He smirks. “I love a good compliment first thing in the morning.”
My mouth pops open, color rushing to my face. “Youknowwhat I mean,” I say, but Wes only snickers, and I shake my head at his antics.
“You should take some Advil before we ice your eye. How does it feel today?”
I shrug as I walk over to the window. “It hurts a little less than yesterday,” I say, peeking through the blinds. “Woah, it’s a winter wonderland out there.”
And it is. The world outside is covered in the most pristine, glistening white blanket, flurries still drifting down from the sky like something out of a snow globe.
Wes comes up behind me and peers over my head. “Guess we’re building a snowman.”
I snort and let the blinds fall shut, turning around to face him. “Wes, no.”
He juts out his bottom lip. “Why not?”
“Because! It’s cold and wet, and I don’t have boots. We can admire the snow from afar—oh, don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
I narrow my eyes at his innocent expression. “That look you do that gets you everything you want. With the charming smile and the twinkly eyes and the stupidly endearing dimples.”
He blinks at me. “It doesn’t get meeverythingI want.”
“So, youadmityou have a look!”
He shrugs, smiling one of his stupid secret smiles, and takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don’t even have time to process that we’reholding handsbefore he’s guiding me to the door. “Come on. We’ll revisit the snowman conversation after I cook you breakfast, where I will prove to you that I am more than just a one-trick horse.”
“Pony,” I correct. “One-trick pony.”
“Nah, I’m definitely a horse. Actually, let’s go with stallion. That sounds even better.”
“The male ego is so fragile sometimes,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He snickers in response, still holding onto my hand as we descend the stairs. He only releases me once we step into the kitchen, offering no explanation as to why he felt the need to grab it in the first place. And though I try, I can’t deny that I liked the feel of my smaller hand being swallowed up in his bigger one. He’s a good…hand holder, or whatever. Ugh.
I take a seat at the kitchen table and admire him as he works his magic on some waffles, gathering ingredients and mixing the batter from scratch. He hums quietly to himself as he pours it into the iron, and when the light turns green, they come out golden brown, fluffy, and perfect.
My plate stacked high and drizzled with enough syrup to cause a toothache, I take a bite and groan. “Oh my god. These are so good, Wes.”
His face lights up at the praise, dimples taking center stage, and I decide I might become addicted to making him smile like that. “I’ll make you waffles every damn day if you want. Just say the word.”
I brush off his offer with a smile, though there’s no denying the way my chest warms at the idea of him cooking me breakfast again.
After cleaning up, of which he lets me do little, we spend the rest of the morning doing homework at the kitchen table.Wes expounds on his senior research project, and my eyebrows hike higher and higher up my forehead as he drops terms like “meta-analysis” and “disease pathology.” And when he explains how his research could help find a biomarker to identify cancer earlier in children, my mouth drops open.
“Wes,” I say slowly. “I’m studying complementary colors, and you’re curing children’s cancer?”
He laughs at my incredulity. “Not curing, Ives. I’m searching for common trends which could possibly help identify a signature molecule, ‘possibly’being the key word here.”
“Still.” I shake my head in disbelief. “That’s…that’s incredible.”
He shrugs, a smile playing at his mouth. “Thanks. I think it will be, providing the data says so and a common trend even exists.”
“Wow,” I mutter to myself, studying the man across from me. Kind. Attractive. Caring. Intelligent. He could be hanging out with anyone—anyoneon this entire campus—and yet he’s sitting here, in his kitchen, doing schoolwork withme. Me!I wonder when life will start making sense again because as of now, I can’t find an explanation for a lot of things.
Later in the afternoon, when the roads are plowed and the ice has melted, Wes reluctantly drives me back to my apartment. There’s a dull pressure in my chest as we weave through campus, melancholy growing the closer we near to the dorm.
Wes must feel it, too, because he glances over at me and asks, “Why can’t you stay at my place forever?” before jutting out his bottom lip in an overdramatic pout.
