34
Nate
There are texts a man can recover from.
*Coach wants to see you.* Bad, but survivable. *Mason is cooking again.* Dangerous, but manageable with proper emergency services and a fire extinguisher. *Your father called.* A grenade with a ringtone, but still technically within my wheelhouse.
Then there is Hannah Reed texting: *He kissed me.*
That one is apparently enough to turn my kitchen into a crime scene.
I don’t throw anything. I don’t punch a wall.
I don’t do any of the caveman bullshit guys do when they want to pretend anger is a substitute for an actual personality.
I just stand there, phone in hand, while the water runs in the sink because I forgot I was rinsing a glass.
I stare at those four words until they start to blur. *He kissed me.*
I turn the faucet off. Too hard. The metal squeaks in protest, sounding a lot like my composure.
This was the point. That’s the first thing I tell myself as I lean my weight against the counter.
This was the entire objective of the deal.
Hannah wanted Ethan Cross to notice her.
He noticed. She wanted him to want her. He wants her.
She wanted a shot at the guy she’d been looking at across campus like he personally installed the sun, and now she has it.
He took her to dinner. He walked her home. He kissed her.
Clean progression. Textbook.
And because the fake dating is over, because I am a mature, disciplined man with rules written down in a notebook, my reaction should be simple. Supportive. Friendly. Normal.
Instead, my head is a riot of questions I have no right to ask. Did he touch her face? Did he put his hands on her waist? Did she like it? Did she close her eyes and lean into him the way she does when she’s finally stopped overthinking?
I know what she looks like when *good* isn't enough, and the thought of her settling for a polite, "nice" version of intimacy with a guy who hasn't seen her fire makes my jaw ache.
I drag a hand over my face and leave the kitchen. The apartment is too quiet. I sit in the armchair instead of the couch—a petty, strategic move because the couch currently feels like a graveyard for every boundary I’ve ever tried to set.
My phone buzzes.
**Hannah:** *Yes. It was nice.*
Nice. I stare at the word. Nice is safe. Nice is exactly what I should want for her. So that’s what I type back, even though the letters feel like lead.
**Nate:** *Nice is good.*
The message looks dead on arrival. I nearly delete it, but it’s already sent. *Literary genius, Wilder. A poet of restraint.*
**Hannah:** *It was different.*
My entire body goes still. Different. Different can mean anything. It can mean better. It can mean worse. It can mean she’s comparing, which is a dangerous road I don't want either of us driving down.
**Nate:** *Different bad?*
**Hannah:** *No. Just different.*
The rules say no lessons on Ethan days. They don't say anything about the emotional loopholes big enough to drive a Zamboni through that open up the second the sun goes down. I tell her no decisions tonight. I tell her to text Ella and sleep.
Consistent. Bossy.
Then she says goodnight, and the silence that follows is deafening.
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. One sharp rap before it opens.
Carter walks in carrying a foil-covered container. “I said no,” I tell him, not moving from the chair.
“You always say no. It’s your default setting. It means you’re emotionally constipated and need snacks.” He walks into the kitchen and sets the container on the counter. “Mason made too many nachos. I’m the vehicle for your support.”
“I’m calling the police. You’re trespassing.”
“I have a key for emergencies, Nate. And you looking like a man who just witnessed a tragedy via iMessage counts as an emergency.”
Carter pulls the foil off. The smell of cheese and jalape?os fills the room. I stand up and grab a chip, purely for something to do with my hands. Carter leans against the counter, studying me with the kind of focus that usually precedes a lecture.
“What?” I snap.
“You look terrible. Not physically—you still have the cheekbones of a villain—but you look like something happened.”
I make it through another two chips before the silence breaks me. “Hannah went out with Cross tonight.”
Carter doesn’t look surprised. “And?”
“He kissed her.”
The words are flat. Too flat. Carter’s eyes stay on me. “She told you?”
“She texted me. Because of the rules.”
“The Ethan-day rule?” Carter’s mouth twitches. “Nate, you named a day after the guy. That’s an emotional circus if I’ve ever seen one.”
“It’s practical,” I insist, pointing a chip at him. “No lessons on days she sees him. It keeps things from getting tangled.”
Carter pulls out a bar stool and sits. He’s staying. Fantastic. “I believe you want good things for her,” he says, his voice dropping the teasing edge. “I also think you want to be one of them.”
The sentence hits too hard. I look away, toward the dark window. “I can’t be the guy who gets in the way. She wanted him before me. The whole point was helping her get the confidence to see if there was something there.”
“And now she’s seeing. And you’re miserable.”
“I’m fine.”
“Nate, don’t do that. Don’t decide you’re too damaged to act right just so you can play the martyr. That’s just self-pity in a leather jacket.”
I blink. The accuracy of that statement is offensive. I know my reputation. I know the landfill I call a past. It would be easy to step back and let the "clean" guy have his shot. But Hannah doesn't need me making her choices.
“What did she say about the kiss?” Carter asks.
“She said it was nice.”
Carter winces. “Oof.”
“What?”
“Nice isn't bad,” Carter says, grabbing a chip. “But it’s not usually the word people use when they’re swept off their feet.”
I refuse to look happy about that. Carter sees the refusal and sighs. “Don’t treat her confusion as a win, Nate. Confusion isn't a confession. Just be honest about what you can handle.”
“What if I don’t know?”
“Then say that. She hates not knowing. You hate not knowing. That’s why you two build rules like a tiny legal firm.”
Carter stands up to leave, pausing at the door. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing better than you think. But don’t let her settle for *nice* if she wants more than that.”
The door closes. The apartment is quiet again. The nachos are cold. I stand in the kitchen, staring at my phone. It buzzes once.
**Hannah:** *I’m not overthinking until breakfast. Just so you know.*
A smile tugs at my mouth.
**Nate:** *Proud of your restraint.*
**Hannah:** *Weapon. But green.*
**Nate:** *Sleep, Hannah.*
**Hannah:** *Bossy.*
**Nate:** *Consistent.*
**Hannah:** *Goodnight, Nate.*
I set the phone down and lean back against the counter. The fake dating is over. The lessons are in limbo. We have rules—smart, responsible rules designed to keep the world from catching fire.
I look at the couch. It still looks smug. It knows the truth.
The worst part isn't wondering if Hannah wants more than *nice*. It’s knowing that I do.