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The bottom drawer of the dresser sticks, and I have to wiggle it several times before it slides open halfway. Inside, folded with the loving care my most prized possession deserves, is the red and black flannel shirt. It looks a whole lot like the ones he still wears today, just a little smaller and imbued with all the romantic dreams of my younger self.

If he still means it this morning, the things he said when he came over, if there really is still a chance for us, then I'm done keeping things from him. This isn’t really a secret, more like embarrassing proof of my lifelong obsession, but I’m showing him everything today. I want him to decide whether he wants to take a chance on me or not while holding all the facts. My secrets and my crazy.

The shirt still swallows me whole. Much to my chagrin, I’m about the same height I was at thirteen. My hands are shaking as I roll the sleeves back to my wrists. I’m nervous. Terrified. What if he’s changed his mind?

His truck’s already in its spot when I pull in. I’d have loved a bit more time to try and pull myself together. A few minutes to pace and then time to park myself in my chair and pretend at nonchalance when he came in. But he’s already here.

Diesel comes off the workshop step before my door is halfway open. Not the glazed shuffle from the past weeks. Running in his lopsided way, flat out. And then he's crashing into my shins with his whole back end wagging, giving me his high ridiculous bark that he employs when he’s excited.

"Hi." My throat closes right up. "It’s good to see you too." Down I go, straight onto the gravel, both hands in his ruff while he tries to lick my chin. He smells like low tide and motor oil. In this moment it's the best thing I’ve ever smelled.

I’m shamelessly crying over a dog in a gravel lot and I don’t care who sees me. He came back.

The office door is already propped open with the cinder block, and on my desk, set on a folded paper towel like it's being served, is a tall cup with a domed lid. Hazelnut. Cinnamon dusted over the whipped cream. Hot chocolate from the place on Route 1, which is twenty minutes in the wrong direction from his house, which means the man was up and driving while it was still dark to go and get this for me. I really, really hope it’s not a farewell gesture.

I hear the workshop door opening, his footfalls coming up the back hall, and I rush to sit down at my desk like a normal employee about to have a normal day, and my body immediately makes it clear that no such thing is happening. There's an invoice open on my screen from yesterday and I couldn't read it out loud right now if you paid me.

My breath keeps snagging halfway in and the lack of oxygen is making me light-headed. Then he’s standing in the doorway holding a paper cup that his huge hand turns into a thimble, and everything below my waist comes wide awake at the sight. Swollen, tender, wet. Overly aware of the seam of my jeans.

His eyes take in the flannel and his brow creases in confusion. Not my usual wardrobe. A line appears between his eyes, like he maybe recognizes the shirt, then he shakes it off, clearly determined to say his piece.

"You told me to take the night," he says. "So I took it. It didn't change one word of what I said on your landing. If anything I mean it harder this morning."

"Oh." My eyes are stinging already. "Okay."

"Leave the invoices. You're not working today and neither am I. Marcus can run this yard for one day without the two of us hovering over him."

"Aiden, it's a Tuesday."

"I know what day it is. I'm also the owner of this boatyard, and I’m giving you the day off. Paid." He nods at the cup. "Drink that before it gets completely cold and come up to the house with me. I'm not saying the rest of what I have to say in this office with the door propped open and an audience due any minute. Tommy likes to skulk."

The rest of what he has to say. My heart is suddenly everywhere at once. I stand up too fast, and my elbow catches the PENDING tray and a week of invoices goes fanning across the floor like a card trick nobody asked for.

"I spent all of yesterday getting those in order," I say, to the floor, to the universe.

He's already crouched down, gathering them into a stack with those enormous hands that have touched me both gently and not so gently, but always with the utmost care, squaring the edges on his knee. He sets the tray back on the desk. "You can reorder them tomorrow. Let’s go."

Marcus's truck rolls in while we're crossing the lot. He takes it all in through his windshield. Me, the dog glued to my leg, the boss hovering just behind my shoulder. If any of this surprises him, his face isn’t showing it. He just climbs out calm as can be and says, “Morning. Heading out?”

Aiden glares at him. “Make sure the jobs on the list are all done. We won’t be back today. Invoices can go out tomorrow.” I can feel the tension radiating off Aiden as he waits for a response. Marcus just nods, “Sure thing boss. See you tomorrow,” and heads for the workshop whistling happily. A man pleased with the current turn of events and not hiding it.

Then we’re in the truck and Aiden’s backing out of the lot one-handed. My heart is beating loudly in my ears. I’m focusing on the fact that he said the invoices would be done tomorrow. That means I’ll still be here, right?

The drive up to his place takes no time at all. In full morning sun it's really pretty. White clapboard, a porch facing the water, not one thing in need of repair as far as the eye can see. I’d put in some flowerbeds for color, but otherwise it’s postcard perfect.

Aiden ushers me through the front door, drops his keys in the bowl by the door, and then he stands in the middle of his entryway like he's waiting to be told where things are. He blows out a harsh breath and heads for the kitchen, so I follow. He pulls a chair out from the table for me but he stays standing himself, towering over me silently. I don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating, but he’s managing it very well nonetheless.

"You wanted to say the rest," I prod gently.

"I did. I do." He clears his throat.

And I almost let him. God, I want to let him. But I made myself a promise over a dresser drawer this morning, and if I don't keep it right now I’ll never get the opportunity again.

"Before you say anything else, I need to show you some things." My voice is holding up better than expected. "You made a decision about me once without having all the facts, and that was my fault. I'm not letting that happen to either of us again. So you get everything first. Then you can decide if you still want to say what you’re planning to say."

He frowns. Arguing on principle is sitting right there and he wants it, I can tell. "Alright," he says instead. "Show me."

I stand up and pull the front of the flannel out flat where he can see it properly. "This is yours."