He glanced over again, his expression unreadable as we walked up to the entrance of the ER. Just before the doors opened, he said, “You don’t seriously think his fingertippiness was a thing, do you?” “How should I know?” I shivered in the cold and wondered why Wes all of a sudden seemed a little cynical. “It could’ve been.” He let out a noise that was a cross between an exhalation and a groan. “How are you so bad at reading signals?” “Wha—”
HE WANTS YOU TO READ THE SIGNAL THAT HE IS IN LOVE WITH YOU FOR FUCK’S SAKE
