TruthDare?
NATE
I watch from my cabin window as Nora laces up her running shoes on her small deck.
She's consistent, I'll give her that. Same time every morning for the past week she's been here.
She stretches—hamstrings, quads, that thing where she pulls her ankle behind her and I definitely don't stare at the curve of her leg—and then she's off, heading down the path that leads to the main road.
I give her five minutes to make sure she's really gone, not just forgot something and turning back.
Then I grab my toolbox.
The plan is simple: slip into her cabin while she's out, fix the water heater I diagnosed yesterday, check that cabinet handle that's been sticking, and be gone before she gets back from her run.
She shouldn't have to ask to use my shower again. Shouldn't have to stand in my bathroom at night, wet hair and nervous energy, making me lose my mind.
Just fix it. Make sure everything works. Don't make it a thing.
I let myself in with the spare key—all the cabins have the same lock, terrible security but convenient right now—and get to work.
The water heater is an easy fix. Just needed the pilot light relit and a valve adjustment. Ten minutes, tops.
The cabinet handle takes longer. I'm shirtless because the morning is already heating up and I figured I'd be done in twenty minutes.
Except I'm not.
Because I'm being thorough. Making sure the hinge is aligned perfectly, that the door closes smoothly, that everything is exactly right.
Not overthinking it. Definitely not using minor home repairs as an excuse to take care of her in the only way I know how. I'm crouched in front of the kitchen cabinet, screwdriver in hand, adjusting the door with probably more focus than the task requires, when I hear it.
The front door opening.
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body goes taut. The tension flickers along my spine, sharp and immediate.
She's not supposed to be back yet. It's been maybe thirty minutes. She usually runs for at least forty-five.
I don't turn around. Just keep working, letting the music from my phone mask the fact that my heart rate just spiked.
"Uh... Nate?"
Her voice is quiet, tentative, almost apologetic.
The same voice that was in my shower last night, the same voice that's been replaying in my head on a loop since she left.
Sweat dampens my back. My hands tighten on the screwdriver.
Caught. Red-handed. Shirtless and uninvited in her cabin.
Great.
"Hey," I say, still not turning around, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. "I was just—the cabinet was sticking. And I fixed your water heater. Turns out the pilot light was out."
"Oh."
The uncertainty in her voice makes something in my chest twist.
I finally turn around, and there she is.
Just inside the doorway, morning light spilling in behind her, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, running shorts and a tank top that's damp with sweat.
And I'm crouched shirtless in her kitchen like some kind of creep that broke into her cabin without actually asking her for permission first.
"I can wait outside—” she starts.
“No, I’m done.” I cut in. "I should have texted. I just wanted to make sure everything worked before you got back. So you could shower after your run."
The silence stretches between us, charged and fragile.
I should leave. Should grab my toolbox and get out before this gets more complicated than it already is.
But instead I lean up against the counter, crossing my arms across my chest.
Her eyes widen slightly when she takes me in—shirtless, hands streaked with grease from the cabinet hinges, baseball cap backward, a sheen of sweat catching the light.
Her gaze tracks down my chest, my torso, the tattoos on my ribs, before she forces her eyes back up to my face.
Color rises in her cheeks. Good to know I'm not the only one affected.
I give her a half smile and she gives me one back.
And fuck me if I don't feel a sudden onslaught of butterflies in my chest. She shifts her weight, glances at the kitchen counter where I've been working.
"I'm sorry, again for breaking everything.”
"Since when do you apologize this much?" I cut her off gently.
She looks down, biting her lip in that way she does when she's trying not to argue, then nods.
"You're letting me stay here for free and I end up breaking your shit."
"It's an easy to fix handle." I say, trying to bring a bit of lightheartedness to the conversation. "If it was one of my guitars, well then that might be a different story entirely."
She laughs at that.
“Do you have plans today?" The words slip out before I have a chance to stop them.
"Not really. Mia and your Mom are doing final shower prep. Camilla and Jay are going to look at venues.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I was just going to write for a bit. Or try to, anyway."
She moves toward the kitchen, reaching for a glass from the cabinet above where I'm standing. The space is tight. She has to lean past me to reach it, and suddenly she's there—her hip brushing against me, her scent surrounding me, the heat of her body so close I can feel it on my skin.
She freezes mid-reach.
I freeze completely.
For a second, neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.
Her hand is stretched up toward the cabinet, her body angled over mine, and every point where we're almost touching burns like an open flame.
"Sorry," she whispers, but she doesn't move away.
"Don't be.” I say, reaching for the glass she’s after before handing it to her.
She grabs the glass quickly and steps back, putting distance between us like her life depends on it.
An idea forms before I can talk myself out of it.
Probably a terrible idea. I’m full of those lately.
"Do you want to go for a drive?"
She blinks at me, surprise flickering across her features.
"A drive?"
"Yeah. I could use a break from playing handyman, and..." I pause, weighing how honest to be. "It's a nice morning. Seems like a waste to spend it inside."
I watch her consider it, see the internal debate play out in micro-expressions I remember from years of learning to read her.
The way her eyebrows draw together slightly. The small movement of her throat as she swallows. The unconscious curl of her fingers against her palm.
"Okay," she says finally.
"Okay." I glance down at myself—shirtless, sweaty, covered in grease. "Give me fifteen minutes to shower and make myself presentable."
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something dangerous to my chest.
"Fair point."
"There's fresh coffee in the kitchen if you want some. And I got some fresh cinnabons this morning, if you still eat those."
"Are you mad? Of course I still do."
I smile. "I'll be quick."
This is just a drive.
Just showing her around town.
We used to do this all the time.
Nothing more.
I repeat it like a mantra while I wash off the sweat and grease.
I towel off quickly, throw on jeans and a t-shirt, run my hands through my wet hair and find a fresh baseball cap.
When I return, she's standing on the porch, coffee mug in hand,
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready.”
We walk to where the Mustang is parked in the garage. I unlock the passenger door first, pull it open for her.
Old habit.
She pauses, looks at me with something unreadable in her expression, then slides in.
By the time I'm in the driver's seat, she's already settled back against the leather, and the sight of her there—in my car, where she's sat a thousand times before—hits me like a fucking hurricane.
How many times have we done exactly this?
How many summers did we spend in this car, windows down, music too loud, driving nowhere in particular just to feel free?
I kept this car through everything—through rehab, through building the studio, through every practical voice that told me to sell it and get something more sensible.
But I couldn't.
There are too many memories stitched into the upholstery.
"I can't believe you still have this car," Nora says as I start the engine, and there's genuine amusement threading through her voice.
"There's no way I'd ever get rid of it." I glance at her, letting myself smile. "There were some good memories in this car."
Her expression shifts—something softer, more vulnerable.
"Yeah. There were."
I pull out onto the road, heading toward the scenic route that winds through the hills outside Eden, and despite everything—despite the tension, the history, the complications—this feels so damn right.
Dangerously, impossibly right.
My old playlist shuffles on—songs we used to play on repeat, music that defined those summers.
Oasis, Kings of Leon, Jimmy Eat World, Radiohead.
She smiles when a familiar intro starts to ‘I Want You’ by the Kings of Leon. Her fingers tap unconsciously against her thigh in rhythm, and for a fleeting second it's as though no time has passed at all.
"So," she says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Where are we going?"
"Just driving." I shift gears, the engine responding smoothly. "Thought I'd show you what's changed in Eden."
"Has a lot changed?"
"Yes and no." I navigate a familiar curve, the road opening up to reveal rolling hills and distant mountains. "South Eden has. The community's really thriving now. It's been building like this for the last few years—people rebuilding, growing, learning to take care of each other again."
Her eyes are on me, studying my profile.
"After... everything?"
I take a breath, hands gripping the wheel, sun warming my shoulders through the open window.
"Yeah. After everything."
After Scott died—the trust fund that was supposed to go to Jake—it all went back into Eden. Specifically South Eden, where the damage was worst.
Mom and I didn't take a cent, even after he tried to convince me to take the money when he knew he was dying. It still didn't feel right, so we rebuilt the town he destroyed on our own terms for the community.
I keep my eyes on the road because looking at her while talking about this feels too raw.
"The past doesn't control the future here. Scott—or anyone like him—doesn't own a piece of what this town always deserved."
"That's..." She pauses, searching for words. "That's incredible."