28
Hannah
There are worse places to have an identity crisis than a campus charity carnival.
Probably. I can’t think of any right now, but I’m sure they exist. Maybe a dentist's office. Or an airport. Or the dining hall soup station when the tomato basil looks too chunky and you start questioning your life choices.
Still, the Northwood Fall Carnival is making a strong case.
The quad has been transformed into something painfully wholesome.
Strings of lights loop between trees, folding tables are draped in orange and navy cloth, and the air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and sugar.
There’s a dunk tank, a ring toss, and a "kiss the dog" booth that is technically emotional manipulation with paws.
And there is Nate Wilder beside me, his hand resting at the small of my back like he did not have two fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago.
I am handling this very maturely. By not thinking about it.
Except my body is not cooperating. Every time his thumb shifts against my jacket, my mind flashes to his couch. His hand beneath the waistband of my underwear. His voice, low and steady in my ear, telling me to stay with it, to breathe, to not think.
I nearly walk into a hay bale.
Nate catches my elbow without looking away from the booth in front of us. "Careful."
"I’m fine."
"You almost lost to seasonal décor."
"It came out of nowhere."
"It’s hay, Hannah."
"Exactly. Unpredictable."
His mouth curves, and his hand slips from my elbow back to my lower back. It’s a normal touch. A public touch. The kind of thing a boyfriend does casually while walking with his girlfriend through a carnival.
*Fake boyfriend. Fake girlfriend. Fake couple.*
The words used to help. Tonight, they feel like a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm.
The problem is that every public act now has a private echo.
A hand at my back is no longer just for the audience.
Nate calling me *baby* is no longer just a tool in our social strategy workshop.
It still works as all those things, which is exactly what makes it so messy.
"Hannah." I blink and look up. Nate is watching me with narrowed eyes. "You’re thinking too loud. It’s practically a marching band."
"I’m just looking around."
"At the hay bale that attacked you?"
"Yes."
He studies me for another second, and the shift in his face is subtle but immediate. The public charm dims; the private carefulness steps forward. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low.
"Yes."
His brow lifts.
"Real yes," I add.
"Liar."
I sigh. People stream around us toward the booths. Music plays from a speaker near the student activities table. Somewhere, Mason is shouting, which means either someone is winning a game or a community rule is being broken.
"I’m okay," I say, quieter. "Just… aware."
Nate’s gaze holds mine. He understands. His hand leaves my back instantly. I hate how much I notice the absence.
"Too much?" he asks.
"No. Just loaded."
"Loaded," he repeats, his mouth twitching faintly.
"Wilder!"
We both turn. Carter is standing behind the ring toss booth wearing a volunteer badge and an expression of pure mischief. Ava is beside him, actually working, while Mason is trying to stack plastic rings on his head.
"Come lose money for charity," Carter calls.
"Want to watch me humiliate myself?" Nate asks.
I look at the rings. "Yes."
We walk to the booth. Nate's hand doesn't return to my back, which is considerate and somehow annoying at the same time. Carter beams. "Northwood’s favorite couple."
My heart stumbles. Ava smiles, and Mason lifts both hands as if announcing us at a pro game. Nate glances at me—a quick check-in. I give a tiny nod. *Green, but in public.*
Nate turns to the bottles and tosses the first ring. It misses spectacularly.
"Wow," I say. "You are very bad at this."
"Physics issue," Nate claims. "This requires witchcraft."
He tosses the second ring. It hits the rim and bounces off.
"Don’t pity him," Carter warns. "It weakens the herd."
I laugh, and Nate looks at me. For one second, his expression loses its public shape. He looks pleased that I laughed—not because of the act, but just because he did something ridiculous and it made me smile. It feels more intimate than his hand on my back.
Nate tosses the third ring. It lands perfectly over the center bottle. Mason screams like Nate just scored in overtime. Ava laughs and hands me the prize: a tiny rubber duck in a hockey helmet.
"His name is Gerald," I announce.
"Absolutely not," Nate says.
"Gerald Reed-Wilder?"
His eyes flick to mine. The joke hangs there for a second too long. Too couple-y. Too easy. Carter’s eyebrows shoot up, and Ava smiles into her cup.
"I’m officiating the duck wedding," Mason shouts.
We drift away, Nate buying me a hot chocolate that I immediately burn my tongue on because I am impatient.
"Don’t say it," I warn. "I was going to say the beverage attacked you."
"Thank you for respecting my narrative."
"Always."
We stand near the edge of the quad, watching people throw beanbags. I'm holding Gerald. Every few seconds, I feel Nate beside me and remember his voice from last night. *You don’t owe me anything.*
Then, I see him.
Ethan Cross is near the cider booth. My body reacts with a small, instinctive jump. Recognition. Old habit. Nate sees it instantly. Ethan is with friends, looking exactly like the guy I spent months trying to catch in moments after class.
Now, he notices me immediately.
"He’s looking," Nate says. His expression is calm. Too calm.
"Game face?" I ask softly.
"Your call," Nate says.
I shift closer to him. Nate’s eyes sharpen. "Green?"
"Green."
His arm slides around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. Ethan starts walking over. My heart beats faster, but Nate is a steady weight beside me.
"Hey," Ethan says, reaching us. "Nice duck."
"Thank you," I say. "His name is Gerald."
Ethan laughs. It’s a nice, warm laugh. A month ago, I would have analyzed it for days. Now, I mostly notice that Nate’s thumb shifts once against my shoulder.
"I was going to text you about that study session," Ethan says, his eyes flicking to me, then Nate. "If you’re free tomorrow, maybe we could grab coffee and compare notes."
The thing I wanted. The whole point of the plan. Coffee. Just us.
Nate doesn't move. He doesn't speak for me. He just waits. My decision. My handle on the door.
"Tomorrow might work," I say finally. "Text me."
Ethan smiles. "Cool. I will. See you around, Wilder."
Ethan walks away. I watch him for exactly two seconds before looking at Nate. His expression is perfectly smooth. Glassy.
"What?" he asks.
"You’re disappearing behind your face."
"I’m fine."
"Favorite lie."
His jaw flexes. "You should go," he says, looking toward the crowd. "With him. Coffee. That was the plan."
"I know."
"So go."
He sounds even. Too even.
"You don’t have to sound like that," I say. "Like you’re pushing me."
"I’m not. I’m reminding you what you wanted."
"I know what I wanted."
Nate meets my eyes. "Good."
The word should feel like praise. It doesn't. Not this time.
I step out from under his arm. His face changes—barely, but enough. "I need a second," I say, walking toward a dark patch of grass under an oak tree. I hold Gerald to my chest.
Why am I upset? Nate didn't do anything wrong. The plan is working. But Nate telling me to go feels like being handed something cold.
I hear footsteps. I know it’s Nate. He stops a few feet away. "What do you need?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
"I hate that answer."
"Still an answer."
I turn around. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, face careful. "I don’t want you to push me toward Ethan," I say.
"I’m trying not to get in your way."
"It feels the same from where I’m standing."
He looks down, then back at me, his expression rougher. "I don't know how to do this, Hannah. The plan was easy when it was just public. But now? I know things I don't know how to unknow."
My breath catches.
"I know how you look when you're proud of yourself. I know what 'green' sounds like. And then I’m supposed to stand there while Cross asks you for coffee and act like the version of you he’s getting has nothing to do with the parts I've seen? I don't know how to act like I don't care."
The honesty hits me like a physical weight. The carnival continues behind him, but the world has narrowed to this spot.
"I don't know how I feel," I whisper. "I still like Ethan. I think. I don't know if I like *him* or if I liked the idea of being someone who could be wanted. And now he notices, and it doesn't feel the way I thought it would."
Nate takes a step closer. "Maybe you don't have to figure it out tonight."
"You always say that."
"Because you always try to solve your life in one sitting."
I laugh softly, my eyes stinging. Nate holds out his hand. Not a demand, just an offer. I take it. His fingers close around mine—warm, steady, and for the first time, the performance isn't for anyone else.