Kurt smells like home.

Which is a strange thing to think, really, because he doesnt smell anything like my parents house. He smells like cologne and clean laundry and damp wool and skin, and hugging him might be the single most amazing experience of my entire life. I relax into his arms with a sigh. He makes me feel so safe. I let myself imagine, for a moment, what it would have been like to have Kurt in my life when I was in high school. I picture stolen kisses in secluded Dalton alcoves... holding hands in the back row of the Lima movie theater... making out in the back seat of my–

"I missed this," he whispers faintly.

I pull away quickly, my arms crossing tightly around myself to replace the lost warmth. "What?"

His eyes widen as he realizes what he said – that he essentially just mixed me up with his dead boyfriend, just as I was picturing myself sharing my life with him.

"Sorry." He doesnt look sorry.

"Its okay." Its not okay.

We stand there, not looking at each other, as the barista behind the counter answers the ringing telephone. I cant decide what I want to do more – fall back into his arms, or run away. "Is this normal?" I ask finally.

"Is what normal?"

I shrug helplessly. "Wanting to spend every minute of every day with someone I barely know? Feeling better just because youre in the same room with me? I just... I dont know. Is this normal? Because I kind of feel like Im losing my mind here."

Kurt sighs. "I dont know if its normal, but at least were in the same boat."

"You mean–"

"I feel the same way about you, yes."

I bite my tongue, trying not to ask, but I cant resist. "Was it like this for you before? With your old boyfriend?"

He nods sadly. "It was exactly like this."

The barista hangs up the phone and calls out to us. "Um, excuse me, guys?" She looks apologetic when we turn toward her. "That was my boss. He says the snow is supposed to get worse, and he wants me to close up the shop for the day." I dont say anything, so Kurt offers her a polite smile in response. "Do you want me to make you anything first?" she asks, reaching for her coat and hat. "Coffee? Espresso?"

"No, your boss is right, you should go home," he replies. Then he looks at me searchingly. "Blaine, if the roads are going to be bad, you probably shouldnt head back to Westerville."

"Probably not," I agree quietly.

"You should come home with me. Wait it out."

I feel like Im already waiting too many things out. But I cant say no to this boy, and so I trail behind him out into the snow, toward our cars. We drive slowly down a series of sleepy Lima streets, until at last I follow his Navigator into an unshoveled driveway. His house is tiny, a single story all of brick. I park and get out of my car, glancing around at the neighborhood. From Kurts usual attire, Id expected his family to be on the wealthy side, like mine. But this area is decidedly run-down.

Hes already heading up the little path to the front door, so I hurry to catch up.

"Home sweet home," he says wryly, unlocking the door and stepping inside. We enter into a kitchen, which is odd. Dont front doors usually lead to foyers, or at least living rooms?

"I like it," I tell him. And I do. Kurt lives here. "Is this the house where you grew up?"

"This place? No, weve only lived here for about eight months." He peels off his overcoat and holds out his hand until I slip out of my own coat and give it to him. "We used to live in a nicer house. But after the attack, my hospital and physical therapy bills were kind of overwhelming... and Dads insurance didnt cover any of my counseling sessions. So money became too tight for us to stay there." I catch the guilt in his expression as he hangs our coats on a hook by the door.

"Im sorry," I tell him lamely.

He nods. "You want anything to eat or drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"Actually, coffee would be great. Since we left the Lima Bean empty-handed and all."

"No problem." He starts a fresh pot of coffee, then pulls out a couple of mugs, spoons, a carton of cream and a little bowl of sweetener. When the pot is ready, he starts to reach for the mugs, then pauses, a strange light in his eyes. "Which one do you want?" he asks me.

"Which mug?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I dont care." Not entirely true, actually. One of the mugs is Tiffany blue with a delicate handle. The other has an old-fashioned mustache design printed on it. If I knew Kurt a little better, Id totally want to take the mustache one and do my best impression of Groucho Marx for him. I dont know him that well, though, and when he keeps watching me expectantly, I finally reach out and take the blue mug to be safe. Kurt looks crestfallen. "Did you want that one?" I ask him, confused.

"No. No, youre fine."

Hes quiet, though, not looking at me as he prepares our coffee. I cant help feeling like I just failed a test without even knowing I was taking one.

We sip our coffee at the kitchen counter. I glance wistfully at the mustache mug. It really is awesome.

"We can chat in the living room, if you want," he ventures when were both finished, and I nod agreeably, following him a few steps down a small hallway.

Theres a large framed photo on the wall, and I stop to study it curiously. Kurt looks a year or two younger in it, his hair swooped to the side, his cheeks a little fuller. Theres a tall guy our age beside him – must be Finn – and a woman with a pleasant look about her. And then theres... huh. My head cocks to the side. Is this really what Kurts dad looks like? Hes bald, and unrefined, and pretty much exactlywho I envisioned the day I met Kurt.

Weird.

"My family," Kurt says from beside me. I turn to smile at him, and nod. "What do you think of my dad?"

I look back at the photo. What am I supposed to think of his dad? This feels like another test, and Im bewildered by what to say. I mean, hes a dad. He looks like a dad. And he looks like the mechanic I know he is, too. Im sure hes in stained coveralls much of the day, leaning over the hood of a car as I hand him a carburetor–

"Well?" Kurts squeezing my arm, his eyes hopeful.

"He looks nice."

He doesnt seem crestfallen this time around; he seems almost angry. "Thats all?"

I shrug, lost. "He looks... really nice?"

"I know whats going on, Blaine," he bursts out. "I can see it, when it happens. Do you really think I cant? Do you think Im stupid?"

"No," I say desperately. "No, I think youre wonderful."

Hes falling apart in front of me, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I dont know how to do this," he whispers brokenly. "I know its not your fault, I do, I just... I just miss you so much. I miss you all the time."

Out of all the scenarios I ever envisioned for our first kiss, I never pictured anything like this: me rushing forward to claim his mouth feverishly, dizzy with confusion, our lips sliding together, wet with Kurts tears. It feels like everything. He feels like everything.

"I never even let myself hope," he groans, leaning down to place kisses along my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. "I thought Id never get to kiss you again."

I pull back, breathing hard. The air in the room feels charged, like something big is happening. Kurts staring at me, and Im staring back. "Maybe," I murmur, "maybe we should watch a movie or something."

"A movie?" He looks like hes not familiar with the word.

"Yeah, I just... yeah."

He nods, glances down at my lips. "Yeah, of course. We said wed take it slow, right?"

I smile self-consciously, and he kisses my cheek quickly before heading down the hall. I turn to the right and head into the living room, trying to get my bearings.

Its a small and comfortable room, with a lived-in feeling that has always eluded my moms pristine parlor. The leather couch sags invitingly, and all of the chairs have worn spots on the arms. Its the kind of room Id like to curl up in with a good book. Speaking of which, theres a large bookcase on the far wall. I wander over, curious as to what this family likes to read. I spot some Tom Clancy novels and most of the Harry Potter books next to several paperback copies of classics. Then, my attention shifts to a series of framed photos adorning a high shelf.

"Oh my god," I murmur, reaching for one of them. It shows a fair-skinned woman holding a toddler, and from the childs eyes and smile, I know its Kurt. Hes adorable, with round cheeks and pudgy fingers that look sticky with grape jelly. Hes clutching the womans long beaded necklace, while she smiles at the camera with very familiar-looking blue eyes.

A lump forms in my throat. Ive never had this sort of relationship with my mom. Our family photos are stiff, formal, posed. Even at a young age, I was always dressed in an uncomfortable starched shirt and polished shoes. Id stand in front of my parents awkwardly, while each of them rested one hand on my shoulders. This photo is the complete opposite. Theres so much warmth in their expressions, so much ease in their pose. Mrs. Hummels arms are wrapped around Kurts torso, and he looks as secure as can be.

I cant imagine how hard it must have been, for Kurt to have experienced that sort of love and lost it so suddenly. And then to lose his boyfriend on top of it all... its almost too much to bear.

I replace the frame, my eyes scanning over the photos lined up beside it on the shelf. Theres one of a young man in a military uniform - not sure who that is. Then theres a photo of a football team hoisting a trophy into the air, and then – my breath catches in my throat. Then theres the most beautiful picture of Kurt I could possibly imagine. I pull it down, gazing at it in wonder.

Hes turned toward the camera as hes hugging someone, and his face – unmarked by scars or grief – is absolutely radiating joy. My eyes travel over his wide grin, his scrunched-up nose and gleaming eyes, and I wish I could know this Kurt. Theres no fear or pain in this boy. Hes strong and safe, loving and loved.

I look a little closer at the person hes hugging. I can only see his back, but hes a bit shorter than Kurt. His hair is slicked back, either wet or gelled. His face is buried against Kurts neck, and... oh.

This is him. This is the boyfriend.

Its clear, once I realize it. Kurts hands are splayed low across his back, and the boys palm is cupping the side of Kurts neck. Theyre not hugging as much as embracing, and it almost feels as though the camera intruded on a private moment.

Somethings odd, though. Something about the boy. His hair, and his height, and his coloring.

I can feel the blood drain from my face as it hits me. How fast Kurt seemed to fall for me. How he slipped today, and said he missed hugging and kissing me. The way he stares at me sometimes, his eyes unfocused as though hes imagining someone else completely.

Oh, god. Im such an idiot. Hes never felt anything for me at all. I reel backwards, sinking into an armchair and struggling to breathe.

I remind him of his dead boyfriend. Hes just using me.

I hear footsteps approaching from the hall, and I look up in time to see him round the corner. "Im thinking that today calls for a musical marathon," he says, looking down at a stack of DVDs in his hands. "Do you prefer old Hollywood, or–"

"I found something on your shelf," I interrupt.

"What–" He freezes when he sees the photo Im holding. "Oh... god. Oh, Blaine."

"I think I deserve an explanation," I say icily.

He swallows hard. "Yeah," he says finally, "I think you do."