5
Hannah
By Sunday morning, I have decided three things.
One: I am never going to another house party with Ella Thompson as long as I live.
Two: I am never looking at Ethan Cross across a room again, because apparently my face is not a secret and my feelings come with neon signage.
Three: I am absolutely, under no circumstances, going to think about Nate Wilder.
Which is why, naturally, I am thinking about Nate Wilder.
This is not my fault. It’s his fault for appearing in my brain every time I try to focus on anything productive.
My psych reading? Nate. My laundry? Nate.
The half-eaten granola bar on my desk? Somehow, also Nate, because it reminds me of the vending machine outside the athletic building, which reminds me of the collision, which reminds me of the way his hand felt catching my arm.
His very solid, very warm hand.
I groan into my pillow, the sound muffled and pathetic.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand.
**Ella:** *Rise and shine, little rom-com victim.*
I flip onto my back and type: *I hate you.*
Her reply arrives before I can even blink.
**Ella:** *That’s not very “girl who had electric chemistry with a hockey player” of you. Coffee in 20. Briarwood. You need caffeine and emotional supervision.*
I glance at the time. 10:12 AM. The room is quiet and bright with late-morning sun, my roommate still gone for the weekend. There is no one here to stop me from making bad choices except myself.
Historically, I am not great at that.
I sit up, staring at my tote bag on the floor. It’s still overflowing with the papers Nate helped me rescue. *Deal with it,* I tell myself. *Just go get coffee and be a normal human who is definitely not thinking about dimples.*
By the time I make it to Briarwood Coffee Co., the campus has that slow Sunday softness I’ve always loved. The brick paths are damp from morning mist, and the air is cool enough that I tug my oversized cardigan tighter around myself.
Briarwood is packed. It always is on Sundays—a sea of hungover students seeking salvation in espresso. The windows are fogged with warmth, and the chalkboard sign by the door reads: *Pumpkin spice is not a personality, but we support your journey.*
I push through the door, the scent of cinnamon and roasted beans hitting me like a hug. Ella is already at our usual table by the window, looking disgustingly productive in a slick ponytail and a cream sweatshirt.
“No,” I say, dropping into the chair before she can open her mouth.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“No Nate talk. No ‘he’s so hot’ talk. No analyzing the way I ran into his chest.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You were about to. I could see the syllabus forming in your eyes.”
“I was actually going to say you look cute,” she says, sliding an iced vanilla latte toward me. “But now that you’ve brought up Nate…”
I take a long, desperate sip of the coffee. “I’m leaving.”
“You just got here.” She rests her chin on her hand, her eyes glittering with mischief. “So. Hypothetically. If a tall hockey player with excellent bone structure and a reputation for being a walking hazard told you there were ways to make Ethan notice you...”
I close my eyes. “You lasted thirteen seconds.”
“A personal best.”
“I am not doing anything with Nate Wilder, Ella. He’s... he’s Nate Wilder. He’s the opposite of everything I want. My type is safe. My type is pre-med. My type is a guy who doesn’t end up on gossip accounts.”
“Your type is a guy who looked right past you last night,” Ella says softly.
The cold sweetness of the latte suddenly tastes bitter. I look out the window at the students drifting by. Ella’s right. Wanting Ethan has always felt like a safe little daydream, but now that Nate has pointed out how invisible I am, the daydream feels more like a delusion.
“I just feel stupid,” I admit.
“You’re allowed to be a little dramatic, Han. You’re in college. It’s practically in the tuition.”
Ella’s eyes suddenly flick toward the door. Her entire expression changes—pupils dilating, a tiny villainous smile spreading across her face.
“No,” I whisper, gripping my cup.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is wearing a tiny cape. Who is it?”
I refuse to look. I refuse to be that girl. But the air in the coffee shop shifts. It’s a subtle rearranging of the room's energy, a ripple of attention that tells me exactly who just walked in.
Nate Wilder.
He’s wearing a dark green Northwood Hockey hoodie and black joggers.
His hair is messy in that effortless way that suggests he’s never owned a comb but the universe rewarded him anyway.
He looks annoyingly good—and worse, he looks bored by the way every girl in the vicinity just sat up a little straighter.
His gaze sweeps the room. Finds me.
My stomach does a slow, agonizing flip.
“Is he still looking?” I hiss at Ella.
“Yes. He’s currently looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that isn't a total snooze.”
The barista calls out, “Nate! Double espresso!”
Nate grabs his cup, but instead of heading for the exit, he starts walking toward our table. My heart begins making a series of very poor decisions.
He stops beside us, his shadow falling over the table. Up close, he’s even bigger, smelling like fresh air and something woodsy.
“Hannah Reed.”
There it is. My full name. In that gravel-and-velvet voice.
“Nate Wilder,” I reply, trying to sound bored.
“Good. We’re both still using legal names.” He nods toward the empty chair. “Mind if I sit?”
“Sure,” I say, perhaps a beat too fast.
He pulls the chair out and sits, his long legs taking up most of the space under the small table. He leans back, looking entirely too comfortable.
“How’s your morning?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“Still lying, I see.”
“It’s a Sunday. It’s the day for lies.”
Nate’s mouth curves, and there’s the dimple. The weaponized dimple that should probably be regulated by the Dean of Students.
“So,” he says, tapping his cup. “You get home okay last night?”
The question catches me off guard. It sounds... normal. Almost thoughtful.
“Yeah,” I say. “Ella and I walked.”
His gaze flickers to Ella, then back to me. “Late walk. Next time, call someone. Drunk idiots get creative after midnight.”
Something warm and annoying touches my chest. I look down at my coffee. “Noted.”
Ella suddenly stands up, grabbing her bag. “I forgot I have to... print something. A paper. For my... academic journey.”
I stare at her. “Ella, you don’t even have a laptop with you.”
“I’m printing it from my mind. You’re welcome!” she whispers as she scurries away.
Traitor.
Nate watches her go with open amusement. “Subtle.”
“She thinks she is.”
“She’s not.” He turns back to me, his expression shifting. The teasing drains out, replaced by a focus so sharp it makes me sit up straighter. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about what I said last night. About Cross.”
Ethan’s name lands between us like a lead weight.
“You were blunt,” I say.
“I was an asshole,” he corrects. “I shouldn't have said it like that. But I wasn't wrong, Hannah. I saw him notice you, and then I saw him decide that since you were already waiting, he didn't have to do the work.”
I swallow hard, the truth stinging more than his rudeness did.
“I need help,” Nate says abruptly.
I blink. “You? With what? Your ego is already the size of the arena.”
“Try not to sound so delighted.” He leans forward, his forearms on the table, closing the distance between us. “My image. Coach gave me a warning. One more public screw-up and I’m benched. I need to look stable. Respectable. Like I’ve finally stopped being a walking headline.”
“And you’re telling me this because...?”
“Because the campus gossip machine needs a new story. A different one.” He holds my gaze. “I want people to think I’m trying to be better for someone. Someone like you.”
I freeze. The air in the café feels thick. “You want a fake girlfriend.”
“It’s practical,” he says, his voice low and persuasive. “I look like I’ve settled down, Coach gets off my back, and you...”
“And I what?”
“You get Ethan’s attention. He’s used to you being his safety net. If he sees you with someone else—someone he thinks is a threat—he’ll realize what he’s losing.”
My pulse is sprinting now. It’s a terrible idea. It’s a disaster in a green hoodie. But then I think of Ethan looking past me at the party. I think of the way Nate helped me pick up my notes.
“Why me?” I whisper.
Nate reaches across the table. His hand doesn't touch mine, but the heat from his skin is palpable.
“Because you’re the only person who’s looked at me all year and didn't act like you already knew who I was.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. The coffee shop noise fades into a blur.
“There would be rules,” I say, my voice shaky.
Nate’s smile starts slow and dangerous. “Obviously.”
“No feelings. No hooking up with other people—it ruins the image. And no kissing unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Nate’s gaze drops to my mouth for a split second. A hot shiver races down my spine.
“Done,” he says. “You decide when it’s necessary.”
I take a deep breath and reach out, my hand trembling slightly as I place it in his. His palm is warm and calloused, his fingers closing around mine with a strength that makes me feel both safe and completely terrified.
“Deal,” I say.
Nate’s grin returns, bright enough to make me question my own sanity. “Good. First lesson starts now.”
“Lesson?”
“Act like my girlfriend.” He lifts our joined hands just enough to make me aware of the eyes on us. Then he tips his head toward the window.
Ethan Cross is standing outside the café, hand on the door handle, looking straight at our entwined hands. His expression is one of pure, unmasked shock.
Nate leans in closer, his shoulder brushing mine, his breath warm against my ear.
“Smile, Hannah Reed.”
I forget how to breathe. But I look at Ethan, and then I look at Nate, and I smile.