What in the hell is he doing here? Asleep on my couch? Surrounded by roses and candlelight? My heart tightens, wondering if he could have possibly been waiting for me. But then I remember the countdown, I remember midnight, I remember the sinking realization that Ollie did not come to find me, that I was an idiot for even thinking it. And I shove that little shred of hope into the farthest reaches of my mind.

Ollie did not do this for me. No matter what I might wish for, what—if I'm being honest—I've been wishing for since I was five, there's no way Ollie did all of this for me. It's not possible. And I have to stop believing it is.

Which just leaves one question, who did he do this for?

Hence, the rage. Which, I might add, is growing stronger by the second. My fists curl tighter the more I take the scene in. How dare he use my apartment to set up some romantic evening with a mystery date. I mean, the nerve! Sure, we never dated, but there's a history there that needs to be respected. And I mean, the candles everywhere. Hello? Fire hazard! And what a sneak to tell us he had to work when really he wanted us out of our own apartment. Well, sorry I broke up with my boyfriend and ruined your plans by coming home early, Ollie.

I bite my lip, holding back the urge to scream.

Really, I should wake him calmly, tug on his shoulder, nudge him alive. But before I realize what I'm doing, I'm filling up a cup of water at the sink and charging back into the living room, seeing red—and I don’t just mean the rose petals.

"Ollie," I whisper furiously, just to be able to tell myself I tried to wake him up. In case I need justification for my actions a little while later, once I've calmed down and have started to obsessively relive the moment over and over again in my head, freaking out. And then I do what I really want to do, what maybe I've really wanted to do for four and a half years but never had the chance to.

I throw an entire cup of water on his face.

Bulls-eye.

"What the—" he spurts, jerking into a seated position, eyes practically popping out of his skull. Water drips off his eyebrows, making him blink rapidly as he wipes the droplets from his face. Without looking over, he asks, "Bridge, was that really necessary?"

I don't say anything.

I just wait with my hands on my hips.

"Okay," he says, running a hand through his somewhat soaked hair. "I—"

And then he finally decides to look up. All of his features freeze. The annoyance falls away, replaced with what I can only describe as shock, lips falling open, eyes widening. And then that somewhat devilish grin creeps across his face, the one that sort of made me fall for him in the first place. His eyes begin to shine bright as beacons, calling to me.

"It's you," he says.

I cross my arms, putting up the best guard I can. "Of course it's me, I happen to live here in case you forgot."

The smile deepens, grows more mischievous. "You're late."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, shaking my head. "I'm early and clearly I've interrupted something, but I hope you realize how easily you could have burned our entire apartment building to the ground. I mean really, falling asleep when there are what, a hundred candles in the room?"

But the more I speak, the less authoritative my voice becomes. Because Ollie is still looking at me with that look, with his eyes blazing and glittering in the candlelight, and despite my conviction, the tune of my heartbeat changes subtly.

Ollie stands. "I got tired of waiting."

I take a step back as he takes a step forward. "I'm sorry if you got stood up or something, but I've had a long night and I'm tired."

I start to turn, to run, to flee, but his fingers land on my arm and even the barest touch is enough to stop me dead.

"I didn't get stood up," he says calmly. "Like I said, you're late. But you're here now."

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

My heart pounds—fear or anticipation, I'm not sure what. But I can't concentrate on anything besides the fact that Ollie is still touching me, and I haven’t moved out of his reach yet.

My gaze slowly lifts. "What does that mean?"

"It means I wasn't waiting here for some girl," Ollie whispers, tracing a line of fire up my arm. I find I'm not breathing anymore. I'm hanging on his every word instead. Ollie licks his lips, taking a deep breath. "I was waiting here for you."

"Why?" The word tumbles from my lips, made almost entirely of air. A quiet gasp of disbelief.

Ollie lifts his brows, shaking his head just slightly. "Such a typical Skye response. Why do you think?"

But another question is the exact opposite of what I needed to hear, what I wanted to hear. It's another riddle, another game. And even with the roses, and with the candles, and with that passionate look in his eyes, I don't believe this can really be happening. I don't believe him.

I step away, breaking contact.

I breathe in cool air, trying to organize my frantic thoughts.

Ollie knows he made a mistake. "Skye?"

But I shake my head. "No, why tonight? Why this? How did you even know I'd be home? How'd you know it wouldn’t be Bridge walking through that door instead? Or no one?"

"I didn't," he urges, stepping forward. But I need to think clearly. I need to not be touching him. Ollie stops, dropping his hand and furrowing his brows, confidence shrinking before my eyes. "I didn’t know you'd come home. I didn’t know if I would be waiting here all night for nothing. But I hoped. Which is why I did all this. I decided to let fate play its hand. If you came home, I'd try one last time to make you see. And if you didn't, it's a new year and I'd let you go. But here you are, you came home. To me. Fate."

Neither one of us moves.

I'm made immobile by incomprehension.

"One last time to make me see what?" I whisper, eyes looking at the candles, at the roses, at my coat crumpled on the floor. Everywhere and anywhere but him.

Ollie takes both of my hands in his. They're small and delicate compared to his callused chef's palms. A heat gathers beneath my skin, warm, a rising tide. My eyes travel to the spot, thinking how perfectly our fingers seem to fit together, as though made to hold onto one another.

And then I finally look up. Right into those turquoise eyes that have a way of undoing me, of making me melt, of shattering all the convictions that so closely guard my fragile heart.

"Isn't it obvious, Skye?" he murmurs. "To make you see how much I love you."

I inhale sharply, releasing a slow breath. Part of me wants to rip my hands away and hide. Part of me wants to wrap them around his neck and never let go. I'm torn down the middle, frozen. But now that the words are out there, I can't ignore them. I can’t misinterpret them. I can't pretend they don't exist.

"Since when?" I whisper.

He holds me tighter. "Since I let you walk out my door four and a half years ago."

And with that, I do break away.

I thought I'd buried it, but the pain is still raw, and I'm not strong enough to sit there and take it. And if we're going to finally talk about that night after so long, I can't hold his hands and pretend that everything is okay.

"Ollie…" I challenge, trailing off, not sure what I want to say, to ask.

"Skye," he challenges right back, daring me.

My chest expands, swelling with all the unsaid words I've kept inside for the past four years, all the bitter remarks I ached to scream, all the vengeful accusations I've wanted to yell, all the nasty and hurtful things I've only said out loud in my dreams. But there's something else beneath all of that pain, something I told myself time and time again that I would never admit, not to him, not to anyone. But there it is, pushing past everything else, bringing a confession rather than an accusation to my lips.