Chapter 2: He Opened the Door In Just a Towel

The click of the hotel door was louder than I expected. Sharp. Final. Like the sound sealed something in. Or trapped me.

I stood there in the entryway. Not saying a word.

Wes didn’t either.

He just watched me. Towel still around his neck. Water still clinging to his chest. No shirt. No apology in his eyes. Just that look. The one that said he was thinking things he hadn’t said out loud in years.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. His biceps flexed with the movement, casual like he wasn’t even trying.

“So...” he said, voice low. “You gonna stand there all night, or come in?”

My heart wouldn’t shut up. But my legs moved anyway. I stepped in. Slowly. Cautiously.

“There’s no party here,” I said.

He didn’t even flinch. “Nope.”

“You lied.”

“I did.”

I stared at him. My hands clenched at my sides.

“Why would you do that, Wes?”

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the minibar. His back looked wider than I remembered. Thicker. Stronger. The muscles across his shoulders flexed when he twisted the cap off a bottle.

“I figured you wouldn’t come if it was just me.”

“So you tricked me?”

He turned, bottle dangling loosely in one hand. “I just want to talk Noah,” he said. “Without everyone watching.”

I folded my arms across my chest. Tried to hold myself together. “You got something to say, say it.”

He exhaled. Set the drink down with a soft thunk. And walked toward me. Each step slow. Heavy. Like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get.

“You asked me why,” Wes said, stopping just inches from me. “Why I made your life hell back in college.”

I nodded, jaw tight.

He was close enough now that I could smell the soap on his skin. That clean, fresh scent mixed with something warmer. Something human.

“You wanna know the truth?” he said.

“That’d be nice.”

He paused. Then his voice dropped—low, rough, real. “Because you made me nervous.”

I blinked. Staring. “What?”

“You looked at me different than everyone else did,” he said. “Back then, I didn’t get it. But I felt it. Every time you were in the room, I—” He stopped. Shook his head, like the words tasted bitter coming out.

“You made me feel things I wasn’t ready to feel.”

I swallowed hard. My throat felt like it barely worked. “And instead of dealing with that, you humiliated me?”

He nodded. Once. Quiet. Solid. No excuses.

“Yeah. I am sorry about that.”

“You made me the punchline of your own confusion?”

Another small nod.

“I was scared,” he said, voice rasping. “Not of you. Of me.”