39
Hannah
"Medium scary talk" is an incredibly stupid phrase.
That is my first thought as I walk across campus toward Nate’s apartment, my hands shoved deep into my pockets and my stomach twisted into a knot that probably belongs in Professor Hale’s next "fun little quiz."
Medium scary. Like emotional danger comes in coffee sizes.
The problem is that Nate suggested it. Which means it’s either going to be genuinely medium scary, or the kind of conversation where he says something so calm and responsible it makes me want to throw a decorative pillow at his head. Probably both.
I reach his building at 6:58. Even my anxiety respects punctuality.
I stand outside the front door for a second, staring at my reflection in the glass.
I look normal. Jeans, boots, cream sweater.
My hair is down because I tried putting it up three times and hated how exposed my neck looked—a detail that felt irrelevant and yet somehow essential.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ella.
**Ella:** *medium scary talk survival check*
**Hannah:** *Not dead yet.*
**Ella:** *promising. remember: you are allowed to be honest without solving your whole life tonight.*
I stare at the screen. That sounds suspiciously useful.
**Hannah:** *Stop being wise. It’s upsetting.*
**Ella:** *gerald and i contain multitudes.*
I smile despite myself and go upstairs. Nate opens the door before I can even knock a second time. He stands there in dark jeans and a black hoodie, his jaw tense in a way I know he thinks he’s hiding. He is not hiding it. Not from me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
His eyes move over my face—not my outfit, not my body—checking to make sure I haven’t shown up in a state of total collapse. I hate that I know that. I hate that I like it more.
“Come in.”
I step inside and notice the setup immediately. Kitchen table. Two bottles of water. A bowl of chips. No couch. Very official. Very Nate.
“This looks like a negotiation,” I say, gesturing to the table.
“It might be.”
“That’s ominous.”
“Medium ominous.”
I glare at him, and his mouth twitches, but the smile doesn’t arrive. Mine doesn't either. He closes the door, and I hear the lock click only after he glances at me for the nod. The routine is woven into my muscles now. *Door. Look. Nod. Green.* Even when the talk is the whole point.
We sit across from each other. The couch sits off to the side like a silent witness. I avoid looking at it. Nate notices.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Starting strong. You got me here for a medium scary talk and opened with 'you okay?'”
“I like the classics.”
“You like interrogations.”
“I like knowing if you’re okay before we talk about something that might make you less okay.”
My throat tightens. Unfair. That is a deeply unfair sentence. I twist the cap on my water bottle, my fingers trembling slightly. Nate leans back, hands on his thighs. Not on the table. Not near mine. Distance by design.
“What happened?” I ask, because if I don’t force him to start, I’ll spend ten minutes comparing the salt content of the chips.
Nate’s jaw flexes. “Ethan talked to me today. Outside the athletic building.”
“About what?”
“You. He asked if we were really done.”
The fake dating. The public part. It was supposed to make everything cleaner once it ended. Instead, it’s just thrown flour into the air and called it snow.
“What did you say?”
“I told him that was a question for you.”
Nate doesn't answer for me. He never does. I exhale, a mix of relief and irritation.
“He said he likes you,” Nate adds. “He seems serious. Interested. Respectful.”
“Is this a Yelp review?” I snap. “Because if you’re about to tell me he has a clean dining room and good parking, I’m leaving.”
That gets half a smile. “He asked if he was stepping into something. With us.”
*Us.* The word hits the table and cracks something invisible.
“There isn't an 'us',” I say. It sounds awful. It also sounds untrue. Technically, there’s no label. But there is my *green* and his *good* and the fact that I’m currently wearing a sweater that feels like a shield against the memory of his bed.
Nate doesn't flinch, but his eyes change. “Right. He also said that every time he’s with you, it feels like part of you is somewhere else.”
The room goes hollow. I look at Nate. He looks at me. Neither of us moves.
“That’s not fair,” I say finally.
“To who?”
“To me. And to him. And to you.”
His jaw tightens. Hit. I sit up straighter. “He shouldn’t have said that to you. It's not your job to explain.”
“I didn’t explain. But I thought you should know. Because if he feels like you're somewhere else... that matters.”
“Maybe he’s just insecure,” I say, my voice rising. “It’s not like I’m doing something wrong. I went out with him because that was the point. He kissed me because I said yes. I went to your game because you're my friend.”
*Friend.* The word hits us both like a physical blow.
Nate’s eyes hold mine.
“I wanted to support you. That doesn't mean I was somewhere else.”
“Doesn't it?” He asks quietly.
I stand up too fast, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me things like you already know the answer.”
“I don’t know the answer, Hannah. That’s the problem.”
I fold my arms, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. “So what? You brought me here to pick a side? To stop being confused on a schedule that works for everyone else?”
“I think,” Nate says, standing slowly, “that we should talk about whether the lessons are helping you right now. Or if they’re just giving you somewhere to put everything you don’t want to deal with.”
The words land hard. I feel the heat rush up my neck. “Wow. That was a very polished way to make me sound pathetic.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Like I’m running to you because I can’t handle my own feelings?”
“I didn’t say feelings.”
“We never say feelings!” I snap. “That’s the whole stupid problem!”
Silence. Immediate and huge. My own words echo back at me. *Feelings.* The forbidden grenade, rolling across the floor with the pin already gone. Nate goes completely still.
“Do you want to talk about that?” he asks, his voice dropping.
“No. No big scary talk.”
“That sounded big.”
I take a step back. I want him to be wrong.
It would be easier if he were a jerk, or selfish, or anything other than the guy who makes me feel safe.
“You always do that,” I whisper. “You ask the right questions. You stop when I need you to. You don’t push. And then I’m supposed to go out with Ethan and be normal,
and I can’t even tell if I’m confused because of him or because you made everything feel safe and now nothing else feels the way I thought it would.”
Nate doesn't move. I cover my mouth with one hand. That was not medium. That was a big scary talk with a bullhorn.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I whisper.
“I’m glad you did. But I think we should pause the lessons.”
The words slice through the room. My chest caves. I nod, my face heating with a mix of shame and hurt. “Right. Very responsible. Very on-brand.”
“Don’t act like I’m punishing you.”
“Aren’t you?”
Nate flinches. Actually flinches. The regret is immediate, but I’m too raw to take it back.
“No,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s me not wanting to be the guy who makes it harder for you to know what you want.”
“Well, congratulations.” I grab my jacket and shove my arms into it.
“Where are you going? We’re in the middle of talking.”
“I think we talked. You’re pausing the lessons. I’m supposed to figure out Ethan without you complicating things. Medium scary talk accomplished.”
He steps closer. “That is not what I said.”
“It’s close enough!” I spin toward him. “You always get to decide when it’s too much.”
“That’s not fair. You ask. You choose. Every time.”
“Until you decide my choices are too confused to trust!”
The words hit him hard. He goes pale under the kitchen light. He opens his mouth, closes it, and I see the unsaid thing between us like broken glass.
“It’s me trying not to hurt you,” he says finally.
I let out a small, painful laugh. “Too late.”
I move for the door. He follows but doesn't crowd me. Even now, he gives me space. I hate him for being good at the exact wrong time.
“Hannah,” he says softly.
“Don’t text me tonight,” I say, not looking back.
“Okay.”
The word is soft, obedient, and awful. I step into the hallway and close the door.
I don’t cry on the walk back. I don’t cry when a group of students passes me. I only cry when I get to my room and Ella says my name.
“Oh, Han.”
That’s what does it. I crumple, and she wraps me in a blanket, pulling me against her. I cry into her shoulder—tired, hot tears.
“He wants to pause the lessons,” I choke out eventually. “I got mad. I said too much. I said we never say feelings.”
Ella goes still. “Ah. Was it honest?”
“It was cruel.”
“It can be both.”
I stare at my phone. It’s dark. No *you okay?* No *inside?* Because I told him not to text, and Nate Wilder does not cross lines I draw, even when he wants to.
“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” Ella says, squeezing my hand.
“You sound like him,” I sob. “I’m furious about it.”
I curl on my side, the phone lying dark on the bed beside me. Nate didn't text *no decisions tonight*, but I hear it anyway. And for the first time, the words don't comfort me. Because tonight, one decision has been made. No lessons. No Nate.
And I’m terrified that without his hands teaching me how to want, I’m going to have to face the thing they were teaching me all along.