Chapter 14
Nathan
I don’t mean to think about it, but I keep replaying the kiss.
The way it caught me off guard. The way it wasn’t careful or thought out. It just… happened.
One second, I was apologizing, the next, my mouth was on hers. Soft at first. Then not.
I remember the heat of it. The way she didn’t pull back. The way her fingers curled into my shirt like she needed something solid to hold on to. I’d needed it too.
That’s the part that unsettles me. Not that it happened, but that I wanted it.
My pulse kicks up just thinking about it.
Because there’s something about this girl…the way she makes me feel
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen before answering. “Yeah?”
“Detective Barnett,” he says. No small talk. “Nathan, I wanted to update you on the man from the lineup.”
My body tightens automatically. “What about him?”
“We’re moving in on him,” Barnett says. “We’re close to securing a warrant. We don’t have every piece yet, but we’re not backing off. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it.”
There’s something in his voice I haven’t heard before. Certainty.
“We’ll get the warrant,” he adds. “Whether he likes it or not.”
I let out a slow breath. “Okay.”
“I’ll call you when we move.”
The line clicks off as I’m walking down the same quiet hallway toward Dr. Pembrooke’s office.
The receptionist looks up with a soft smile. “She’s ready for you,” she says gently.
I nod, my chest tight as I step inside.
Dr. Pembrooke looks up from her desk, that same calm expression waiting for me.
“Welcome back, Nathan.”
I sit. A silence stretches between us, heavier than last time.
She studies my face, without a doubt seeing the tension, the shadows under my eyes.
“Where should we start today?” she asks.
I stare at the floor for a long moment before answering.
“I feel guilty any time I’m remotely happy.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Why’s that?”
“Because I feel like I don’t deserve to be,” I say quietly.
She nods slowly, letting the words linger in the air.
“Guilt has a way of convincing us that pain is a requirement,” she says. “What do you think would happen if you let yourself feel happy?”
“I’ll probably end up hurting someone again.”
“Again?” she asks.
I nod.
“I do an exercise where I have my patients who are experiencing trauma-based anxiety share a positive moment or memory in a session to re-train the psyche to start naturally introducing these thinking patterns over time. Could you do that for me? Could you share something like that with me?”
I nod; it takes me a moment, but I let myself drown in an old memory as I speak softly.
I idled at the curb in front of her house, headlights off, the low purr of my engine slicing through the quiet street like a warning. The dashboard lights painted my hands green as I thumbed out a text.
Me: I’m outside. Come out.
A minute passed. Then two.
Maddison: I can’t. My dad won’t let me.
I exhaled hard, slumping back against the seat. Her bedroom window glowed faintly, the curtain shifting just enough to tease hope. The car idled beneath me like a caged animal with nowhere to go.
Then—front door. Hinges creaking.
Out stepped her dad. Broad shoulders. Movements measured, deliberate—like a man who didn’t need volume to make a point. He didn’t yell. He just came straight down the driveway, stopping inches from my window.
I rolled it down halfway.
“Go on. Get,” he said, voice cool and clipped, the kind of quiet that left silent bruises you never paid attention to until pressed.
No argument. No scene. I just nodded, shifted into drive, and rolled away slowly. I turned the corner, parked beneath a drooping elm a few streets over. My pulse was still jackhammering, my grin already forming.
Me: Be ready in 30. Window.
Then I flipped to Bishop’s thread.
Me: Need a favor. Bring your flashlight and best Oscar-worthy bullshit.
Thirty minutes later, I crouched behind a bush across from her house, heart slamming, eyes fixed on her window glowing soft and warm against the early evening shadows. It felt like I was in some undercover spy flick—sweaty palms, full adrenaline, breath too loud in my own ears.
Footsteps approached.
Bishop.
He looked absurd—yellow vest over a hoodie, clipboard in one hand, flashlight clipped to his belt like a mall cop with tenure.
I bit back a laugh. Showtime.
He strode up the driveway and knocked twice.
The front door creaked open. Her dad leaned out, irritation already tightening his jaw.
“Can I help you?”
“Good evening, sir,” Bishop said, tone smooth as silk. “Apologies for the hour. I’m with the City of Lake Stevens. We’ve had a sight-line complaint about your eastern fence line. Neighbor says a maple tree is blocking a shared access path.”
Her dad blinked. “At this hour?”
“Afraid so. Code timelines. End-of-quarter backlog.” Bishop shrugged, tapping his clipboard. “Won’t take more than a minute. I’ve got my flashlight if you’d like to take a look.”
From the bush, I waved my arms like an air traffic controller, pointing left—away from Maddison’s window.
Her dad hesitated, then stepped out and let the door fall mostly shut behind him as Bishop led him around the side of the house.
Go time.
The window creaked open.
Maddison, in black leggings and an oversized hoodie, slipped out like she’d done it a dozen times. She crouched in the flowerbed, scanned the lawn, then bolted.
I rose just in time to catch her wrist, and we ran.
Down the sidewalk, adrenaline fizzing, our laughter is hushed but wild like two kids who’d just knocked over a gas station with a water gun.
“That was brilliant,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Told you,” I smirked. “All I need is thirty minutes and a gameplan.”
Later, the lake shimmered under magic hour light, orange melting into violet, the sun slipping behind the trees. The car sat parked near the clearing’s edge, windows fogged, engine off.
Inside, it was heat and breath and tangled limbs. Her leg was draped over my lap, fingers brushing my jaw, every kiss deeper than the last.
“We should run away,” she whispered.
I’d thought about it, not that I’d admit it out loud to her—it would feel too real that way, and things were happening so fast.
“You say that now,” I murmured against her temple, “but you’ve never seen me try to cook.”
She laughed, soft, real, then she stilled in my arms. “My dad’s driving me insane,” she muttered. “He wants to know where I am every second, what I’m doing, who I’m with. I swear, sometimes I think he breathes for me.”
I glanced at her, the corner of my mouth pulling into something between a smirk and a sigh. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” She turned toward me, eyes flickering with defiance that didn’t quite mask the hurt. “Don’t your parents ever do that?”
For a second, I considered brushing it off, making a joke, throwing her a shrug. But she was looking at me like she wanted the truth. Maybe needed it.
“My dad left when I was young,” I said quietly, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s just been my mom and me ever since.”
Her expression softened, like I’d handed her something fragile. “So, it’s just the two of you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She works hard. She’s tough. But it’s always been a lot of weight on me too.”
Everyone expects me to be perfect, the quarterback, the guy who has it all together. Truth is…” I let out a breath. “Most days I feel like I’m holding my whole world together with duct tape.”
Silence stretched for a beat, and then she reached over, her hand resting gently on mine.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” she whispered. “Not for me. Football, no football. Winning, losing. You’re…you. And that’s already enough.”
The words hit me harder than any tackle I’d ever taken. No one ever said things like that to me. No one ever gave me permission to not be the golden boy.
Before I could answer, she laughed softly, trying to lighten the moment. “Anyway, it’s my friend’s birthday tonight. She invited me out, but honestly? I’d rather just stay here. With you.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Go. Be with your friends. You need that.” We both needed the space before we combusted. Already, we were toeing the line of imbalance.
Her nose wrinkled in protest. “But?”
“No buts.” I squeezed her hand. “I’m not your warden, Maddison. I don’t want to control you. I just want you to be happy. And part of that is living your life, not locking yourself away with me every second.”
Her eyes glistened in the dim light, like she’d never heard that from anyone before. Like maybe no one had ever given her the freedom just to be.
And in that moment, I realized something that terrified me. I wasn’t just falling for her. She was becoming my safe space, too—the only place in my world where I didn’t have to be perfect.
Then headlights flooded the rearview mirror like a searchlight.
“Oh shit,” she breathed. “That’s his car.”
Before I could move, her dad’s silhouette stepped into view. A sharp knock on the glass made me jump.
I fumbled the window down, heart in my throat.
“We weren’t doing anything, sir,” I said, voice cracking like a kid caught skipping class. Fuck.
He didn’t look at me at first. His eyes went straight to Maddison.
“Get out of the car, Maddi. We’re leaving.”
No yelling. No anger. Just quiet authority you don’t argue with.
She opened the door, climbed out slowly, and walked to his car without looking back.
I stayed frozen.
Then he leaned in, face inches from mine, voice low and lethal.
“You stay the fuck away from my daughter.”
No theatrics. Just cold truth.
Then he was gone.
The door shut. Tires crunched. Taillights disappeared down the road.
I sat alone, breath shallow, watching the sky bleed its final light into the lake. The windshield fog faded, but the heat in my chest didn’t.
The flashback fades like fog lifting, I’m still sitting in Dr. Pembrooke’s office, staring at the same spot on the floor I’ve been looking at for the last thirty minutes.
She’s quiet, letting the silence breathe before leaning back in her chair.
Then, with a faint grin, she says, “We’ll first off, that’s a good friend you have there.
Also, it sounds like you did just about anything to see Maddison, even in the face of danger…
fearless in the face of love, one could say. ”
I glance up. Her eyes are bright, that mix of sharpness and warmth that’s hard to read, but strangely grounding.
A reluctant smile threatens to pull at my mouth, but I stop it before it gets too far.
“I haven’t thought about those days in a very long time…”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods, almost to herself. “You’re a very insightful person, Nathan. Maybe you’re being a little harder on yourself than you need to be.”
I give my head a light shake, not necessarily defensive, just not used to compliments when it comes to emotional availability and being insightful, especially after what happened. After all, it was my inability to read the room and read the situation, wasn’t it? “No. I don’t think I am.”
Her smile fades, replaced by a look of understanding.
“Do you still have the journal I gave you?” she asks.
“Yes, I do.”
“Good, I’d like you to try something.”
“Homework?”
She smiles faintly. “Not quite. Think of it as… somewhere to put things when your mind won’t.”
She taps the cover lightly. “Some of my patients use these journals to continue the work we’ve started in here. To write down the good memories when they surface. Or the bad ones, when they won’t stop.
“Trauma has a way of staying loud when it’s trapped in your head,” she continues gently. “Sometimes getting it out—onto paper—gives it edges. Limits. It makes it… smaller.”
The thought lingers like it might bite me.
“You don’t have to show it to me,” she adds.
“You don’t have to show it to anyone. It’s just a place to put things that don’t have anywhere else to go.
” She pauses. “Some people are surprised by what comes out when they let themselves write,” she says.
“Others are surprised by what finally stops spinning.”
I swallow.
“Just try,” she says. “No rules. No pressure. If a memory comes—good or bad—put it there.”
I finally nod.
“Ok, yeah...I think I could do that.”
I stand and slide my hands into my jean pockets so she doesn’t see the shaking. “Thanks for today.”
She gives me a sharp nod. “Until next time.”
“Until next time,” I say.