44
Hannah
I tell myself I am going to Nate’s to talk.
That is the narrative I’ve constructed, and I’m clinging to it like a life raft in a high-seas storm. Talking. Words. Exchanging oxygen. Maybe water, because Nate has apparently made hydration the third person in our relationship—which is not a relationship, because I am seeing Ethan.
Not dating. *Seeing.* Trying. Whatever the correct clinical term is for going on dates with a very nice, very stable boy while another boy lives in your head like he signed a ninety-nine-year lease and already started painting the walls.
I am not going to Nate’s for a lesson. I am not going because Ethan kissed me at the end of our date and my body reacted with the enthusiasm of a laptop shutting down during finals week.
I am certainly not going because I want to be near him so badly it feels like standing too close to an open oven—that dangerous, searing heat that makes you want to reach out and touch the coils just to see if you can handle the burn.
I am going to talk. That’s all.
So, naturally, I change my shirt three times.
By the time I finally leave my dorm, I’ve settled on jeans, my favorite sneakers, and a soft green sweater that Ella once described as "innocent but emotionally suspicious."
I still don’t know what that means, but as I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror, it feels entirely accurate.
My eyes look too wide, and my mouth is set in a line that screams *I am definitely not about to do something stupid. *
Ella watches me from her bed, propped up on one elbow with a bag of pretzels in her lap. She’s been watching me for ten minutes, her expression a mix of concern and that annoying "I know you better than you know yourself" smirk.
“What?” I snap, grabbing my jacket.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re doing face commentary, Ella. It’s loud.”
“My face is just worried about your accounting, Han.” She sets the pretzels aside. “Are you going because you actually need to talk, or because you want Nate to make you feel less weird about Ethan?”
The question lands with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. I hate when she gets out the emotional measuring tape.
“I need to talk,” I say, perhaps too firmly. “About Ethan. With Nate.”
She looks at me—really looks at me—and I feel the weight of every lie I’ve ever told her crumbling. “Complicated is not a magic word that makes questionable choices emotionally tax-deductible,” she says gently.
“I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you were. I’m just thinking you’re standing very close to the edge of something that’s going to hurt.”
That shuts me up. I glance toward the bottom drawer of my dresser. Closed. Nate’s shirt is still inside, tucked away like a cotton landmine. I haven't touched it in days. I haven't smelled it. I haven't even looked at it.
“I’m not going there for *that*,” I say quietly.
“Then make sure he knows that too.”
I nod, though I don’t know if I’m agreeing with her or promising myself. My phone buzzes, vibrating against my palm like a warning.
**Nate:** *Outside.*
My stomach flips—a sharp, violent somersault. I texted him twenty minutes ago, asking if I could come over "just to talk." His response had been a clipped, *Yeah. I’ll pick you up.* No safety check. No teasing. Just that heavy, professional distance.
I look at Ella. “He’s here.”
“Talking only means talking only, Han.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
I leave before she can gently murder me with any more wisdom.
Nate is leaning against the side of his truck when I step out into the cool night air.
He looks good. Unfairly, impossibly good.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, his hair a mess that looks like he’s been running his hands through it for an hour.
His eyes find mine immediately, and they don't wander.
They stay locked on my face, searching, as if he’s trying to read the subtitles of my soul.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
There it is. The question that has become our shorthand for everything. I should be immune to the way he says it—that low, grounding rumble—but I’m not.
“Mostly.”
“Real?”
I almost smile. “Real mostly.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but enough to make the air feel a little less thin.
He opens the passenger door, and I climb into the cab.
It smells like him—clean soap, cold air, and the faint, woodsy scent of the pine tree freshener he claims Mason forced on him but has never removed.
The drive is silent. Nate keeps both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white. Usually, we banter. Or he makes some cocky comment about my music taste. Tonight, the silence is a physical barrier. He’s already stepped back before I even got here, and the coldness of that distance makes my chest ache.
When we reach his apartment, he shuts off the engine but doesn't move.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he says, his profile half-shadowed by the parking lot lights. His jaw is tight, his expression an impenetrable mask of "responsible."
I hate it. I hate that he's being so damn careful. “I know.”
We go upstairs in a silence that feels like a countdown. Inside, his apartment is exactly the same, but the vibe is all wrong. The kitchen light is humming, and there are two water bottles already on the counter. He’s prepared for a crisis.
“Table?” he asks. Not the couch. Never the couch tonight.
“Yeah.”
We sit across from each other, the table a wooden ocean between us. For a second, we just stare at our water bottles. Then I can’t take it anymore.
“Ethan kissed me again,” I say.
Nate goes completely still. He doesn't flinch, doesn't gasp. He just becomes a statue, his whole body deciding that any movement would be a confession.
“Okay,” he says finally.
I stare at him, stunned. *Okay?* That’s all I get?
“Did you want to talk about that?” he asks, leaning back. His voice is so controlled it’s actually terrifying. He’s trying to become part of the furniture—neutral, functional, unbothered.
“Yes.”
“Then talk.”
“It was a good date,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “He was sweet. We went to dinner. It was fun.”
“Good.”
I glare at him. “Stop saying 'good' like you’re filing a police report, Nate.”
His eyes snap to mine, dark and sharp. “I don't know what you want me to say, Hannah. I’m trying to listen.”
“You’re trying to disappear while sitting right in front of me.”
That hits. I see the flicker of pain before he masks it. “I’m giving you space,” he says.
“I didn't ask for this much space.”
“You’re seeing Ethan,” he counters, his voice low and jagged. “I don’t think I’m the person who gets to be upset about how much space I give you.”
The truth of it cuts through the room. I look down at my hands. “He asked if I wanted to come inside. He said we didn't have to do anything. He was... he was perfect about it. Respectful.”
Nate’s hand tightens around his water bottle. I hear the plastic crinkle. “I know. I don't think Cross would pressure you.”
The fact that he can be so fair to his rival makes my throat swell with unwanted tears. He’s not turning Ethan into a villain to make this easier for me. He’s being a "good guy," and I hate him for it.
“I froze,” I whisper.
Nate’s face finally breaks. Concern, pain, and a dark, heavy understanding all wash over him at once. “I didn't mean to,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I knew I could say no. I knew he’d listen. But my whole body just... it just stopped.”
Nate doesn't reach for me. He doesn't take my hand. He looks like every word I’m saying is a physical blow, yet he stays on his side of the table.
“Maybe you’re not ready with him,” he says.
*With him.* Not *ready in general.* The distinction is a knife.
“I thought I might just not be ready in general,” I say, searching his eyes.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Nate says.
“Why?”
“Hannah, don't.”
“No, say it.”
“I’m not going to sit here and tell you why you freeze with another guy. It's close enough to being an asshole.”
I stand up, the chair scraping against the floor. “You’re doing it again. Deciding what is 'responsible' and acting like it’s the same as being honest.”
Nate stands too. Now we’re both on our feet, the kitchen light casting long shadows between us. “I *am* being honest,” he says.
“No, you’re being noble, and it’s a lie.”
His eyes flash. “Trust me, I do not feel noble right now.”
“Then stop acting like it! What do you want from me?”
“I think you keep coming here wanting me to answer something for you,” he says, his voice rough. “And I think every time I do, it makes it harder for you to know if the answer is yours.”
I flinch as if he’s slapped me. Because he’s right. He’s making walking away sound like helping, and it’s the most Nate Wilder thing he’s ever done.
“Nate,” I whisper, my eyes burning.
“You froze with him, and you came here to tell me,” he says, finally stepping around the table but staying out of my reach. “And I’m the person you want to talk to about it. Which means I’m in the way.”
“You’re not in the way.”
“Yes, I am. I’m the person in your head when you’re with him. I’m the reason you’re confused. And that’s why I’m backing off.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. “Backing off how?”
“No more lessons. No more almost-lessons. No more late-night check-ins after you’ve been out with him. I can't be the guy you debrief with every time Cross touches you, Hannah. It’s killing me.”
I can barely breathe. The honesty in his voice—the raw, bleeding edge of it—makes me want to move toward him, but the look on his face stops me.
“I need to give you room to choose,” he says, his jaw tight. “And I can’t do that if I’m standing in the doorway.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I sob, the first tear finally breaking free.
“You keep saying that like wanting not to hurt people stops it from happening. But if I don't back off, I’m just going to keep hoping he fails. I'm going to keep hoping you freeze every time he touches you so I can feel better about wanting you. And that’s not fair to anyone.”
I feel the floor tilting. He’s taking himself away from the exact places I need him most because he’s tired of being the obstacle.
“I missed you,” I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can catch it.
Nate’s whole body goes rigid. He takes one ragged breath, then another. “Don’t say that to me if you’re going back to him tomorrow, Hannah. Just... don't.”
The fracture in my heart is a clean, sharp snap. I nod, because he’s right. I can’t have both. I can’t have his comfort while I’m trying to build a life with someone else.
“I should go,” I say, my voice a wreck.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No. I need to walk.”
“It’s cold, Hannah.”
“I know. Let me walk, Nate. You said you’re backing off. Let me start.”
He flinches, but he doesn't argue. He steps back, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
I leave before I start sobbing. The walk back to the dorm is a blur of cold air and hot tears. By the time I get to my room, Ella is waiting. She takes one look at me and pulls me into a hug.
“He said he’s in the way,” I whisper into her shoulder, my heart feeling like it’s been shredded.
“And is he, Han?” she asks softly.
I squeeze my eyes shut. If he were only in the way, walking away would feel like clearing a path. Instead, it feels like I’ve just walked off a cliff.