I started walking away, rolling my eyes at his over protection. It was only four blocks to my apartment for gods sake. I think I would manage. "Nick, ...t's cold! Here," he shrugged out of his hoodie, and extended his arm and offered me his grey sweatshirt. "Thanks," I honestly replied. It was getting dark, plus it was December in Chicago , deathly cold. I walked away quickly, slipping his hoodie over my short sleeve shirt. I turned to look at him, he was leaning against the wall, running a hand. You smell like hope and promises (as much as a particular cheap cologne, rolling tobacco and leather can smell like those things), you smell like the happiest times of my early twenties. You smell like my Jack Kerouac novel, the dog eared-copy with the inscription I wrote to you about love and our lives and coming into romance like a car crash. I feel heavy and wet and all confused. I push your jacket over your shoulders, past your biceps and over your forearms. We both allow it to fall to the. More

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