Wilhelm almost takes it back. His stomach pulls into a knot, and his twisting fingers accidentally bend the poppy's stem.

But as Matt stitches the distance between them closed, he hooks his gaze on him and inhales his aroma — slowly, like the breathing exercises he's tried to tame his anxiety. Matt has pretty eyes, he notices, clear and warm like an invitation. His lips look soft. His tousle of dark waves looks like it would be nice to comb his fingers through.

Wilhelm is a little taller, his frame a little more filled out, but he pins Matt's age at a little older than himself. Maybe somewhere around his brother Erik's age, permanently twenty. Through his heartache pricks the thrill of being desired by someone who's surely seen more and done more.

The thrill of being wanted at all, even for a lark, because it's not like anyone else does right now.

When Matt leans in, Wilhelm's eyelashes flutter low. Pulling him in by his shirt, he brushes his bottom lip over Matt's before sealing the kiss. In the back of his thoughts, he adds up three. Three people he's kissed, and two were not Simon.