I knew Reed was home because roses in every color filled the house when I walked in. I didn't bother counting them. There would be 133, one for each day he'd been gone. He was never wrong.

My phone rang and I answered it, heart pounding. "I'm gonna kick your ass," I said conversationally.

"Miss me, chérie?" came his ebullient voice.

"You're a bad person," I chided, excitement making my words sound fake as hell.

"Come outside."

They were the words I'd hoped to hear next and I was on the porch practically before they were out of his mouth. He leaned on the railing, a broad smile on his face. Then he was lifting me and twirling me around and we almost fell off the porch.

"What the hell!" I said as he put me down, punching his arm. "Four and a half months!" I smoothed my light hair down on the left side of my face to hide it.

"Oui, I know, I know, it couldn't be helped." He gathered my hair behind my neck, purposely undoing my covering job, silver in his warm hands.

"Don't be bringing me flowers and jewelry and think it makes up for it," I scolded, but I reached up to hold the little pendant even as I shook my hair loose again. A tiny silver dragon held a teensy blue rock. It was painted to look like the earth. "But this is totally awesome. But I'm totally mad at you."

"I know," he said again easily, perching on the railing. "I'm sorry." His hair was black and he'd let it grow out some, the way I liked it. He usually kept it short "so no one can get a handful." 

"Mmm-hmm," I said, but I wasn't mad. How could I be? 

"You love me," he said happily, nudging me a little. "So. Show me what you're working on. I don't see any paint in your hair."

I raised a hand to it. "I haven't painted yet today. Let's go climb."

We ended up on top of the water tower, as it was the highest thing nearby. We had met climbing when I was eleven, back when life was normal. My dad had been his instructor.

It was nice in the October weather up there. During summer the tar was sticky, not that it had ever stopped us. We lounged as the wind whipped around, no railing or safety zone, our favorite way. Neither of us feared heights, or falling.

"You've been somewhere tropical," I said of his tanned arms. He wore only a tattered hemp vest and jeans and moccasins, numerous charms around his neck, tattoos all over. His teeth were white in the falling darkness and his eyes were warm and I hated that I'd missed him so much, damn him. "I could kick you," I added. I was beginning to grow cold because I never thought about a jacket before I needed one and was only wearing a long sleeved shirt. It said Weekend at Your Mom's. I'd found it at the thrift store.

"You're going to kick me for being somewhere tropical, chérie?" He pretended to be affronted. His accent was slightly French, as his birth mom had been not only a mentally ill prostitute but also French Polynesian, and he'd lived with her in Tahiti and then Los Angeles until her demise on his eighth birthday. 

He did speak fluent French . . . as well as Tahitian, Spanish, Portuguese, Japanese, Arabic, and Mandarin, because he was brilliant and just picked languages up. There were several others he was proficient in. 

He'd never known his father, who was Egyptian and also dead. 

Now he laughed at me. "Trust me, the bugs alone would have had you running away screaming."

The big question loomed over us and I dreaded asking it but the longer I waited the worse it was. "So?" I finally said, trying not to sound resentful.

He took my hands, some of his rings old and some new. "At least a week," he said, cringing a little in anticipation of my reaction. "Here, wear this to keep safe." He slipped off his blue ring, the one I thought of as a mood ring though it wasn't, and slid it onto my thumb.

"To keep me safe, or the ring?" I asked, berating myself for being near tears at the news he would only be here a week. Be glad for the fucking week, I told myself sternly. Of course, I rarely listen to myself and my heart was in my boots. Actually I was barefoot, which I preferred when climbing, but still.

"Both," he said, kissing my cheek as he stood again. "Or perhaps you having it will help to keep me safe, as well."

I sighed. Reed and I had the perfect relationship, except for a few small things.

There was no doubt he'd always been there for me. When I'd lost the rest of my family at twelve, he'd somehow kept in touch with me, checking up on me wherever they moved me, making sure I was safe though he was only two years my senior.

I didn't remember a time I hadn't been madly in love with him but now, at twenty two, I was too old for such romantic nonsense. And though he loved me very much, it was obviously never going to happen the way I wanted or it would have already. I didn't know if he knew but hoped he didn't. He probably did.

Unfortunately, my heart was slow and hadn't gotten that particular message.

Then of course there were the disappearances, which were probably my fault too. I'd been fifteen when he helped me escape a nightmarish foster home. I'd had nothing as far as possessions or people went, other than him. He had set me up in a little place of my own, and then he'd disappeared the next day for six weeks, with only the briefest of confusing warnings in the form of a note. 

In the seven years since it had happened twenty-five times, and he was unable to give me an explanation or even talk about it at all.

Otherwise, perfect relationship, helloooo. Obviously. We'll be getting married soon probably.

He was asleep on the couch the next morning where he'd passed out, wrapped up in my favorite fuzzy blanket. He usually slept in my bed with me, however platonic it was. I stood for a minute and looked at him laying there on his stomach, one fist under his cheek, snoring a tiny bit. Dark stubble defined his jaw and he had no shirt on. I may have taken a picture, who even knows. So cute.

I made coffee and the smell woke him up. It was almost noon. He stretched and yawned, pulling the pink blanket around his shoulders though it was warm in the room. "I love this blanket," he said happily, taking a mug from me. "Thanks, chérie. I never sleep well away from home, you know? It's like the first time I've been rested in forever."

"I don't super love hearing that you don't get much rest," I admitted. He was thinner, but he was always lean. He was rarely still and burned calories like mad. "And what have you been eating, besides nothing?"

"I've been eating," he assured me, checking his phone and making a face. "Just, you know me." He grinned, and oh my heart.

"You're a pinball," I agreed.

He patted the couch next to him and I sat. "You smell like roses," he said.

"Gee, I wonder why." The house was slightly perfume factoryish.

He sobered a little as a thought occurred to him. "Are roses still your favorite, Addy? Maybe you hate them now, and it's only daffodils or peonies for you?" he half teased. 

My name is Adelaide, and most people called me Heidi, which was the common nickname for the old fashioned name. But not Reed.

I just shook my head at him. "You know I love them, dude. Stop."

The corners of his mouth rose. His heart was always on his sleeve. As a teen he would scale anything and beam down at people from the top, his smile ear to ear. Even when the cops showed up. Of course I was usually up there with him and equally in trouble, though I at least had the good grace to be nervous about it. 

The horrors he'd endured as a child should have by all rights left him the cruelest person on the planet, and yet here he was. Sweet, kind, amazing. Perfect.

He looked at me expectantly. "So give me your latest manuscript, I can't wait."

Sometimes I wrote mystery novels. It was dumb. No one read them anyway. I narrowed my eyes at him. "I don't know if you deserve it."

He quirked his mouth, knowing he'd won already. "You know I do. Has Bella read it yet?"

I shrugged, not wanting to talk about my alcoholic best friend, who had read the first half of my latest book and then asked the next day when she could read the first half.

His face changed into sympathy. "I'll remember it if I read it," he promised. He gently snapped the blue rubber band on my wrist.

I felt like painting so I handed over my laptop and poured the colors that wanted to be painted with. I didn't know what I was creating, but that was usually the case whether picture or story. I had a lot of unpredictable creativity.

"A week, huh?" I made a face as I poured.

"It'll be the best week ever," he told me, his eyes sad though the corners of his mouth rose.  Both of us were well aware at how fast a week went by. "It always is when we're together."

How could I not love him.