6
Nate
The bell above Briarwood’s door hadn't even finished its cheerful jingle before Ethan Cross’s entire world shifted on its axis.
I’d love to claim I’m a strategic mastermind who’d mapped out the lighting, the timing, and the specific golden hour angle of his arrival, but I wasn't that good.
I’d walked into this coffee shop hoping to float a desperate idea, fully expecting Hannah Reed to reject me so hard that Carter would spend the next week buying me pity wings while mocking my lack of game.
Instead, Hannah’s hand was in mine.
I hadn't expected the second her palm slid against mine, my brain would go inconveniently, uncharacteristically quiet.
That part was less than ideal. Her hand was small—warm and soft in a way that made me vividly aware of the calloused, heavy-handed way I moved through the world.
On the ice, in the gym, even opening a locker room door—everything I did was about force.
Hannah held my hand like she wasn’t sure if it was a lifeline or a trap.
Given my track record, it was probably both.
I caught Cross’s reflection in the window. He was standing on the sidewalk, one hand hovering near the door handle, staring through the glass like someone had just changed the ending of a movie he’d seen a dozen times.
*Perfect timing, Ken Doll.*
I leaned closer to Hannah, shifting my weight until my shoulder brushed hers. I could feel the heat radiating off her, the sudden tension that turned her spine into a rod of iron.
“Smile, Hannah Reed,” I murmured, my voice a low vibration intended only for her.
Her fingers tightened around mine—a sharp, panicked squeeze. “Nate,” she whispered through her teeth, her smile fixed and terrified.
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you’re just nervous. It feels similar.”
“I can be both. I’m a multitasker.”
I flashed a real grin, the kind that actually reached my eyes, because she was surprisingly funny when she was cornered. That realization was becoming a problem I wasn’t ready to unpack before noon.
Outside, Cross hesitated for a beat longer than necessary before pushing the door open. The bell gave another bright chime—a starting whistle.
Hannah’s posture turned impeccable. Not relaxed, but the kind of perfect that suggested she was being held up by invisible wires. Her smile was there, but it was the one people used for passport photos. I squeezed her hand once, a grounding pressure, and her eyes cut to mine, wide and questioning.
“Breathe,” I whispered.
“I am breathing. My lungs are functioning at high capacity.”
“You’re posing. You look like you’re in a wax museum. Look at me.”
She did. And for a second, the clatter of the espresso machine and the muffled Sunday morning chatter disappeared.
Her eyes weren't just blue; they were deep—clearer and more direct than she probably intended.
Up close, I could see tiny golden flecks near her pupils.
I had absolutely no business noticing the geography of her eyes.
“He’s already looking,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Stop trying to convince him. Just let him wonder.”
Something shifted in her expression. The panic settled into a soft, genuine glow. Her smile changed—becoming real enough that my grip on her hand tightened instinctively.
Across the room, Cross slowed down. *Got him.*
He didn't come over immediately, but his eyes were restless, constantly flicking back to our table.
To our joined hands. To the way I was sitting close enough that my knee was tucked against hers under the table.
The look on his face was a slow-motion car wreck—confusion, curiosity, then a flicker of annoyance he was too polite to show.
“He’s looking again,” I warned, lowering my head so my mouth was close to her temple. “Keep your eyes on me.”
“How am I supposed to know if it’s working?”
“Trust the expert.”
“That is not even remotely reassuring. You ended up on a truck last weekend.”
“I observed an opportunity for champagne and took it. That’s called leadership.”
Her mouth twitched. There it was. The almost-smile. I was beginning to realize that earning that expression was a lot like getting a puck through a congested neutral zone—hard work, but incredibly satisfying when it finally landed.
“Better,” I said. “That’s less ‘hostage’ and more ‘Hannah.’”
Her cheeks turned a vivid, beautiful pink. I felt a sudden, sharp hunger that had nothing to do with the muffin I hadn't ordered.
“Ethan!” the barista called out.
Hannah went tense. I threaded my fingers through hers, anchoring her as Cross made his move. He was the picture of collegiate perfection in a gray sweater and dark jeans, hair styled into that effortless "I just woke up like this" lie.
“Hannah,” he said as he reached the table.
“Hey,” she said, her voice a little too high before she cleared her throat. “Hi, Ethan.”
Cross’s gaze moved to me—cool and assessing. “Wilder.”
“Cross.”
We weren't friends. He was just the guy whose existence felt like a recruitment brochure for a life I didn’t fit into. His eyes dropped to our joined hands. Then back to her.
“You two know each other?”
Hannah opened her mouth, likely to provide a thirty-page academic explanation. I answered before she could overcomplicate it.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes sliced to me, but I kept my expression effortless. I let the silence hang. Cross looked back at Hannah, the porcelain of his "nice guy" mask showing a hairline fracture. “I didn’t realize.”
“We ran into each other yesterday,” she said, her voice steadying.
I tilted my head, my mouth curving. “She means that literally.”
Hannah kicked me under the table. Hard. I masked a wince with a sip of coffee.
Cross glanced between us. “You were at the party last night, right? I didn’t get to talk to you much.”
*No, because you walked away to find someone louder,* I thought.
“It was crowded,” Hannah said.
“Yeah.” Cross shifted his cup, his gaze lingering on me. “A little crazy.”
“It was tame by Northwood standards,” I countered.
Hannah’s eyes flicked to me, surprise bright in them. Cross raised an eyebrow. “For you?”
“Especially for me.”
Hannah’s foot nudged mine under the table. It wasn’t a kick this time; it was a quiet *thank you*. I liked it more than I should.
Cross took a sip of his coffee, his gaze drifting back to her. “Are you still going to the review session tomorrow? I’ll probably be there.”
*Probably.* The favorite word of guys who want to keep their options open. I watched her absorb that tiny crumb of hope like it was a feast. That same irritation returned. He was dropping just enough interest to keep her on the hook without doing the work.
I shifted our joined hands until they were dead center on the table.
“Actually,” I said, looking at Hannah, “you’ve got plans tomorrow.”
She blinked. “I do?”
I ran my thumb over the side of her hand—a slow, deliberate stroke. “With me.”
Her breath caught. Cross was definitely watching my thumb now. Hannah’s eyes held mine, and I could see the silent "I’m going to kill you" behind her pupils, but beneath that, a flicker of trust.
“Right,” she said, recovering with a grace that made me want to grin. “I totally forgot.”
“You forgot our plans, Hannah Reed?” I dropped my voice, making it sound more intimate than it had any right to be.
Her cheeks went that ruinous shade of pink again. “No. I just forgot they were tomorrow.”
Cross looked like he wanted to retreat but hadn't figured out how to do it with his dignity intact. “I should get going. See you around, Hannah?”
The question mark was there. He wanted her to say yes.
Hannah looked at him. Then she glanced at me. Like she was checking in. Like we were a team. Something strange and warm moved through my chest.
She turned back to Cross. “Yeah. Maybe.”
*Maybe.* I wanted to stand up and applaud.
“Cool,” he said, sounding anything but. Then he left. Hannah held her smile until he was out of sight, then turned on me like a hurricane.
“What the hell was that? You said we had dinner plans!”
“Effective,” I said, leaning back. “We have to sell the narrative. Dinner is the next logical step.”
“I said public only!”
“Dinner is public. Unless you’re planning on eating in a bunker.”
She stared at me, caught between throwing her latte or laughing. “You are impossible.”
“Only when I’m being rewarded for it.”
Her anger faltered as she looked toward the window. Cross was walking down the sidewalk, and just before he turned the corner, he glanced back.
Hannah saw it. Her mouth parted slightly. “Oh,” she whispered.
“Yeah. Oh. He looked back. He never does that, does he?”
“No,” she said, her eyes shining. “Never.”
I let go of her hand. Or I tried to. Her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second before she pulled away. That tiny delay did more damage to my pulse than it should.
I picked up my coffee, watching the path Cross took. The first move worked. Coach wanted respectable. Cross wanted what I had. Hannah wanted to be seen.
And me? I just wanted my future back. That had to be enough.