51
Hannah
Nate leaves.
For three agonizing seconds, I stand frozen on the front lawn.
The bass from the party thumps against the windows behind me, a dull, rhythmic heartbeat that feels completely out of sync with the frantic drum of my own pulse.
Nate is walking away, his shoulders broad and tense under his black hoodie, and with every step he takes toward the curb, it feels like he’s pulling the oxygen right out of my lungs.
Carter catches up to him. He says something, a low murmur I can’t hear, and Nate doesn't look back. Not once.
My phone is a dead weight in my hand. I’ve already sent the texts.
*Please don’t leave like that.* And then: *I didn’t want to hurt you.
* He doesn't answer. Of course he doesn't.
He’s doing the right thing, the noble thing, the Nate thing—leaving before the mess on this lawn becomes a permanent stain on all our lives.
Ethan is still beside me. I can feel the heat of him, the steady, patient presence that has been my safety net for weeks. He isn't touching me, but the silence between us is screaming.
“Hannah,” he says.
The way he says my name makes my throat close.
I turn to him. His face is caught in the harsh, yellow glow of the porch light, his expression a devastating mixture of confusion and a growing, dawning realization.
He looks like a man watching a bridge collapse while he’s still standing in the middle of it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He studies me for a long beat. “For what?”
The question is a scalpel. *Everything.* For following Nate. For the way I kissed him ten minutes ago while my mind was somewhere else. For trying to force a "simple" life when my heart had already chosen the complicated one.
“I need to go,” I say.
Ethan doesn't flinch. He just goes still. “You’re going after him.”
It isn't a question, but I give him the answer anyway. I’m done with softer lies. They’ve done enough damage. “Yes.”
Ethan looks away, toward the dark street where Nate and Carter’s car has already vanished. His jaw works, a muscle jumping in his cheek, but his voice is impossibly calm when he looks back. “Okay.”
“Ethan, I—”
“No.” He shakes his head, cutting me off gently. “Don’t apologize again. Not right now. I’m not mad, Hannah. I think I’m just... catching up.”
I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. “I didn’t plan this. I wanted tonight to be with you.”
“I believe you,” he says, and the fact that he does makes me want to scream. “But he walked out, and you followed. Go. Staying here would be cruel.”
He’s right. He’s always right, and it’s the most heartbreaking thing about him. I take a step back, then another, before turning and running toward my car.
The drive to Nate’s apartment is a blur of panic and neon streetlights. My hands are shaking so violently on the wheel that I have to grip it until my knuckles turn white. I left Ethan standing on a lawn after he was nothing but good to me. I’m a disaster. I’m a wrecking ball.
But when I pull into Nate’s complex and see his truck, the air finally returns to my lungs. He’s home.
I park the car—badly, one tire over the line—and practically sprint to his door. My heart is a frantic bird trapped in my chest. I lift my hand to knock, but before I can, the door swings open.
Nate stands there, looking like he felt me coming. He’s still in his hoodie, hair a mess, eyes dark and guarded.
“Hannah.” My name sounds wrecked. “You shouldn't be here.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
I step closer, into the narrow gap between us. “Because I couldn't let you leave like that. Because when you said you know what you want... I needed to hear the rest.”
Nate’s hand tightens on the doorframe. “You don't get to come here after kissing him and ask me to finish a sentence I never should have started.”
“I’m not asking you to be the answer, Nate. I’m asking because I need to know if it’s *you*.” I’m crying now, the words coming out raw and unvarnished. “I can’t breathe not knowing.”
He stares at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then he steps back, pulling me into the apartment and locking the door. The *click* of the deadbolt echoes through the quiet.
“Color,” he rasps.
“Green. Real.”
He moves. It’s not a slow approach; it’s a collision.
His hands are on my face, his mouth on mine, and the kiss is a desperate, starving thing.
It’s all the weeks of restraint and "backing off" exploding at once.
I pull him closer, my fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, my body igniting the second we touch.
He backs me into the wall, his weight pinning me there. It’s immediate—the drop, the rush, the heat. My body knows him. It recognizes him in a way it never recognized anyone else.
“We stop here,” Nate says, pulling back, his breathing ragged. “You got your answer. We stop.”
“I don't want to stop.” I grab his hoodie, my heart thudding against his chest. “I want you. Not as a lesson. Not as a test. I want you.”
His control fractures. I see it happen—the darkening of his pupils, the jagged way he takes his next breath. He stands with me in his arms, my legs automatically locking around his waist as he carries me down the hall to his bedroom.
He sets me on the edge of the bed, the movement urgent but his hands remaining steady as he tugs my sweater over my head.
He undresses me with a feverish reverence, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as it’s revealed.
When I’m bare, he sheds his own clothes in a blurred motion, his body hard and powerful in the dim light.
He hovers over me, the heat radiating off him in waves. “Still green?”
“Yes,” I whisper, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “Real.”
He enters me in one slow, deliberate push, his jaw clenched as he watches my face for even a flicker of hesitation.
My body stretches to accommodate him, the fullness of him making my breath hitch.
I go still for a second, my muscles clenching around him, and he stops instantly, his muscles trembling with the effort of held-back momentum.
“Color?”
“Green,” I gasp, my hands sliding down to grip his hips. “Just... move.”
He starts a slow, punishing rhythm, his hips grinding into mine with every stroke.
It isn't like anything I’ve imagined; it’s deeper, more visceral.
The friction is a slow burn that quickly turns into an inferno.
Nate’s hands find mine, lacing our fingers together and pinning them to the mattress beside my head.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
I look, and I’m lost in the sheer intensity of his gaze.
There’s no hiding now. He moves harder, his pace increasing as my body begins to arch off the bed to meet him.
Every thrust is a question, and my body is shouting the answer.
The pleasure coils tight and bright in my lower belly, a frantic, mounting tension that makes my vision blur.
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper. Nate groans—a raw, needy sound—and buries his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin. His thumb finds the center of my heat, adding a new, sharp layer of sensation that sends me over the edge.
“Nate,” I cry out, my head falling back as the first wave of the orgasm hits.
It’s violent and undeniable. My entire body shudders, my internal muscles pulsing rhythmically around him.
Nate doesn't stop; he drives into me one, two, three more times, his own control finally snapping.
He lets out a low, guttural growl as he finishes, his body going rigid over mine as he pours himself into me.
Later, as we lie in the quiet aftermath, my head on his chest and his arm around me, the truth finally settles in the room like dust.
“It’s you,” I whisper into the dark. “It was always you.”
Nate kisses the top of my head, his hand smoothing over my hair. “I know how to want you, Hannah. That was never the problem. The problem was I didn't know how to do this without ruining the life you were trying to build.”
“I was building the wrong life,” I say, finally letting the tears fall.
We get dressed in a heavy, loaded silence. I keep his shirt on under my sweater—a secret I’m not ready to give up. He drives me back to my dorm, and when I get out, he waits until I’m safely inside.
Upstairs, Ella is waiting. She sees the collar of Nate’s shirt peeking out from under my sweater and she doesn't ask a single question. She just holds me while I cry.
“It’s him,” I sob into her shoulder.
“I know, Han,” she says softly. “Now you have to stop pretending not knowing means you don't have to choose.”
I look at the drawer where I’ve hidden his other shirt. I’m done hiding. The answer is Nate. It’s always been Nate. And tomorrow, I have to be brave enough to tell Ethan the truth, even if it breaks us both.