Even back then, he had known what he wanted to do with his life. During our senior year, as we’d sat under a maple tree outside the school, he’d go on and on about moving to the Big Apple and finding his niche in the world. Some young boys would dream of racing cars or fighting fires when they grew up. Tyler had always wanted to be an accountant.

When I’d first met him our freshman year, I’d thought he was kind of an oddball, despite the obvious charm that came with him. Who dreamed of becoming an accountant? For a history lover like me, it sounded like a lifetime sentence of boredom.

For Tyler though, it was all about the numbers. He had a natural ability and keen insight to finding answers. He’d begun studying tax laws well before college applications were even due, which was why he’d so easily earned a major scholarship at NYU in their honors program. Since then, he’d interned for several major firms in the city, finally settling on working at a top Fortune 500 company to begin his career.

Me? I’d done exactly what my parents wanted and attended a state college, living close to home, while Tyler had been discovering a city I’d only seen on television.

“Stop messing with your hair and come have breakfast with me,” Tyler suggested as he scooted around me, attempting to finish his morning ritual.

“You just want me to cook for you.” I snickered, catching his eye, as he grabbed a bottle of hair gel.

It was still so strange to see him every time I opened my eyes in the morning. He’d changed, losing that Midwestern roughness, now replaced with expensive hair gel and sleek suits.

“Do you blame me?” he asked as he stepped out of the bathroom and into our bedroom.

The apartment was a disaster from my arrival. Boxes and clothes were strewed everywhere. I’d been rushing around, trying to find a job as quickly as possible so that I wouldn’t have to cut into my savings, that I’d barely had time to unpack in the few weeks I’d been here.

“I thought you’d grown fond of the New York life? Bagels every morning, dinners out. Isn’t that what you said to me?”

He turned, the towel from his shower wrapped around his lean frame. “Yes, but now, I have you. And I am still a Midwestern boy. Who can say no to home cooking?”

He smiled when he noticed my attention had waned as I followed a tiny drop of water making a long path down his chest.

“On second thought”—he grinned, taking several steps until the gap between us vanished—“I think we might just skip breakfast this morning.”