agreement, running my hands through his wavy brown hair. His lips meet mine again as he sweeps his tongue into my mouth. Then, he stands up, lifting both of us off the couch, and walks to the kitchen, where we try to reenact the chapter.

Spoiler: It was so much better than the book.

Notes

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