Chapter 19 #2
He walks away, satisfied. He got his scene, his public confrontation. The whole town just watched Nate defend me after everything, watched me hold him back, watched us operate as a unit even while broken.
Nate turns to me, and for a second, we're just two people who love each other, standing in a farmer's market, surrounded by gossip and vegetables and the wreckage of what we used to be.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly. "Did he hurt you?"
"I'm fine." But I'm not. I'm shaking from the confrontation and from having him this close after four days apart.
The crowd is still watching, waiting for more drama.
"Come on," Nate says, and then—in front of everyone, despite everything—he takes my hand.
The contact shoots through me like electricity. His fingers lace through mine, familiar and foreign all at once, and I can't help but grip back. It's the first time we've touched since I left our house four days ago.
We walk to his truck in silence, hands clasped between us like a lifeline, leaving my basket of half-selected vegetables behind. The crowd parts for us, some faces sympathetic, others confused, all of them watching. Mrs. Henderson actually looks like she might cry.
It's not a reconciliation. Not yet. But it's the first time in days we're moving in the same direction, connected by ten fingers that refuse to let go even when our hearts don't know how to heal.
"Thank you," I say once we're in his truck, our hands still joined over the console. "For defending me."
"He assaulted you. I wanted to do more than defend you."
"I know."
Neither of us lets go. We sit there in his truck, not quite looking at each other, not quite knowing how to bridge the gap, but holding on anyway. His thumb brushes over my knuckles—probably unconsciously—and I have to blink back tears.
"We should talk," Nate says. "Really talk. Not fight, not accuse, just... talk."
"At the house?"
"Our house," he corrects softly.
The drive to our house—he called it our house—takes twenty minutes. Neither of us lets go, our fingers interlaced over the console like we're afraid breaking contact will shatter this fragile moment.
Duke nearly knocks me over when we walk through the door, whimpering and dancing around my legs like I've been gone for months instead of days. The house smells the same—coffee and his bodywash and home—but there's an emptiness to it, like it's been holding its breath.
"Coffee?" Nate asks, suddenly formal.
"Please."
We move around the kitchen awkwardly, muscle memory wanting to take over—him reaching for my favorite mug, me knowing where he keeps the good coffee—but we're too careful, too aware of each other. Finally, we sit at our kitchen table.
"June found out about Daniel," I start, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "He has a pattern. Other women, other cities. Same manipulative tactics."
"I know you didn't realize what he was." Nate's voice is quiet. "I saw your face at the market when he confronted you. You were genuinely shocked by his smugness."
"I should have listened to you."
"I should have trusted you instead of assuming the worst."
"I got so caught up in proving I could handle it," I admit. "In showing you I was independent and professional. I forgot we're supposed to be a team."
"And I let my fear of losing you turn into the thing that pushed you away." He reaches across the table, takes both my hands. "When I saw you with him in the market, saw him trying to intimidate you... Harper, I wanted to destroy him."
"I know."
"Not because of jealousy. Because he hurt you. Because I wasn't there to stop it the first time."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it? If I'd trusted you, really trusted you, I would have gone to that dinner with you. Would have been there."
"Or I could have just not gone when you asked me not to."
We sit there, holding hands across our kitchen table, finally seeing our own faults instead of just each other's.
"I love you," Nate says. "I never stopped. Even when I was angry, even when I told you not to come home, I loved you so much it physically hurt."
"I love you too. I've been at Maya's feeling like half of me was missing."
"So what do we do?" I ask. "How do we fix this?"
"We choose each other," he says simply. "Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard. We stop running, stop assuming, and we choose us."
"The town thinks—"
"Let them think. Mrs. Henderson can gossip all she wants. What matters is us."
Duke barks, clearly tired of the talking, and we both laugh—full of emotion but real.
"Come here," Nate says, tugging my hand.
I move around the table and he pulls me into his lap, his arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in—home in his arms.
"I'm sorry," I whisper against his skin. "For everything."
"Me too."
We stay like that, just holding each other, and for the first time in a week, I feel like I can actually breathe.
His mouth finds mine, and it's like a dam breaks. Four days of anger and hurt and missing each other pour into this kiss. It's desperate, frantic, his hands tangling in my hair while mine grip his shoulders like he might disappear.
"I missed you so much," he breathes against my lips.
Then he stands, lifting me with him, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We don't make it past the living room. He presses me against the wall, our kisses turning heated, hands everywhere at once. Four days felt like four years, and we're both trying to make up for lost time.
"Harper," he groans when I bite that spot on his neck that always drives him crazy.
His hands are under my sweatshirt—Maya's sweatshirt—pushing it up and off. "This isn't yours."
"Nothing at Maya's was mine. I left in such a rush—"