30. Always
ALWAYS
NORA
It feels like someone took a baseball bat to my head overnight.
Dear God, this headache.
No—not a baseball bat. A sledgehammer. Wielded by someone with a personal vendetta and excellent upper body strength.
This is what I get for treating sangria like a sports drink.
The headache throbs in rhythm with yesterday's memories: the sangrias, the photos of Wes and Molly I can't unsee, the humiliation. The baby shower that blurred at the edges like a watercolor painting someone left in the rain.
How everything spun until it didn't.
And then there's the man currently lying next to me.
Which is either the best or worst decision I've made in recent memory, and given my track record, that's saying something.
The panic attack. The shower. Nate stepping in fully clothed like some kind of romance novel hero, holding me under the water like he was protecting me from the world itself.
Very dramatic. Very effective. Absolutely mortifying in retrospect.
Then there's the almost-kiss that I initiated like a drunk disaster person with zero impulse control.
Cool. Just casually tried to kiss my ex while having a breakdown in the shower.
Except nothing is fine, and I'm lying here with a headache that could kill a small horse, next to a man I definitely should not have in my bed.
Your therapist is going to have a field day with this one.
I turn my head slowly.
Nate is still here.
Still asleep, breathing deep and even.
And he's shirtless.
Completely, devastatingly shirtless, wearing only black boxer briefs that sit low on his hips, the sheet slipped down to his waist like it's personally conspiring against my sanity.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
Traitor body.
His chest rises and falls with each breath—broader, more solid than seven years ago. His arms relaxed, one thrown above his head, the other resting across his stomach. Black ink winding up from his wrists, across his forearms, disappearing and reappearing across his ribs.
The sheet sits dangerously low, revealing that V-line that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers.
My mouth goes dry.
Get it together, Nora.
I carefully extract myself from the bed and pad toward the bathroom.
The water runs hot. Steam fills the bathroom, and for a moment I can just breathe.
Until the memories flood back.
Nate's body wrapped around mine in this exact shower. His heartbeat against my spine. His voice in my ear—steady, calm—telling me to breathe.
In for four. One, two, three, four.
I've got you.
It wasn't the first time. Every panic attack, every moment I fell apart—he was just there.
The door slams somewhere in the cabin.
I jolt.
Did Nate leave?
I turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and step out.
The bed is empty. Made, even.
My stomach sinks.
Then I see a note propped against the coffee maker.
Running to the store. Back in 20.
Realized there's no milk or bread to make you a proper breakfast. But there's aspirin in the cabinet above the sink and water in the fridge.
Drink both.
— N
Breakfast?
He's making me breakfast.
Taking care of me the way he always has.
I look down at the note again, and it confirms what I already know to be true, what I've been trying very hard not to acknowledge:
I'm in so much fucking trouble.
The catastrophic, life-altering, no-going-back kind of trouble.
Because this isn't just chemistry or nostalgia. It's not residual first-love feelings I can rationalize away. It's not just physical attraction I can blame on seeing him shirtless this morning—though that definitely didn't help.
It's still him. Still Nate.
Still the person who knows exactly how I like my eggs and how to talk me through a panic attack. Who gets in the shower fully clothed because I'm falling apart. Who makes me breakfast after I drunkenly tried to kiss him. Who leaves notes instead of waking me up because he knows I'm hungover.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.
With him. With this.
So, I get changed and decide that until he's back, I'm going to be productive and write.
Which is a first, because I haven't felt like writing for months now. Every time I've opened my laptop in LA, the words have felt forced, mechanical, like I'm going through the motions of being a writer without actually having anything to say.
But here, in this cabin with the morning light streaming through the windows and the smell of pine in the air and Nate's note still sitting on the counter—here, the words feel like they might actually come.
I grab my laptop and set myself up on the porch.
The air is cool but not cold, perfect for working outside. I settle into one of the chairs, pull my knees up, and open a blank document.
For the first time in what feels like forever, my fingers find the keys and the words start to flow.
I'm maybe twenty minutes in, lost in a scene that's pouring out of me faster than I can type, when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. There's something about the sound—aggressive, purposeful—that tells me exactly who it is before I see the car.
Wes.
I close my laptop slowly, set it aside, and stand as he pulls up in front of the cabin.
He cuts the engine of the black, polished Audi and steps out. I take him in with the kind of detachment that comes from finally seeing clearly.
He's wearing what I think of as his "damage control" outfit: expensive casual. Designer jeans that fit perfectly, a crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up just so, shoes that cost more than most people's rent. The uniform of someone who's used to buying his way out of problems.
Sunglasses perched on his nose. Posture confident, like he owns every inch of space he occupies.
Like he has any right to be here.
But there's something else. Something I've seen before but always explained away. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands are already curling into fists at his sides.
He's angry.
I exhale slowly, force myself to stay calm but my pulse is hammering.
"What are you doing here?"
He pulls off his sunglasses, and his eyes are cold. Harder than I've ever seen them.
"What am I doing here? What the fuck are you doing here, Nora?" His voice is sharp. Controlled. But there's rage simmering underneath.
"You ghost me for two weeks. You ignore my calls and texts."
"You need to leave. We're done, Wes."
"Done?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You don't get to decide we're done by sending me a fucking gossip link and disappearing."
"You made the decision real easy when you were sucking faces with Molly. Multiple times."
"Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair, the polished facade cracking. "It wasn't like that. You're being dramatic—"
“Dramatic? You got caught.”
Now I’m angry.
"There are photos of you kissing her," I continue. "Of you getting into her car. Of you walking into a hotel together. What part of that is dramatic? The kissing? The hotel? Or the part where the entire internet saw it before I did?"
"It was nothing! It meant nothing! She's an actress looking for representation, we were discussing—"
"Oh, is that what we're calling it now? Discussing representation? In her mouth? At a hotel?"
I tilt my head.
"Interesting business model. It’s a very hands-on approach."
“Nora, be serious.’
"Stop." I hold up a hand. "Just stop fucking lying for once in your life. I'm done with the lies and all the bullshit.”
His expression shifts. The charm drops away completely, replaced by something uglier. Something I've caught glimpses of before but never let myself acknowledge.
"You're done?" His voice is low now. Dangerous. "You don't get to be done, Nora. Do you have any idea what I've done for you? The doors I've opened? The connections I've made? Your career would be nothing without me."
“You sound like a broken record, Wes. My career was fine before you."
"Your career was mediocre before me," he snaps. "You were writing small-time romance novels that nobody gave a shit about. I'm the one who got you the film deal. I'm the one who introduced you to the right people. I made you relevant."
The words hit like a slap.
"Wow. So inspiring. You should write self-help books."
My voice is flat. Cutting.
"'How to Gaslight Your Fiancée in Ten Easy Steps.' Chapter one: Take credit for her entire career while fucking someone else."
He throws his hands in the air and huffs out a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
"Get off this property."
"We're not done talking."
"Yes, we are. Leave. Now."
He takes a step closer, and I see it—the shift from controlled anger to something more volatile.
"You think you can just walk away? After everything? You think you can embarrass me like this—make me look like a fool in front of the entire industry—and there won't be consequences?"
"You embarrassed yourself. I just refused to cover for you anymore."
"Is that what this is?" His voice drops to something venomous. "You found out about Molly and suddenly you're playing the victim? Running back to your pathetic small-town ex? Trying to make me jealous?"
"This has nothing to do with—"
"Bullshit." He's closer now, invading my space. "You've been fucking him this whole time, haven't you? That's what this is really about."
"I haven't—"
"Don't fucking lie to me!" His voice explodes, loud enough to echo across the property. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know why you came running back here?"
My heart is racing. My hands are shaking.
This is the Wes I've seen in flashes. The one who appears when things don't go his way. The one I've always made excuses for.
"You need to leave," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Right now."
"Or what?" He sneers. "You'll call your ex to come save you? Jesus, Nora, the damsel in distress routine doesn’t suit you.”
"Get. Off. This. Property."
"Make me."
He steps forward, closing the distance between us, and before I can react, his hand shoots out and grabs my upper arm.
Hard.
Not a touch. Not a grip.
A bruising hold that makes me gasp.