35
Nate
The first time I see Hannah with Ethan after the fake dating ends, I handle it like a mature adult.
Meaning I do not trip him. I do not glare. I do not walk over, put my hand on the small of her back, and call her *baby* in a tone designed to make every guy within a ten-foot radius remember his place.
Growth. Probably.
I’m coming out of the athletic building with Carter and Mason after morning lift, still sweaty enough that my shirt is sticking to my back and my patience is thin.
The quad is a sea of midweek chaos—students shuffling between classes, steam rising from coffee cups, the collective hum of people who are one more assigned chapter away from a total breakdown.
And then I see her.
Hannah is near the fountain, looking soft and bright in a pale blue sweater that I have no business noticing from fifty yards away.
She’s holding her notebook against her chest while Ethan Cross stands in front of her.
He has one hand in his pocket and a smile on his face that suggests he’s very comfortable with the space between them.
They aren't touching. That should help. It doesn’t. Because Ethan is looking at her like he’s allowed to. Like he’s already thinking about the next time he gets to kiss her.
My jaw locks.
Carter stops talking mid-sentence. That is how I know I’m screwed. Carter never stops talking unless there’s a medical emergency or a hot dog stand involved.
“Ah,” he says.
I keep walking. “No.”
“I only said *ah*.”
“It was a loaded *ah*.”
Mason follows my gaze and grins, oblivious to the nuclear winter currently forming in my chest. “Oh. Reed and the anatomy guy.”
“Don’t call him that,” I snap.
“What? He’s in her anatomy class.”
“Still.”
Mason bites into a granola bar he probably found at the bottom of his gym bag. “Is he her academic body man?”
Carter winces. “Please never say that again.”
The smart thing would be to cut left toward the rink parking lot. The normal thing would be to nod if she sees me and keep walking. The old me would have made this into a calculated little scene—a smile, a hand at her waist, enough of a claim to remind Ethan that campus still thinks she’s mine.
Except campus doesn’t think that anymore. We ended it. No more public couple act. Rules. I’m a fan of rules, usually. But rules are currently useless against the fact that Ethan has taken one step closer to her and she hasn't moved away.
We keep on the path, mostly because it passes the fountain and I refuse to look like I’m fleeing.
Hannah looks up. She sees me. Her face changes—not a lot, but enough. A little flicker in her eyes, a tightening of her grip on her notebook. She looks at me and remembers we aren't allowed to act like we used to.
I stop a few feet away. “Hannah.”
Just her name. Not *sweetheart*. Not *baby*. Just her name.
Her mouth parts slightly, as if she feels the absence of the nickname like a physical draft. “Hey,” she says.
Ethan turns. “Wilder.”
“Cross.”
Smooth. Civil. My least favorite temperature.
Carter, ever the diplomat, beams. “Ethan. Good to see you clothed in academic daylight.”
Mason nods with grave seriousness. “Strong coffee posture, Cross.”
I close my eyes briefly. Hannah makes a tiny sound that might be a laugh, and my chest warms immediately. Then Ethan smiles at her laugh, and that warmth turns into a sharp, jagged edge. He is allowed to be here. He is allowed to enjoy her. He’s the original plan.
“We still on for Friday?” Ethan asks her.
Friday. My spine goes rigid. Carter’s foot nudges mine—hard. A warning.
Hannah’s eyes flick to me, too quick to read. “Yeah,” she says to Ethan. “Friday works.”
Ethan touches her elbow. Just a light, respectful, date-adjacent touch. I still almost combust. He walks away, and I watch him go for exactly one second too long.
When I look back at Hannah, her expression is careful. That’s worse.
“Friday?” I ask. My voice is too flat.
“He asked if I wanted to go to the movie thing on the lawn,” she says. “It's public.”
“I didn't say it wasn't.”
“You sounded like you were thinking something.”
“I think constantly, Hannah.”
“Debatable,” Mason adds.
Carter grabs Mason by the hoodie and hauls him away. “Smoothie time. We need distance.”
Left alone, the quad feels like it’s pressing in on us. People are walking around us, but we’re standing in a vacuum. I want to touch her so badly it almost pisses me off.
“We made rules,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m following them.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” My voice is sharper than I intended.
Hannah looks away toward the water. “Nothing. You're right. We made rules. You're following them. That’s good.”
*Good.* It lands like a heavy stone. I hate it. I meant that I don't know how to stand this close to her without reaching for her. I meant that the rules are working, and that makes them feel like a sentence.
“I don’t know what normal is supposed to look like now,” I admit.
Her face softens. “Me either.”
It’s the first honest thing we’ve said all day. Acknowledging that the map we drew is useless.
“You'll be late for class,” I say, noticing her grip on her bag.
“I know.”
Neither of us moves. I shove my hands into my jacket pockets to keep them from doing anything stupid. Hannah sees the movement, and a flicker of hurt crosses her face before she masks it with a brittle smile.
“Aftermath weird,” she says, using her official term.
She starts to leave, then pauses. For one awful, perfect second, I think she’s going to kiss my cheek out of habit. Her eyes flick to the spot, and mine close instinctively. But she pulls back.
“Bye, Nate.”
I hate *bye*. “Bye, Hannah.”
I watch her until she disappears inside Langford Hall. Then I turn and nearly walk into Carter, who is holding two smoothies.
“You did okay,” Carter says, handing me one.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s why you did okay. You didn't mark territory. You didn't make it weird.”
“I made it weird.”
“You made it medium weird. That’s progress.”
Practice is a release, but a cold one. I’m in a foul mood, skating harder than necessary, passing with a lethal snap. Coach notices after ten minutes.
“Wilder,” he calls me over. “You’re playing angry.”
“I’m focused, sir.”
“You’re letting the personal noise throw you off. Hard turns into stupid very fast when your head isn't right. Show me you’ve got discipline.”
I show him. I force the edge back. I let the game be the only thing in the world. It works until practice ends and my phone buzzes in my bag.
**Hannah:** *Class survived. Barely. Professor Hale remains a villain.*
I smile before I can stop it.
**Nate:** *Any décor injuries?*
**Hannah:** *One chair looked suspicious but I handled it. Still green.*
My chest warms. I lean against the locker, my thumbs hovering. I want to ask about Friday. I want to ask if she wants to kiss him again. I do not.
**Nate:** *Proud of you.*
**Hannah:** *Weapon. Goodnight, Nate.*
**Nate:** *Goodnight, Hannah Reed.*
I set the phone down. Carter is watching me. “You’re doomed-doomed,” he mutters.
“I’m fine enough.”
Carter nods slowly. “That might be the truest thing you’ve said all day.”
The fake dating is over. Ethan has Friday. The rules are working. But as I sit on the bench, I realize that not touching Hannah is possible. It just feels a hell of a lot like bleeding quietly.