COLEEN

By the time I reached the apartment, my cheeks hurt from grinning. I fumbled with my keys, dropped them twice, then burst inside to the smell of cinnamon, the smell of Mark’s candle, and the faint echo of a guitar riff from his room.

“Mark?” I called, toeing off my boots.

“Bedroom!” he answered, then the riff cut off, and he padded into the living room in socks and a hoodie with the band’s name splashed across the front. He took one look at my face and set the guitar ...