Juniper: Thai food or pizza for dinner?

Me: You should definitely do pizza.

Juniper: Good, I was hoping you'd say that.

Me: Wish I was there to eat with you.

Juniper: Me too.

I slide my phone back into my pocket, gripping the bar above my head on the subway as it sways along the tracks. It's been over two weeks since I left Juniper in Seattle, and I miss her even more than I did the day I left.

I didn't want to leave her and I certainly would have stayed if she had asked me. I would have found another job in Seattle. I would have made things work. But she insisted multiple times that I couldn't pass up The New York Times. And I knew she was right. I knew I couldn't pass it up. It was my dream. Everything I've worked for has been for this.

If my love for her were any less, I'd be attempting to convince her right now that she should move, that she could be happy here with me. She has no idea how badly I wish all of this could be enough for her. I wanted her to tell me to stay, or to tell me she wanted to come with me. But, she didn't. I know her world is in Seattle, and I didn't want to be the one pressuring her to move on my account.

I also knew that the next few months were going to be a challenge. Having worked in New York as a journalist before, I knew the likelihood of twelve-hour-plus workdays was great— the researching, conducting interviews, writing articles, all while adjusting to a new job. It's going to be exhausting. It is exhausting.

And the idea of missed calls and unanswered texts, canceled visits —all of it loomed in the back of my mind. I was already going to be stretched thin and the time difference only added to the tension. To have her as mine but not really have her at all, the thought was unbearable.

So I told her, let's give it a few months. Let's settle in, figure things out, and reevaluate our situation in a few months. And even that killed me just to say.

Despite our agreement, I've been texting her daily, and she's been doing the same. What initially began as just one text has now become a constant exchange, filled with messages like:

Juniper: I still have your NYU shirt. Do you want me to send it back?

Me: No, I want you to keep it.

Juniper: Okay, good, because it still smells like you.

Or:

Me: How is the apartment search going?

Juniper: Terrible. How's your first day?

Me: Good so far. I just wish I could see you after I get off.

Juniper: You miss me, Mr. Hansen?

Me: I always will miss you, Jenkins.

Juniper: Me too.

They keep coming, the text messages, and I don't want them to stop. Because I miss her. I miss every little piece of her—the way her brown eyes twinkle when she laughs, the curve of her lips when she concentrates, the subtle way she bites down on her lip when she attempts to hide her smile. I miss everything about her.

The subway jolts to a stop, snapping me out of my thoughts. I step off as the doors slide open and make my way up the stairs into the warm sunlight of the Upper West Side. I've missed New York too though—the hotdog carts and bagel stands, the scent of exhaust fumes blending with the aroma of warm pastries from the bakery down the street, the hissing steam vents on sidewalks, and the crisp autumn air. I've missed it all, but a part of me, a large part of me, still feels like it's in Seattle.

I round the corner of the street, passing the quaint little bookstore nestled beneath my apartment. It's one of those charming little bookstores, like the one from "You've Got Mail." The shop wraps around the corner, small and filled with character, books tucked into every little crevice. I, surprisingly, haven't shared this tiny detail with Juniper yet. I think she'd get a bit jealous if she knew I lived above a bookstore, so I've kept it to myself for the time being.

I offer a wave to Eleanor, the 75-year-old owner of the bookstore, as I begin to pull out my keys. She returns the gesture with a small smile.

I met her the day I moved my things into the apartment, and over the last two weekends, we've had coffee together while I perused her collection of romance books, the ones I know Juniper would love. This last Saturday while we talked, I asked her if she had any advice after being married to her husband, Edmund, for 55 years. Her response was simple:

"Communication. That's the key. You can't assume she knows what you want or how you're feeling, or what you're thinking, without discussing it, darling. You may be a couple, but you are also two individuals with different perspectives. Yes, I wish my Edmund would take the initiative and take action without having to be asked, but even that too leads to misinterpretation."

And that, that has been lingering in the recesses of my mind for the past two days. I've been contemplating it all weekend, over and over and over again. Juniper will never know unless I tell her. If I just tell her how badly I want her to be here with me in New York. Maybe, just maybe, she might feel the same way.

This morning, as I woke up, it became clear as day what I needed to do. I had to call her, communicate what I want openly – that all I want is for her to be here with me. I would have called her right away if it weren't for the time difference. So, I've been waiting patiently all day.

I glance at my watch, checking the time to see how long till Juniper is off work, then slide the key into the entry door of the apartments. It's only 3 pm in Seattle, so I have at least another two hours until she finishes work. I stop by my mailbox to check for any mail, sifting through it as I climb up two flights of stairs. I tuck the mail under my arm as I slide my key into the front door of my apartment.

I swing the door open, and as I do, my steps come to an abrupt halt as I catch sight of brown chestnut hair. Juniper stands in my living room, holding two books, spinning around from my bookshelf to face me.

I stare at her and then stare some more, taking her in. She's wearing a black plaid skirt and a creamy white sweater, tall, thick platform boots. She looks too good to be true, and it's not until she says something that I realize it's not my imagination.

"Hi," she breathes out.

I swallow the knot in my throat, whispering, "Hi."

"I'm sorry," she says, looking down at the books in her hand and gently placing them on the shelf. "I got bored waiting, so I thought I'd start putting your books on your bookshelf—the way you had them in Seattle. Chronologically. Which still doesn't make sense to me."

I blink toward the shelf and then back at her. "I like seeing how linguistics evolve over time."

She hums, looking over at the books on the shelf, "You would say something like that."

"Juniper," I softly closed the door behind me, "What are you... what are you doing here?"

She jerks her head back towards me. "I should have called I know."

"You don't have to ca—"

"I quit," she blurts out.

"You quit?" I ask, a hint of surprise in my tone. "As in your job?"

"Well, no," she says, pausing, rubbing her lips together, "actually, they fired me."

"You were fired?"

She nods, tilting her eyes up to the ceiling. "I already had that warning from when they found out about us, and then when Andrew asked me about that one article you wrote for me about the lawsuit against the, um..."

"The dog?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding, looking at me. "I didn't know what he was talking about, so I tried to wing it. Apparently, I was so far off the subject that he figured out I never even wrote it in the first place. I didn't realize a dog can sue a human." She bites her lip. "Anyways, I told him that you had been writing all of my articles over the summer and he was too happy about that...Oh, and then he found out about the 'condom' headline from a few months ago, and that's when he fired me."

"When did all this happen?" I ask, placing my bag by the front door, tossing my keys into the dish, and stepping toward her.

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

She nods once more. "I was planning on calling you, but then I started thinking about how tired I was of talking to you over the phone and through text. So, I called Hansens and asked Nora for your address. And the next thing I knew, I was on a red-eye." She pauses, scratching her eyebrow, "I had to convince your building manager to let me into your apartment. I hope that's okay... Also, I feel like you might want to think about finding a new place because it didn't take much to talk him to let me in."

I huff a laugh as I stare at her, my brows pulling together, rendered speechless and a little confused. But mostly just shocked that she's standing in my New York City apartment.

"Wells," she starts after a stretch of silence, "I understand you wanted to give me time and space to move on from Beckett, to avoid making me feel like I was rushing into things with you. But the thing is, I don't need time to move on from Beckett because I was over him months ago. From the moment I walked into Hansen's Coffee, you have been the only person I've thought about."

"I broke all my rules for you, Wells," she confesses, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "The 'no boys' pact, falling in love with you right after breaking up with someone else, getting fired—it didn't bother me, truthfully. The getting fired, I mean. It didn't bother me because I don't think I ever really wanted the job in the first place, especially not after you left. So, I figured, what's one more rule to break? I know you wanted to give us both time to adjust, but, Wells, I don't want space from you. I just want you."

I stand there, attempting to gather myself, letting the noise of car honks and people talking from outside fill the apartment. She bites down on her bottom lip, and her eyes dip to the floor.

"I really wish you'd say something now," she says, "because I'm kind of freaking out. I also planned to stay with you since I'm jobless now, and I'm pretty sure I can't afford a hotel, especially considering my flight cost almost a thousand dollars."

"I was going to call you," I utter, my voice hoarse, taking another step closer.

"Oh," she says, scrunching her nose in confusion.

"I was waiting to call you until you got off of work," I say, clarifying. Moving closer, I reach for a strand of her chestnut hair. Rubbing it carefully between my thumb and forefinger, I give a gentle tug, just to make sure she's really here. She smiles at me, and something spills into my chest, warm honey. "To tell you how desperately I miss you, Juniper. How desperately I'm in love with you. How I want you here in New York with me"

"Really?" She clutches two handfuls of my button-up, pulling me closer.

My nose brushes hers. "Yeah."

Her eyes flutter shut, and she draws in a deep, contented breath. "I thought maybe you'd send me home once you saw me."

"No. Please, don't go back," I murmur, gently shaking my head against hers. "Stay here with me. We can have coffee in the park on Saturdays, explore every bookstore in the city together. I'll show you my favorite bakery, buy one of everything. Just, please, don't go back. I want this, here with you."

I gently press my nose against her temple, my palm gliding along the waist of her plaid skirt until it rests at the small of her back, pulling her closer to me. We stand together in the middle of my apartment. Boxes strewn around, books piled in the corners. "I like how that sounds," she whispers.

"Good because I'm not letting you go again," I pause, hovering over her lips just before planting the softest, lightest, sweetest peck on them. "Move here with me. To New York. Move in with me."

She tips her head back until her eyes can search mine, wide. "Do you not think it's too soon?" she whispers. "Aren't there... aren't there like rules for that? Timelines?"

"I don't care," I whisper, locking eyes with her warm honey-brown ones.

"You don't?"

I shake my head slightly, delicately tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "No, I don't."

She studies my face, her eyes moving between mine. "Okay," she finally says, a smile tucked at the corners of her lips. Leaning in, she lets her mouth brush against mine, gentle, light, and warm. "Okay," she repeats.

A grin spreads across my face as I pull her closer to me, pressing my lips against hers. Pure relief washes over me. Pure happiness.

"They were all just broken rules anyways, Juniper," my voice hushed against hers.

She smiles into our kiss just as a tear slips down her cheek. "I think you might be right."