I ring once before shifting my weight from one leg to the other while I wait. My eyes land on my feet as I tug my purse carrying Colin's shirt closer.

After talking to Lucie about everything that happened during my first summer in Arkenshaven, I decided to bring his shirt back. We agreed to leave our past behind us. To start with a clean slate, yet it isn't fully clean as long as his piece of clothing is hiding in my bedroom, reminding me every few minutes how badly I crave his touch.

If the shirt is gone, the slate is clean and my nerves will stop tingling at the thought of him exploring my body.

Then the problem of him invading my thoughts will be solved.

"August?" My head snaps up to meet a goofy, yet confused smile.

Of course, Colin isn't the one opening the door because when is life ever on anyone's side.

As I grant Daniel an awkward smile back, I try to decipher the meaning behind his bewilderment.

Does Daniel know? Has Colin said anything to him? Does he know what happened three years ago? What I did? He probably does. He's Colin's best friend and Colin talks to his friends. He doesn't wait three years to relieve his heart of the burden of his emotions.

"Hi," I chirp.

But what if he doesn't know about last Friday? What if he doesn't know about the kiss? What if Colin followed my stupid instruction to forget all about it and decided the best way to do that is to erase it from reality by not telling anyone.

But what if Daniel does know and he's currently torturing me in his mind for hurting his friend?

I must admit, not knowing what he's thinking does feel like torture.

I should act normal.

Don't be suspicious. Be cool. I could absolutely be here because of a work thing. Not because Colin had my nipple between his teeth before Lucie interrupted us causing me to flee the scene, stealing his shirt in the process.

Not. At. All.

"Is Colin home?"

"He's studying in his room," he answers pointing his thumb behind his shoulder. "Want to come in?" I accept his invitation.

"How was the feijoada, by the way?" After picking Brooke up the day after the party we had walked in on Daniel cooking eggs in our kitchen. Whereas Brooke took a plate and joined him, I had friendly declined since my stomach was still recovering from the night before. Over breakfast, or rather lunch, Brooke and Daniel had ended their 'agreement' by swapping house keys again. Right before I left the house for my first work shift, I had heard them discussing the formalities of Brooke's part of the bargain which, apparently, included his favorite Brazilian dish.

She was trying to convince him the kitchen in his and Colin's house was way better. I remember grinning at every argument she threw on the table because I knew she was only trying to avoid doing the dishes. We don't have a dishwasher and they do. I think it's a solid reason for her to try to convince him.

"It was-" He kisses his fingertips as if words can't describe how good the taste was. "Honestly, it was worth giving up my room for."

"I can't blame you. I think I would do the same for her feijoada." Even two days later as a reheated evening snack it was mouthwatering good.

"Please, tell my roommates that because they declared me insane."

"I'll do that." We share a laugh before he nods to the stairway.

"It's the second door on the right." I follow his instructions and knock a couple of times when I arrive.

"What's up, Dan?" I carefully push the door open and the moment I peek inside, vague memories of his lip between another girl's teeth start flashing before my eyes.

If there is one picture I do not want to remember, it sure as hell is that.

His hands are on his head and a pen between his teeth when he swirls around the office chair to face me. His white shirt hugs his muscled arms and complements his tawny brown skin tone.

Good gracious, he really does look good in white.

The moment he notices I'm not his brown-haired roommate, puzzlement spreads across his features as he removes the pen from his mouth. "August?" He surprisedly exclaims.

I can't blame him because I don't know either anymore why I'm here instead of waiting another 24 hours until we work the same shift to give him back his shirt.

"Hi," I sheepishly say. "I brought your shirt." I let one strap of my purse fall off my shoulder and grab the black fabric whilst crossing his room.

"Thanks." He says as he takes his T-shirt from my hands. "That reminds me," he jumps up from his chair and strolls to his closet. "I have yours too."

An immediate frown plasters itself on my face. "You washed it?"

"Yes." My eyebrows knit together.

"You did not." I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, yet my gut tells me I'm heading in the right direction by calling out his lie.

"I did."

I cross my arms and playfully narrow my eyes. "Liar."

"Well, I dropped your shirt off at the dry cleaner so technically I did." He shrugs, finally admitting the truth.

"You're so full of shit," I huff as he picks the hanger the silk top is hanging on from his closet. He spins around and shoots me a grin.

"In my defense," he begins laying his hand on his chest, "last time I checked I still wasn't Cinderella so don't expect me to be able to get a red wine stain out of a white shirt, Mrs. Clumsy."

I gasp slapping my hand over my mouth. "Wait, you're not Cinderella?"

Without a single second of doubt, his face covers itself in utter confusion. "Shocking, right?" He blurts pretending to be as flabbergasted as me.

"Very, you'd totally rock the blue dress." I'm pretty sure he can rock everything he wears. A chameleon like Harry Styles. Give him anything and he makes it look fabulous, like the piece of clothing was created for him and him only.

It's a gift I wish I had. Give me cute sweatpants and I'll look like a dressed potato.

"I don't care about the dress, I want the tiara." He points one end of the hanger in my direction as if I should take notes.

With one eyebrow quirked up and a smile, I'm fighting not to grow bigger, I nod. "Good to know."

Perhaps I imagine it but the slightest smile dartled on his lips before it disappeared as he hands me the hanger. "Here you go."

"How much was it?"

"It's okay we're good."

"I'm not going to let you pay for my clumsiness." I insist whilst folding the top to fit it in my purse.

"It's okay, it was nothing." I don't have to glance up to know he's just shrugging his shoulders with his hands in his pockets. I stop mid-motion and tilt my head sideways to give him a look I hope would signal 'don't be difficult and just let me pay'.

"15? 20? 30?"

"August," he sighs, returning me the same facial expression.

"You know what," I begin, realizing he's never going to tell me how much he paid for the dry cleaner. I rumble through my purse to grab my wallet. "Here's 50 dollars for the dry cleaner and the gas for being my taxi." I hold out a couple of dollar bills for him to take but of course, he doesn't.

"I can't take this."

"And I can't let you pay for my stuff." I wave the money in front of him to encourage him to accept my offer.

"Fine, give me 5." He rolls his eyes as he crosses his arms in front of his chest indicating he'll never accept the fifty dollars.

"It's silk, it can't be that cheap," I push.

Honestly, I don't know how much a dry cleaner costs because I've never gone to one. Doing your own laundry is much cheaper. Even when red wine accidents like that happen, I just pour different kinds of products on the stain hoping the problem will magically solve itself after one wash. And if not, google can be an intelligent friend.

"They're friends, I got a discount." I narrow my eyes not believing him for one second.

"Here's 25."

"I said 5."

I put a ten-dollar bill back into my purse. "Middle ground," I say holding out the 15 dollars for him to take.

"No."

"Fine." I step towards his desk to take matters into my own hands. I lift one of his books to shove the bills under it but before I can accomplish my mission, two strong arms effortlessly pick me up.

"Hey!" I protest but he ignores me entirely as he pivots us 180 degrees putting me out of reach of the place I wanted to deposit the money he deserves to receive.

"Stop being stubborn." I'm one hundred percent sure it wasn't intentional but the warmth of his breath tickles my ear shell as says the words and my mind blanks.

In a split second, I'm hyper-aware of every place our bodies touch as the contact shoots electricity through my nerves. Everything slows down except for the beating machine inside my chest. My eyes fall on the grip of my hands on his forearms as he slowly puts me down. Before I know it his fingers slip away from my body. The loss of contact snaps me awake. I spin around and immediately take a step back, clearing my throat.

"Is that a history book?" Without daring to look him in the eyes, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. I walk back to his desk and pick up the book I was trying to shove the dollar bills under.

Act normal. Act as if his playful way of moving you away from his desk didn't make your stomach perform a gymnastics routine constructed of cartwheels, flick flacks, and somersaults. Because it shouldn't.

"Are you majoring in history?"

"Yeah," he starts and I take the opportunity to glance his way. He looks normal. Unaffected. Composed. Relaxed.

Basically everything I'm not.

"Some weird girl once told me I should consider it since my bookshelf was-"

"Dying under the weight of your history obsession?" I finish as I remember the conversation we once had about him choosing a major.

"My bookshelf wasn't dying, though."

"Just severely struggling."

"It's still standing today."

"In what state?"

"It's," he pauses, looking up at the ceiling, probably envisioning his bookshelf to decide which descriptive word suits his shelf's state the best. "Managing."

I snort at his word choice. "If your definition of managing is comparable with your definition of light reading, I don't think it's doing so well." He used to categorize heavily detailed war books as light reading. I don't trust his vocabulary anymore.

"Says the girl who used to read scientific studies about cancer treatments for fun," he fires back.

"Touché." The corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to smile but forbids himself to do so. I wish he didn't.

"Do you still do that?" He continues the conversation as he sits down on his bed. I follow his movement but choose the safer option of his office chair.

"Sometimes but lately I've been reading a lot about transplant immunology."

"Is that something you want to specialize in?"

"Maybe." I'm not as sure as I used to be because life has taught me that you can't plan everything as the unexpected is always lurking around the corner. "I still have time to figure it out. What are you going to do after you graduate?"

"Please, don't mention it." He scratches his stubble beard before he moves his hand to the nape of his neck. It's as if mentioning the future distresses him.

"That bad?" He scoffs as if my guess doesn't come close to reality.

"I'm fucking clueless." The tone in his voice is a mixture of playfulness and self-spot but the shadow in his eyes displays his true worry. 

"That's okay, though. There are lots of people who try different jobs before they find something they like." He's quiet for a moment as he's trying to sort out his thoughts. I allow myself to admire him as I give him the time to think.

"I don't know why but somehow I feel this pressure to choose the right job from the start. I know I don't have to but still. There's this pressure originating from I don't know where that makes me believe I only have one decision to dictate the rest of my life. As if trying different jobs to find the perfect one is the equivalent of failure. I know it isn't but I can't help but feel like I have to choose one job I'll have to do for the rest of my life. And I don't know about you but I don't know what 50-year-old me wants."

I understand his fear of choosing and choosing wrong. I had a choice three years ago and I know I chose wrong. But sitting here makes me realize that a wrong choice doesn't have to determine the rest of your life.

"Maybe you should start with 21-year-old you." He isn't 21 yet, but he will be in a little over a month. That's close enough.

"As if he has a clue."

"He knows he'd rather have Cinderella's tiara than her dress," I tease in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

"You don't know how difficult that decision was to make." His eyes flicker to mine and the joyous tone in them makes me smile.

"I'm serious though. Between you now and you in 30 years there is a lot of time to change interests. Perhaps you won't like history anymore in 30 years and you might be into, I don't know, fishing or something. Perhaps at 50 years old, you want to be a professional fisherman." He grimaces, clearly not agreeing with my statement.

"I do not want to be a professional fisherman."

"You don't know that."

"I'm pretty sure."

"Can you look into the future?" I ask trying to prove my point.

"Maybe I will be able to in the future." I roll my eyes at him using my own tactics of not knowing what the future might bring against me.

"I'll rephrase, smart ass. Can you look into the future right now?"

"Sadly, I cannot."

"Then I've made my point. You shouldn't worry about what 50-year-old you might like because you won't know until you are 50. Focus on what you want right now." I mentally pat myself on the back for giving him decent advice, or at least I think it's decent.

"And what if I don't know that either?"

"Then you're screwed. You'll never get a job, lose all your friends, live in a cabin in the woods next to a river, and inevitably become a fisherman of said river." I force my poker face to hold its stance as I continue my description of his life. "Not a professional one though, that bar is a little too high for you."

"What a bright-looking future I have." He answers, matching my sarcasm.

"Right? I can see you posting photos with your catch of the day." I stand up from his office chair and clear my throat to prepare it for my attempt at a deep, manly voice. "Look guys," I hold up my hand pretending I'm showcasing a fish I caught. "I found Nemo." I grant him the biggest wide-toothed smile I've ever flashed someone as I stay in my role as Colin, the proud fisherman.

His jaws clench and he narrows his eyes. He tries to shoot me a stern look but I can see the cracks forming in his façade. "I don't sound like that."

"No you're right, you sound more like," I scrape my throat again before redoing the scene, this time with a high-pitched voice. "Look guys, I found Neeemo!"

His façade breaks apart as he bursts into a fit of laughter. The sound is contagious. It's warm and soft and causes me to break character as I, too, start laughing.

Only when our outburst tones down and our chuckles turn into joyful grins, do I realize how much I've missed the sound of him.