Chapter 5
A NOT SO SIMPLE TWIST OF FATE
NORA
My heart jumps and breaks simultaneously.
Jumps because it's him, really him, after eight months of wondering and worrying and trying to forget.
It then breaks because there's a tanned, tattooed, dark-haired girl throwing her arms around him, kissing his cheek with the familiarity of someone who belongs there.
But his eyes are locked on mine.
Those same eyes that could hold me, paralyze me, even from across a crowded room.
The same eyes that used to look at me like I was the answer to every question he'd never learned how to ask.
There's something cruel about the way fate operates—how it waits until you've convinced yourself you've moved on, until you've built walls high enough to feel safe, and then it orchestrates a collision so perfect it feels like the universe planned it all along.
Two timelines converging in the most unlikely of circumstances, two people who should be anywhere but here, finding each other across a crowded room like something out of a story you'd never believe if someone else told it to you.
Why does it happen when you're not ready?
Why does love—or whatever this is—show up right when you've just started learning to live without it?
It happens in slow motion—the way he gently untangles himself from the girl's embrace, the way he moves through the crowd like he's walking underwater, like the space between us is something tangible he has to push through.
People part for him without realizing they're doing it, and I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but watch him approach.
He looks different.
Healthier.
Even in the dark, the closer he gets, I can see there's color in his cheeks that wasn't there before, and his shoulders don't carry that weight they used to.
His hair is longer, somewhat lighter and sun-streaked, and I can see new tattoos scattered across his forearms—intricate line work that looks like it means something, not the impulsive ink of someone trying to feel anything at all.
The Barcelona sun has been kind to him, painting golden undertones across skin that was once winter-pale.
When he stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell that familiar combination of cedar and something darker, my thoughts scatter.
The black linen shirt he's wearing is unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of new ink across his collarbone, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something stupid like reach out and trace it with my fingertips.
Nothing makes sense.
The odds of us being here, in this moment, in this place, are astronomical. But somehow, with him standing in front of me, everything does make sense. Like all the chaos and heartbreak and months of silence were just the universe's way of getting us to this exact spot, at this exact time.
"Nora?"
"Hi."
Such a small word for such a massive moment, but it's all I can manage.
We stare at each other in disbelief, and I can see he's struggling with the same impossibility I am.
His jaw works like he's trying to find words, and I notice the way his throat bobs when he swallows hard.
"Nate! Come on, the others are waiting for us."
The girl who had her arms around him appears at his side, threading her arm through his with easy intimacy. She looks at me with curious eyes, and something sharp and ugly twists in my chest.
"Oh, who's this?"
I can see Nate about to introduce me, trying to figure out how to explain who I am, what I mean… what I meant.
His mouth opens, closes, and I watch him run a hand through his hair—that old nervous habit that used to make me want to kiss the worry lines from his forehead.
I can't stand there and be introduced as his past, as someone he used to know.
"I, uh, I need to find Camilla," I say quickly, already turning away.
"Wait!" I hear him call behind me, and the desperation in his voice makes my steps falter for just a moment.
But I'm already pushing through the crowd, fighting my way toward the exit.
I don't look for Camilla.
Instead, I pull out my phone and text her.
Nora
Hey, I’m not feeling well. Heading back to hotel. Have fun tonight, I'll see you tomorrow. So proud of you x
Camilla
What happened? Are you okay??
Nora
I'm fine. Just have a bit of a headache. I'll see you in the morning x
The night air hits me like a wall when I step outside. European summer nights are supposed to be romantic, but this one feels humid and heavy.
I look around for a taxi, but the street is empty except for groups of drunk tourists stumbling between bars and locals who seem to know exactly where they're going.
Screw it.
I start walking, my heels clicking against the cobblestones, and realize very quickly that I have no idea which direction leads back to our hotel. The streets all look the same in the darkness—narrow and winding, lined with buildings that could be centuries old or built last week.
"Nora! Wait!"
I turn to see him running toward me, and my heart does that thing it's always done—that stupid, traitorous flutter that ignores every rational thought in my head.
"I'm fine" I call back, but my voice wavers.
He reaches me, grabbing hold of my arm, and the contact sends electricity shooting up to my shoulder.
I stumble slightly, and he steadies me, pulling me closer until I'm almost crashing into his solid chest.
He's only slightly out of breath, his eyes dark and intense in the streetlight, and he shakes his head.
“You’re insane if you think I’m letting you walk home alone at 2 AM."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can.” His thumb brushes against my wrist where my pulse is hammering. “But I'm still walking you home."
We stare at each other, and the air between us feels charged, dangerous. I can see the exact moment he notices how close we are, the way his gaze drops to my lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
"Fine, whatever." I say.
We start walking side by side, and I'm thrown off by how calm he seems on the surface.
His hands are in his pockets, his stride easy and relaxed, like running into your first love on a random street in Barcelona is something that happens every day.
Meanwhile, I'm having an internal meltdown, every nerve ending on fire, every thought spiraling into chaos.
How is he not finding this as surreal and devastating as I am?
Then I hear him give a little laugh.
When I look over, he's smirking at the ground, and something about that expression—so familiar, so him—makes my chest tighten with longing.
"What's so funny?" I ask, confusion clear in my voice.
"This," he says, looking at me with that half-crooked smile that used to undo me completely. Still does, apparently.
"This?"
"Yeah, this. Us. Here. Of all places."
“Suppose the universe likes messing with us."
"No," he says, and his voice carries that edge of dark humor I remember, "it loves to fuck with us."
"That's more accurate."
And just like that, we slip back into our old rhythm—the easy banter, the shared understanding. My body seems to remember how to exist next to his, even after eight months of practicing how to live without him.
We walk in comfortable silence for a few steps before pain shoots through my feet.
"Ugh."
"What's wrong?"
There's genuine worry in his voice, and I catch that flicker of concern crossing his face.
"These stupid, overpriced shoes. They're killing my feet. And these cobblestone streets don't help."
I stop walking and try to undo the straps, but my hands are shaking and the buckles are tiny and impossible.
"Stop."
Before I can object, he's kneeling in front of me on the street, his fingers gentle as he works the strap loose.
The sight of him kneeling there, head bent in concentration, caring for me like this is the most natural thing in the world, makes my breath catch.
He moves to the second shoe, his touch careful and reverent, and instead of standing when he's done, he looks up at me.
His hands are still wrapped around my ankle, thumb brushing across skin, and for a moment, I swear I can hear the universe laughing at us both.
"Get on," he says, his voice rougher than before.
"What?"
"You're not walking barefoot all the way to your hotel. Get on my back."
"That's ridiculous, I’m not doing that.”
"You used to do it all the time."
"Yeah, when I was like five."
"Either get on my back or I carry you. In my arms."
He stands and there's very little space between his face and mine now.
"And I know how much you'd hate that." He says it with a smirk that would make most women's knees cave, and mine are no exception.
But he's right.
I would hate that—the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way it would put us face to face with nowhere to hide. This feels safer somehow, even though it doesn't really.
I sigh, roll my eyes, and grab the shoes he's holding up for me.
"Fine. But if I get too heavy—"
I don't get to finish the sentence before he hoists me up onto his back effortlessly, his hands secure under my thighs, my arms around his shoulders.
The closeness is overwhelming.
I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, the way his muscles move as he walks. It's comfort and torture all at once. I have to fight the urge to rest my cheek against his shoulder the way I used to, to press my face into the curve of his neck and breathe him in.
We continue walking, and I notice his breathing stays steady and consistent, as if carrying me like this isn't affecting him at all. As if this is still normal, still easy.
But I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he's holding himself, and I know he's just better at hiding it than I am.
"You got tattoos," I say, studying the intricate designs on his forearms, partly to distract myself from how good he feels beneath me.
"I did." His voice is slightly strained, and I wonder if it's from my weight or something else entirely.
"Did they hurt?"
He laughs, and I feel the vibration through his back.
"That's what you want to ask me?"
The question hangs in the air because he's right—there are so many other things I want to ask, that I should ask. But I don't know where to start.
"Some of them did," he says when I don't respond. "But after a while, you numb yourself to the pain. Or the pain numbs you, I guess."
He says it like he's only talking about tattoos, but I hear the subtext. I hear the theme that's run through his entire life—the way he's learned to make friends with pain, to find ways to coexist with it.
We walk the rest of the way mostly in silence, and when we reach my building, I slide down from his back reluctantly, immediately missing the warmth and security of being close to him. The loss of contact feels like a physical ache.
"Thank you," I say, fishing my keys from my clutch with unsteady hands. "For walking me back."
"Anytime." He says it like he means it.
"Well, goodnight, Nate."
"Goodnight, Nora."
I unlock the door and step inside, closing it behind me before leaning against it heavily.
My thoughts are running rampant, crashing into each other like cars in a pileup.
So that should be it right?
We just leave it at that and continue on with our lives?
Logic tells me yes, to let this be what it is—a strange, beautiful coincidence that I'll remember fondly someday.
But then there's a knock on the door.
I open it to find him standing there, one arm propped against the doorframe, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. There's something raw in his eyes, something vulnerable that makes my heart skip.
"I don't like that we just said goodnight and closed the door on this when there is so much that’s been left unsaid," he says, his voice low and rough. "I don't know how long you're here for, but what are your plans for tomorrow?"
I try to keep my composure, try to act like my heart isn't doing backflips at the fact that he wants to see me again.
Why do we do that?
Why do we pretend our feelings aren't real, like caring is something to be ashamed of?
"Tomorrow? Um, nothing." I hear myself saying.
"Good, I'll come by in the morning. Be ready by 5:30am."
"Why so early?"
"I want to show you something while you’re here.”
There's something in his voice, something that sounds almost like hope, and it makes my pulse race.
“Okay then,” is all I can manage to say.
“Goodnight Nora.”
“Goodnight Nate.”
I close the door once more and stand in the middle of the hotel room, still holding my ridiculous shoes, trying to process what just happened.
Why do I let him in so easily, like no time has passed at all?
The answer is simple and plain as day, even though I've spent months trying to convince myself otherwise.
Because he's always been the exception to every rule I've ever made about protecting my heart.