“It’s been a year today.”
Julian sighs ruefully and looks up, a guilty smile at his mouth and a streak of sadness in his eyes. “I know. Let me guess— you want me to clean out his closet.”
Derek nods, and for the umpteenth time Julian’s glad that the playboy’s never been the sentimental type. “I’ll help you out.”
They spend the next three hours trifling through shirts and ties and jeans, swimming in seas of fabric and searching the pockets (for what, they aren’t sure— justincase is Julian’s only excuse). The lingering scent is simultaneously the most wonderful and the most dreadful thing he’s ever smelled in his life, and that goes double for the old Dalton blazer collecting dust in the very back; every move aches, electrifies, reminds. It’s Hell, it’s Heaven, it’s Hell.
When they’re nearly finished, Derek sends him a wary glance; he grimaces but ultimately nods, retrieving the old white button-down Logan adored so much from its place in the back of the closet, where it’s lain for exactly one year today. Untouched. He closes his eyes and tosses it to the donations bin as though the brush of fabric burns his skin.
A velvet box tumbles from the pocket.
YOU ARE ACTUALLY THE WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD.