Chapter 6
Nathan
I unlock the door to my penthouse and step inside. The city noise fades behind me, but it’s still there…faint, like an echo I can’t get rid of. I set my keys down on the counter and stare at the empty apartment.
I don’t know what it is about her.
The girl.
She keeps showing up. First, the elevator. Then my office.
And then today, I ended up at her bakery.
I don’t get it.
I don’t get why she’s in my head at all.
She’s a stranger. A little awkward. Trips. Spills things. Every interaction we’ve had has been… messy.
And yet, she’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t fit the rest of the picture.
That’s what bothers me. There’s no reason for this. No reason to feel anything.
Maybe that’s the answer. There is nothing.
Probably nothing. And that’s exactly where it needs to stay.
I run a hand through my hair, try to shake the thought off,
I move without thinking—across the room, to my desk. The scissors dragged slow through the paper, the sound too loud in the quiet. I didn’t rush it—clean edge, straight line. It mattered for some reason. Everything did.
I pressed the clipping into place, thumb lingering just a second too long before the pin slid through it and into the board. Another piece. Another connection that still didn’t quite make sense.
I stepped back, eyes tracing the lines, the circles, the things I’d marked over and over like if I stared at them long enough, something would finally click.
And that’s when my phone buzzes.
Bishop.
I hesitate before answering. “Hey,” I say finally.
There’s a pause on the other end. “You doing alright?”
My grip tightens around the phone. I stare out the window. My throat is tight when I finally speak. “I’m alright…just not sleeping lately,” I say quietly. “I’m having those dreams again.
There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind. The familiar one. “I was hoping those were done.”
“What about those sleeping pills you were taking?” Bishop asks.
“I stopped,” I say. “Didn’t like being hooked on them.”
“Yeah. I get that,” he says. “But maybe… as a last resort. Just to reset. You know?”
I don’t answer right away.
“Sleep matters, man,” he adds. “You know this better than anyone.”
“…Yeah,” I say finally. “Alright.”
“Alright,” he says. “Take a nap, call me after…okay.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead. I stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, then set it down and walk into the bathroom.
I open the mirrored cabinet above the sink. The bottle is right where I left it. I stare at it for a moment. Then I take one.
A few minutes later, I’m on the couch, staring at the ceiling. And then—
I close my eyes, try to slow my breathing. But the second I drift off, it happens again. The noise, the light, the stadium roar.
I saw her across the field.
I jogged over to her and stopped inches from her. “What’s your name?”
“I’m good, thanks,” she answered with a smirk. No heat. No hostility. Just a graceful dismissal that rattled harder than any linebacker.
“I’ll win this game for you,” I said. She laughed to herself, flashed a smile at me and walked away with no response.
Hit number one, and I didn’t even flinch. She wanted to play? I’d make sure she remembered me—not the game.
I must have done something right, because minutes later, one of her cheer mates jogged over and said she had a message from her. “If you want to know her name, lose.”
I’d never purposefully lost a day in my life.
My pulse spiked. “Nice try,” I responded without even thinking. “I don’t ‘lose.’ I just don’t. It’s not an option.”
She ran off, irritation and indignation burning down my fingertips, imprinting itself into my soul. And then I did it anyway.
I held the ball a second too long. Missed a throw I could’ve made blindfolded. Let a tackle happen that I could have slipped.
The crowd groaned. My teammates stared.
“What the hell are you doing?” someone snapped in the huddle.
I didn’t have an answer. This wasn’t a distraction. It was a choice—and it terrified me. I would never do that to my team. My character wouldn’t allow it. Yet there I was, softening, sabotaging myself for a girl whose name I didn’t even know.
It was the first time I would lose for her—but it wouldn’t be the last.
“She changed her mind.” The cheerleader approached again, out of breath. “Now, if you really care, you will win this game for her.”
The words came out in slow motion.
I blinked.
Suddenly, I wasn’t on the field anymore.
I was at the Seattle County Fair.
The air smelled like sugar and grease and hot asphalt. Neon lights flickered overhead. Game booths stretched out on either side of me, bottles lined in perfect rows, plastic rings stacked too neatly, stuffed animals hanging.
A man stood behind the counter.
A carny.
He was chewing on a toothpick, watching me like he’d been waiting a long time. “If you really care,” he said, sliding a ball toward me, “you’ll win this for her.”
Dark clouds bled across the sky.
“Do you really care, Nathan?”
Lightning struck.
I jolt awake.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, the pillow damp beneath my head. My heart’s racing like I’ve been running for miles.
For a second, I can’t tell if I’m still in the dream. The field. The crowd. The noise. It’s all still there, right behind my eyes.
I sit up, wipe the back of my neck, and try to breathe. The thick air is heavy with everything I don’t say out loud. The clock reads 3:09 a.m.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, rubbing a hand over my face. My knuckles ache when I flex my fingers. Still split. Still sore.
I walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. My hands aren’t shaking, but everything in me feels tight.
I drink. Set the glass down. Then, I pick it up and throw it.
It explodes against the wall. Water and shards scatter across the floor. The sound echoes in the apartment and then dies. I just stand there, staring at the mess, breathing hard.
This is what I am now. No sleep. Short temper. Broken things. Back on sleeping pills.
I don’t even let myself finish the thought. My jaw tightens. I’m not okay.
The idea shows up like a bad joke.
Therapy.
I almost laugh.
I’ve never been that guy who needed to talk things out. Never needed a stranger to tell me how to live.
I look down at the glass on the floor. At my hand. At the quiet wreckage of my kitchen.
I don’t have a lot of options left. And whatever I’m doing right now?
It’s not working.