. . . He smells like the cologne I gave him on his birthday. The one I've been giving him since we were fourteen. He used to pretend he didn't like it until I found the empty bottle in his bag. Ever since then, it's been his birthday gift. He'd give me the stink-eye whenever I'd hand it to him, but he'd always have that scent hanging over him. The musk of cold air reminds me of home sometimes—reminds me of him.
