CHAPTER 14 #2
He's wearing a white shirt. Simple, crisp, but the top button is undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms that are leaner, stronger, mapped with muscle I don't remember.
And tattoos. New ones. Black ink winding up from his wrists, disappearing under the fabric.
I catch glimpses of words, symbols, things I don't recognize because it's been five years since I've seen him up close and bodies change and people become strangers even when they're standing right in front of you.
His dark hair is longer than it used to be, pushed back from his face in a way that makes the angles of his features more prominent.
I'm staring. I shouldn't be cataloging him like this.
I'm engaged. Aren't I?
“Mind if I sit?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
We settle side by side on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, watching the water ripple under the fading light.
Our knees are inches apart. Not touching, but near enough that the heat radiates between us. Near enough that if I shifted even slightly we'd make contact.
I don't shift. Neither does he.
The silence between us isn't uncomfortable exactly—it's just heavy.
The air changes when he turns his head slightly toward me, when his eyes track to my hands folded in my lap, when his gaze lingers just a fraction too long before returning to the water.
The tension coils between us.
I pick at a splinter on the dock just to give my hands something to do.
"That was really nice, what you said today. At the eulogy."
He's quiet for a moment, and he's watching me even though I'm staring determinedly at the lake.
"It was hard to find the right words for a man like Alfie.”
“Well, you found them," I say softly.
"Alfie would've hated all the attention," he says, and I hear the smile in his voice even without looking. "He'd have preferred we all just showed up at the bookshop with whiskey and stories."
"He would have." The thought makes my chest ache.
"He used to ask about you, actually. Every time I'd see him."
I turn to look at him, throat suddenly tight. "He did?"
"Yeah." Nate's eyes meet mine, and there's something careful in his expression. "He'd ask if I'd heard from you. How your writing was going. Whether you were happy." He pauses. "I never had good answers for him."
Something breaks in my chest—small and sharp.
The idea of Alfie asking about me, of him thinking about me even when I'd let years pass without visiting, without calling, without maintaining the connection we'd once had.
"He cared about you."
I have to look away, back at the water, before the emotion building in my throat becomes visible.
"I heard The Row's new song on the radio the other day,” I say, needing to shift the conversation before I fall apart completely.
His head turns slightly toward me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." My fingers worry at the wood. "It's good. Really good."
“Glad you like it.” He pauses, and he's watching me even though I'm staring determinedly at the lake. "I heard your book's being adapted."
"It is."
"That must feel…” He searches for the word. "Surreal."
"It is." I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Everything feels a little surreal lately."
"Is it good surreal or bad surreal?"
The question is simple, but the way he asks it—like he actually wants to know, like my answer matters, like he'd sit here all night if that's what it took for me to figure out how to respond—makes my chest tighten.
"I don't know," I admit.
He nods slowly, and his knee shifts just slightly. Still not touching. Just... there. A presence I'm acutely aware of.
"Nick told me you're staying for a few days," he says.
"More than a few days now. I'm staying for Mia's baby shower."
“Cool.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
The silence stretches, but it's not empty. It's full of glances neither of us quite commit to. Of breaths held and released. Of the way his hand rests on the dock between us, near enough that I could reach out and—
I don't.
"Can I ask you something?" Nate says finally, and there's a carefulness to his voice that makes me nervous.
"I guess."
He turns to face me fully now, and the intensity of his gaze makes it impossible to look away.
"Are you okay?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
"That's a complicated question."
"Is it?"
"Why are you asking me that?"
I force myself to hold his gaze even though it feels like standing in front of a spotlight. Something passes between us—something raw and honest and terrifying.
His eyes search mine, and for a moment I think he's going to say something else entirely.
But what comes out is: "Because the light in your eyes isn't there anymore."
The words hit like a punch to the sternum.
I stare at him, and he stares back, and the world narrows to this—to the dock, to the fading light, to the space between us that feels both infinite and nonexistent.
His eyes drop to my left hand.
I follow his gaze automatically, looking down at my bare fingers.
I haven't worn the ring since I left LA.
I'd hoped no one would notice, but of course Nate noticed. He's always noticed everything about me. Every detail. Every change. Every lie I tell myself.
"I needed space," I say quietly.
"From what?”
“Everything.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and suddenly I can't seem to shut up. "Everything feels off. The life I'm supposed to want, the person I'm supposed to be—it all feels like I'm playing a part someone else wrote for me."
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. What’s worse is, I don’t know why I feel like I can tell him all this.
He's quiet, and when I risk looking at him, his expression is unreadable. But his hand—his hand has moved. Just an inch. Maybe less. Near enough now that our pinkies are almost touching.
"I know the feeling," he says finally.
"Do you?"
"Come on, Leni. You know my history better than anyone else does. It took falling apart more times than I can count to figure out who I actually was."
Leni.
He hasn't called me that in seven years, and hearing it now feels like coming home and breaking apart all at once.
My eyes burn. My throat is tight.
"And who are you now?"
The corner of his mouth lifts, sad and knowing.
"Still figuring that out."
We sit in that admission for a while, and it feels like the most honest conversation I've had in years.
No performance. No pretense. Just two people who used to know each other trying to figure out if there's anything left to recognize.
"I should go back,” I say eventually, even though I don't want to.
"Yeah."
But he doesn't move, and neither do I.
The silence holds us there, suspended.
His hand is still near mine. Near enough that I'm hyperaware of every millimeter between us. Near enough that when he finally shifts—standing, turning to face me—I feel the loss of his proximity like something physical has been taken away.
He offers me his hand.
I stare at it for a heartbeat too long.
Then I take it.
The moment our skin touches, something electric passes between us—recognition, maybe, or muscle memory, or just the simple devastating fact of contact after years of absence.
His hand is warm, calloused, strong. He pulls me up and suddenly we're standing too close.
Too close.
Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. Near enough to count his heartbeat in the pulse at his throat. Close enough to smell him—soap and something woodsy and essentially him in a way that makes my head spin.
He doesn't step back immediately.
Neither do I.
For a second, maybe two, we just stand there.
His hand is still holding mine. My breath has caught somewhere in my chest.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, and the look in them makes my knees weak. Then he releases my hand and turns toward the lake house, and I can breathe again.
"That house is going to be complete and utter chaos over the next few weeks,” he says, voice slightly rougher than before. "If it gets overwhelming, the studio cabins are empty. You'd have space where no one would bother you."
I glance at him, trying to regain my equilibrium.
"That's generous."
"It's just an option," he replies, and there's something in his tone I can't quite read. Something that sounds like an invitation. "If you need one."
I let myself really look at him then, now that there's a bit more distance between us. The tattoos along his forearms. The silver ring on his right hand that catches the dying light. The way he's put together—not trying too hard, just... present. Himself.
"You actually did it," I say softly. "You built the studio."
A flicker of pride crosses his face, restrained but real.
"Turns out stubbornness is useful."
"I'm glad it worked out," I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I intend. "For you."
He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is low.
"So am I."
The way he says it tells me he means more than just the studio.
"It's good to have you back," he says quietly.
"Is it?"
The question comes out before I can stop it.
His eyes search mine, and I watch something shift in his expression—vulnerability, maybe, or just honesty he's too tired to hide.
"Yeah, Len. It is."
Then he steps back, breaking whatever spell was holding us there, and I feel the loss of it—warmth disappearing, gravity shifting, waking up from a dream you didn't want to leave.
"The offer stands," he says as he turns to go. "About the cabin. If you need it."
"Thank you."
He nods once, then walks back toward the house, and I watch him go.
I stand there on the dock, heart racing, hands trembling, skin still burning where he touched me.
Something fundamental has shifted.
And I'm terrified to name what it might be.