58. The Aftermath
CHAPTER 58
THE AFTERMATH
NORA
I wake to sunlight filtering through curtains and the uncanny sensation of being watched. Blinking sleep from my eyes, I turn to find Bones—my well-loved, lopsided stuffed animal—propped on the pillow beside me, his crooked button eyes watching like an old friend. Beneath one worn paw lies a folded note.
Had to go help Nick this morning and didn't want to wake you.
See you later.
N x
A soft smile tugs at my lips as my fingers trace over his familiar scrawl like trying to read braille. Memories of last night wash over me. Nate's arms around me, his steady warmth and quiet presence lulling me to sleep like the sweetest lullaby.
I can't remember the last time I felt safe.
Held.
Wanted.
Not the fleeting, superficial kind of wanted, but the kind that feels like a secret whispered just for you.
I push myself out of bed and head downstairs, only to be greeted by the familiar chaos of my brother and Jake. The blender's angry whir fills the kitchen as Ollie's exasperated voice booms with underlying affection.
"Jake! Get your lazy ass up!"
The words echo through the house, carrying notes of warmth that only years of friendship can create.
I hesitate on the staircase, lingering like a ghost. Their bickering fills the air like morning music, and while I'm tempted to peek in, I hold back. After yesterday, I'm probably the last person Jake wants to see. Giving him space feels better than forcing a conversation he's not ready for. At least he's still talking to Ollie. That's something.
"Here, drink this," Ollie commands with military authority, shoving a glass of suspicious green sludge toward Jake, who's sprawled on the couch in a picture-perfect image of dramatic suffering. The care beneath Ollie's gruff exterior shows in the strategically placed water bottle and in the already-drawn curtains dimming harsh morning light.
Jake wrinkles his nose like a child faced with vegetables. "What's in this? Nuclear waste?"
"Avocado, banana, spinach, turmeric, and lemon," Ollie recites with pride. "It boosts cognitive function, something you clearly lack." The insult carries the fondness only best friends manage.
Jake takes a hesitant sip, his face contorting in betrayal. "Ollie, what the actual fuck is this?"
"Health. Now drink it." Ollie's tone brooks no argument, carrying the same firm kindness Mom uses when she knows what's best for us.
"I hate you."
"And yet, here we are." Ollie shoves the glass back at Jake like a lifeguard throwing a rope. "Now get up. I'm not letting you wallow in whatever this is." He waves a finger in Jake's face with the authority of a conductor directing a very reluctant orchestra.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes, shit face." Ollie yanks the blanket off Jake with practiced ease, revealing his half-dressed state. "Get up or I'm dragging your sorry ass out there myself."
Groaning like a bear woken mid-hibernation, Jake snatches the clothes Ollie tosses at him—ones clearly picked out and brought down earlier, another silent act of care.
"Do you ever stop talking?"
"Maybe if you listened, I would."
"You're the reason God invented the middle finger," Jake mutters, tugging on his shorts but leaving his chest bare.
"And you're more disappointing than a soggy pretzel, but I still tolerate you." Ollie crosses his arms, triumph softening his eyes even as he maintains his stern facade. "Now drink the sludge, brush your teeth, and be ready in ten. We're hitting the waves."
Jake sighs, running a hand through his messy hair in defeat.
"Yes, Mom," he grumbles, offering a mock salute before trudging upstairs.
Ollie turns to the blender, unbothered, as if wrangling Jake is just another part of his morning routine—which, in many ways, it is. I watch as he quietly prepares another smoothie, recognizing these small gestures that reveal who my brother truly is: the guy who remembers everyone's favorite foods, notices when someone's struggling, and wraps his care in jokes because that's the language boys like them understand best.
From my hidden spot, I release a breath. Jake's mood isn't something I can handle this morning, not when my own emotions feel like glass ready to shatter.
Stepping into the kitchen, I'm greeted by Ollie's signature brightness that somehow fills every corner like summer sunshine.
"Morning, Nor," he says, sliding a glass of green sludge across the counter with showman's flourish. I eye it suspiciously before taking a sip, grimacing at the taste of liquid grass.
"Oh, my God, what is this?"
"Not you too." Ollie throws his hands up with theatrical flair. "Does anyone in this house care about their health?"
"Says the self-proclaimed King of the Keg," I counter, arching an eyebrow.
"Exactly," he grins, lifting his own glass in a mock toast that catches morning light. "The secret to my success is recovery, dear sister. Drink it." His eyes dance with mischief and something deeper, that eternal spark that makes Ollie who he is.
Despite myself, I laugh—the sound surprising me with its authenticity—and take another hesitant sip. Ollie leans against the counter, his tone softening like snow melting, seriousness slipping through his usual bravado.
"So, I'm taking Jake out today. Getting him away from the house. He wasn't in a good place last night. And you? You good?"
Ollie's always been the one who steps into roles none of us ask him to, wearing responsibility like a second skin. It's not just me he looks out for—it's all of us.
"Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Ol," I say softly, meaning every syllable.
He clinks his glass against mine, grinning with that infectious warmth that's uniquely Ollie.
"Finish that smoothie."
I roll my eyes but comply, lifting the glass in mock toast as he brushes past Lydia entering the kitchen, their movements fluid like ships passing in familiar waters.
"Morning, Lyds!" Ollie chirps, flashing her a boyish smile that could charm birds from trees.
"Morning, sunshine," she replies, ruffling his hair affectionately as he heads down the hall, her fingers lingering like she's touching a memory.
Lydia's light laugh doesn't quite mask the weariness etched into her face—the faint circles under her eyes like bruises, the slight tremble in her hands reminiscent of autumn leaves. She crosses to the counter, pouring coffee with movements mechanical as a wind-up doll.
"What are you drinking?" she asks, confused at the dark green sludge Ollie left me with.
"An Ollie special."
"I think I'll stick to coffee in the mornings."
"You okay, Lydia?" I ask, leaning against the island, watching her carefully.
She pauses, hand hovering over the sugar jar like a hummingbird unsure where to land, before letting out a bitter laugh that sounds like breaking things.
"Honestly, I don't even know how to answer that anymore."
That is something I can relate to.
Lydia has always been the strong one but sitting across from her now, I see the fault lines she tries to hide, running deep beneath her composed surface.
"For what it's worth, I admire your strength, Lydia," I offer gently, the words falling between us like autumn leaves.
She sighs, taking a seat across from me. "Strong doesn't mean invincible." Her weary smile carries years of weight. "But sometimes, what other choice is there than to be strong?" Her voice drops as her gaze shifts toward the hall where Ollie disappeared, carrying love and worry in equal measure. "But I appreciate it, sweetheart," she adds, her faint smile not quite reaching her eyes.
I recognize that smile—I've worn it myself like armor. One that hides too much, like ocean depths beneath calm surface. Mom's late-night conversations echo in my mind, fragments of Lydia's story pieced together like a broken mirror: a childhood home that was more battlefield than sanctuary, where silence meant safety and love spoke a foreign tongue. Her mother's abandonment left her with a father who drowned his pain in bottles, inflicting wounds deeper than skin.
The memory of Mom describing young Lydia, huddled in closet with a pillow pressed to her chest, trying to muffle her father's thunderous rage, makes my heart ache. She made herself a promise then, written in tears and determination: if she ever had children, she'd never abandon them. She'd protect them at any cost, even if it meant carrying scars that never fully healed. But life has a cruel sense of irony. Lydia married a man cut from the same cloth as her father—abusive and volatile. As if she believed such treatment was her birthright, clinging to whatever scraps of love she could gather. I see it in her occasional flinch at sudden movements, how her eyes track exits in crowded spaces.
She takes another sip of coffee, her hands trembling slightly as she sets the cup down.
"Nate mentioned he'll be at Sonder all day," she says, breaking the silence. "He's really changed since the beginning of summer." Her voice carries a weight I can't quite decipher.
I nod, unsure how to respond, feeling exposed under her knowing gaze. Does she see what's happening between Nate and me?
Whatever we are?
Her expression softens as she reaches across the table, her warm hand covering mine. The touch grounds me, and for a moment, I'm transported back to childhood. The scent of her vanilla lotion mingles with coffee in the morning air.
"Those boys of mine," she says gently, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in that motherly way that makes my chest ache, "they'd do anything for you."
I swallow hard and nod, feeling the truth of her words settle in my bones. The kitchen clock ticks steadily, marking each loaded second.
"Nate especially," she adds, her voice soft as a secret. Something in her tone makes me look up, meeting eyes that hold too much understanding. "He might not want to care about anyone, but he does. And despite his track record, there's only one girl who could actually make him really smile."
Heat rises to my cheeks as I stay quiet, letting her words sink in while the morning holds its breath around us.
"Since you've been around, he smiles more." She pauses, and I hear what she's not saying—how rare it is for Nate to let anyone close enough to matter. "I know he can be distant, even difficult, especially when he's trying to figure things out. But don't give up on him."
I take a breath, her words hanging between us like something tangible.
I couldn't give up on him even if I tried.
"Actually, before I forget," Lydia says, straightening up, "Nate left his phone here this morning. It's been ringing nonstop. If you're heading to Sonder, would you mind taking it to him? It's driving me crazy."
"Of course," I say, standing. My chair scrapes against the floor, breaking our intimate moment's spell.
She hands me the phone with a grateful smile, and I tuck it into my pocket, noticing how her gaze follows the movement. There's something in her eyes, something more she wants to say.
"Thank you, love," Lydia says, her eyes lingering on me with an intensity that makes me wonder what she sees. But she doesn't elaborate, and I don't press.
Nate might not make things easy, but neither does life. And maybe that's the point—to find the people worth fighting for, even when it's hard. Even when they don't know how to ask for help, or when they push you away thinking it's for the best.
The guitar's melody reaches me before I even step inside Sonder—a soft, mournful sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes. My pulse quickens because I know exactly who's playing. I'd recognize his music anywhere.
I slip inside quietly, letting the door click shut behind me. The place is unrecognizable from my last visit. Leather booths stretch along the walls, tabletops gleam with newness, and the bar stands fully stocked, rows of bottles catching light like captured stars. But my eyes are drawn to the stage, where a single spotlight creates an island of warmth in the dim room.
And there he is.
Nate sits perched on a battered water cooler, guitar cradled against his chest like something precious. His head bows over it in complete absorption, dark hair falling across his forehead, creating shadows that dance across his face. His fingers move across the strings with a reverence I've never seen him show anyone else, plucking each note with precision and care, as if he's speaking a language only he understands.
There's something achingly vulnerable about the way he plays, how completely he gives himself to the music. It's not just a performance—it's confession. Each chord seems to pull something from deep within him, revealing layers I rarely get to see. Here, he's not Nate Sullivan, the captain of the football team, the guy everyone leans on, the one carrying burdens too heavy for his shoulders.
He's just… Nate.
Raw and real and breathtakingly honest.
The connection between him and the instrument feels visceral—they breathe together, move together, speak together in a language of wood and wire and want.
For a moment, I feel like I'm witnessing something sacred, something not meant for anyone else's eyes. He's completely lost in the music, his face softening, as if every note releases another piece of armor he usually wears. The burdens he carries seem to slip away, leaving only the boy who found salvation in six strings because music was the one thing that couldn't betray him. Every movement flows naturally, as if the guitar isn't just an instrument but a part of him. He's not playing it; he's bearing his soul through it.
"What song was that?" I interrupt softly, almost afraid to break the spell.
His head snaps up, eyes finding mine with startling intensity. There's no embarrassment at being caught in this vulnerable moment; instead, something almost relieved flickers across his expression.
"It's uhh… something I wrote," he says, flashing me a smile that makes my knees weak with its authenticity.
"Really?" My voice wavers slightly as our eyes lock, electricity crackling in the space between us.
"Do you like it?"
"I… I love it. It's really beautiful, Nate." The words feel inadequate for what I've just witnessed.
"Good," he says, his fingers pausing on the strings while his eyes hold mine, soft and intense all at once, as if he's trying to tell me something words can't express. "You inspired it."
The confession hits me square in the chest, stealing my breath. "Me?"
"I always wanted a muse." His lips curve into a gentle smile that holds too many emotions to name.
I stand there, rooted to the spot as he resumes playing. I see it then—the moment he truly loses himself in the music. He's just a boy with a guitar, free from the weight of expectations and past mistakes.
No baggage, no pain.
The boy I fell in love with all those years ago, before life taught us both how to build walls.
I shake myself out of the trance as the last chord fades and pull his phone from my pocket. I walk toward him, trying to ignore how each step closer makes my heart beat faster.
"You forgot your phone at home," I say, holding it out.
When he takes it, his fingers brush mine, sending sparks across my skin. He stares at the screen momentarily, and something dark passes across his face like storm clouds gathering. He does a good job hiding whatever has him ticked, but I've known him too long not to notice.
"Thanks," he mutters, setting the guitar aside with gentle reverence. His presence fills the space around me, making the air feel thick.
"Is it just you here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper in the hushed atmosphere.
"Yeah. Nick ran to the hardware store. He'll be back in twenty minutes or so."
"Twenty minutes, huh?" I step closer, sliding myself between his legs until there's nothing but heat and electric tension between us.
My hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the ripple of taut muscles beneath my palms, still warm from playing. His calloused hands—rough from years of football and hard work—instinctively find their way to my hips. His eyes darken to amber in the dim light, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes my heart stumble.
"What are you doing?"
"What two people who want each other do." My voice carries more suggestion than I intended, my lips brushing dangerously close to his, close enough to share breath.
"You want me?"
I nod.
"How do you want me Nora?” His smirk deepens, his hands tightening slightly on my hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh through denim.
"In all the ways that matter, Nathaniel." I draw out his full name deliberately, savoring how his jaw twitches.
"Nathaniel?" He looks up at me from underneath dark eyelashes, those hazel eyes turning liquid amber in the fading light. There's a question in them, mingled with something darker, hungrier.
"People only call me that when I'm in trouble." Slowly, with aching deliberation, he leans forward. His warm breath fans across my stomach as he presses a kiss just above my navel. Then another, slightly higher. A third, just below my ribs. Each touch of his lips burns through the thin fabric of my shirt.
"Am I in trouble, Nora?" he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and rough around the edges, sending shivers racing down my spine.
"Maybe," I whisper.
My breath catches when his fingers graze the sensitive skin just above my jeans. In one fluid motion, he stands, closing the distance between us until we're sharing the same air. My hands find the waistband of his shorts, fingers hooking through the belt loops, pulling him closer still. The hard planes of his body press against mine, and I can feel his heart hammering in perfect rhythm with my own. A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest. He catches my hands in his, halting my exploration. My heart stutters, expecting rejection, preparing for him to pull away.
“I don't want to rush this—or you," he says, his voice low and steady as bedrock, laced with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. "I don't ever want you to feel like you have to. We've got time. I just want you to be sure. Of this. Of me. Of… us."
Us.
The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with promise, wrapping itself around my heart like ivy. My throat tightens under the weight of his sincerity. I lean in, resting my forehead lightly against his.
"I've been sure about you since I was eight years old," I whisper, my voice trembling with raw honesty.
His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer until there's no space left for doubt between us.
"You are the only thing I'm sure of right now," I continue, conviction threading through my voice like steel. "I can't think of anything else I want more than this."
In one swift movement, his arms encircle my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the nearby table. My legs part instinctively, and his hips press firmly against mine, grounding me with an intensity that sets every nerve ending alight. His hands cradle my face with a gentleness that contradicts his usual strength, the pads of his thumbs grazing my cheeks as if memorizing my features. When his lips find mine, the world dissolves into sensation.
It's not just a kiss—it's confession and claim wrapped into one. Every suppressed longing, every stolen glance, every unspoken word between us pours into it, igniting something primal and profound within me.
When he leans back slightly, his dark hair falls messily across his forehead. His eyes catch mine, no longer empty but alive with emotion, their flecks of amber burning in them.
“Fuck Nora. You have no idea how much I've wanted this," he murmurs, his voice rough with honesty. His lips curve into a smile, one so devastatingly wicked yet achingly soft that it makes my breath catch. "How much I've wanted you."
His hands slide lower, fingers grazing the curve of my waist before gripping my hips with a possessiveness that sends heat rushing to my core. Every touch feels deliberate and careful.
"I've wanted to touch you like this," he says against my neck, his lips trailing fire along my skin. "Kiss you like this." His teeth graze the delicate spot beneath my ear, and I gasp, my hands instinctively gripping his shoulders.
His shoulders—broad and powerful—tense beneath my fingers, and I feel the strength coiled in him, barely restrained. My hands wander down his arms, brushing over the hard lines of his biceps, memorizing every curve, every ridge of his physique like a map I want to trace forever. His muscles flex under my touch, and the heat pooling in my stomach intensifies.
When I breathe his name, soft and desperate, his entire body stiffens. His grip on my hips tightens.
"Do you have any idea hearing you say my name like that does to me?” His voice is raw, almost tortured, and his eyes darken with something primal. "It drives me fucking crazy, Nora."
The way he looks at me—like I'm his salvation and destruction all at once—makes my heart stutter. His gaze drops to my lips, and before I can respond, his mouth crashes against mine again, stealing every coherent thought. It's overwhelming, intoxicating, the way he takes me apart piece by piece. I arch into him, needing more, craving the way his touch sets me on fire and soothes me at the same time. He pulls back just enough for his eyes to lock onto mine. There's something raw in the way he looks at me—primal and unrestrained—like I'm the only thing he's ever wanted.
He moves, and the next thing I feel is his hand sliding down, warm and deliberate, as if he's savoring every second. When his finger enters me, my breath leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp and the sheer sensation has me clutching onto him like he's the only thing keeping me grounded.
"Nate," I manage, his name breaking on a moan.
"I've dreamt of you like this," he whispers into my ear, his breath hot against my skin, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "For so fucking long. Come for me."
The word falls from my lips before I can think, a breathless whisper that's equal parts surrender and certainty. "Yes."
A devilish grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, wicked and devastatingly beautiful.
"Good."
My body arches against him, desperate and willing as he moves with an intimacy so devastatingly raw it feels like he's branding himself onto my soul.
"Nate…"
"What is it, Nora?" His tone is teasing, but there's an edge to it, a hunger that matches mine.
"I…"
"You what?" His smirk grows, dark and knowing as his pace quickens.
Every time he moves, my body screams for more. It's like nothing will ever be enough with him. He's unrelenting, driving me to the brink of madness, and I barely form the words, but I force them out.
"More."
"More what, Len? Tell me."
"I need more," I whisper, the plea cracking through the tension.
Another low, devilish laugh escapes his lips, and his eyes—those dark, amber-flecked eyes—grow impossibly darker, pulling me into their depths like a vortex.
"You want me to take you right here?"
I nod, but it's not enough for him.
"Words. I need your words."
It's possessive and tender, and it sets my pulse racing like a drumbeat.
"Yes, Nate. Yes, I want you to fuck me right here," I say, the words tumbling out, raw and unfiltered. “Please.”
An animalistic groan escapes him, low and primal, and I feel it reverberate through his chest, straight into mine. His hands tighten on my hips, and his lips crash against mine with a ferocity that's intoxicating. He devours me like he's starved, his movements deliberate and intense, his body pressing against mine with the kind of need that makes me feel like I'm the only thing keeping him alive.
His free hand roams my body, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. His fingers press into my hips, his palms exploring the curve of my waist, and I memorize the way he feels—strong, unyielding, yet impossibly tender. My hands run across the hard planes of his chest, his shoulders, and down his arms, marveling at the strength in his muscles. Every ridge and curve of his body is burned into my memory, and I can't stop myself from tracing them, wanting to know him in every way possible.
But it's not just a yes to this moment.
It's a yes to him—to everything he is and everything he's asking of me.
Because I know as I look into his wild, amber eyes, that I'd do anything for Nate Sullivan.
All he'd have to do is ask.
And I know how dangerous that is.