18
Nate
I leave Briarwood Coffee with Hannah’s question still sitting in my chest.
Not in my head. That would be easier. My head knows what to do with complicated things—break them down, find the angles, locate the exit strategy.
My chest is significantly less helpful. It keeps replaying the way Hannah looked across the table at me, cheeks pink, fingers worrying the edge of her notebook, asking if I could help her feel less inexperienced.
Not coyly. Not flirtatiously. Not the way girls usually bring up sex around me, like they’re already halfway to the finish line and just waiting to see if I’ll take the bait. Hannah asked like she was handing me something fragile and trusting me not to drop it.
That is a dangerous thing to give a guy like me.
I walk across campus with my hood up against the mist, coffee cooling in one hand.
The brick paths shine wet beneath my boots.
Students pass in hunched clusters, umbrellas bumping together like migrating mushrooms.
Normally, I like this weather—it makes campus quieter, softer.
Today, it feels like the whole world has been wrapped in gray just to force me to think.
Annoying. I do not need atmospheric encouragement.
My phone buzzes. Carter.
*where are you*
*film in 20*
*if u are dead blink twice*
I type back: *Walking. Not dead.*
*suspiciously boring answer,* he replies.
I ignore it. If Carter sees me right now, he’ll know. Not the details, but he’ll look at my face and start poking until he finds the bruise. That’s what best friends do. Sometimes I hate it; today, I’m just not sure if I can afford it.
I shove open the athletic building doors and warm air hits my face. So does Carter Grey. He’s standing in the lobby with a protein bar in his mouth and his phone in his hand.
“There he is,” he says. “You’re wet. You’re brooding. You’re deflecting.”
“It’s raining, Carter.”
“Cute.” He falls into step beside me as we move toward the film room. The building smells like floor cleaner, damp coats, and that metallic cold that leaks from the rink. Carter studies me. I can feel it.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing. Just wondering if your 'strategic coffee' with Hannah required you to look like someone just handed you a live grenade and asked you to write it a poem.”
I drag a hand through my damp hair. I pull him into a quiet corner near the equipment storage. Carter’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, hallway abduction. This is serious.”
“Something happened with Hannah,” I say.
The clown act vanishes. Carter’s expression becomes unusually steady. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah. She’s... she trusts me, Carter.” The words come out lower than I mean them to. “That’s not a small thing. She shouldn't.”
“Why not? Because look at you?” Carter crosses his arms. “Nate, you’re acting like your reputation is the whole truth. You can be careful with her without becoming her boyfriend. You can set boundaries. You can admit you care whether she gets hurt without picking out wedding china.”
“I don’t do middle,” I mutter.
“Yeah. That might be the issue.”
Film is exactly as painful as expected. Coach spends twelve minutes on a neutral-zone turnover and then gets to the second period. The Dax Mercer incident.
Coach pauses the clip on my frozen image—jaw tight, skating away. The room goes quiet. “This,” Coach says, “is discipline. Briarwick wanted a reaction. They didn't get one. Good choice, Wilder.”
I nod, throat tight. Carter nudges my shoe with his. Not teasing. Just there.
Afterward, Coach pulls me aside. “I heard about the field party. I heard you didn't drink and you walked away from Mercer.” He studies me. “Hannah seems to be helping.”
“She’s not fixing me, Coach. I’m fixing me.”
Coach holds my gaze for a long moment. “Good answer. Keep her out of the fallout, Nate. Especially yours.”
I walk out of the building and open Hannah’s text thread. I want to tell her I won't tell anyone about what she asked.
**Nate:** *I didn't tell Carter what you asked me.*
**Hannah:** *Thank you. I wasn't sure if you would.*
**Nate:** *That's yours. Not mine to tell.*
**Hannah:** *You're being very decent. It's confusing.*
**Nate:** *Don't spread that around. Bad for the brand.*
I smile, then stop. I need to be clear. I can't hide behind the fake dating when it benefits me.
**Nate:** *Hannah. About what you asked. If we do anything, I need you to know I don’t do relationships. Real ones. I don’t want to lead you on.*
The screen stays still for a minute. My stomach ties itself in a knot.
**Hannah:** *I know. That’s not why I asked. I’m asking because I trust you and you already know.*
**Hannah:** *For the record, I still like Ethan.*
That should help. Nice, clean boundaries. Hannah likes Ethan. Nate doesn't do girlfriends. No one is confused. So why does my jaw feel like it’s made of iron?
**Nate:** *Good. Practice not apologizing. Lesson one.*
**Hannah:** *I’m sor—*
**Hannah:** *Never mind.*
I laugh, and for the first time all day, the thing in my chest eases.
Nate Wilder does not date. That’s the rule. But there is a new rule now: *Do not hurt Hannah Reed.* And somehow, that one feels a hell of a lot harder to keep.