52
Nate
I don’t sleep.
That sounds like the kind of dramatic, self-serious line a guy in a bad movie says while staring into a rainy window, but in the oppressive silence of my apartment, it’s just the literal, exhausting truth.
I close my eyes, and the darkness behind my lids is immediately filled with the silver-blue light of the party, the cold shock of the night air, and the frantic, desperate heat of Hannah Reed against me in my hallway.
I lie in bed. I stare at the ceiling. I turn onto my side and stare at the wall.
I get up for water twice, my bare feet cold on the hardwood, and check my phone three times even though I know there won’t be anything from her.
I watched her walk into her dorm, and then I drove home like my entire body had been hollowed out and lit from the inside.
Hannah came to me.
She left Ethan Cross standing on a lawn and she came to my door. She stood there with her eyes wet and her voice shaking and she asked me to kiss her like she was asking for proof of her own existence.
I should have said no. I know that in the clean, reasonable part of my head—the part that listens to Coach, understands consequences, and knows the difference between wanting something and having a right to touch it.
I should have told her to go home. I should have been the noble, responsible man I’ve been pretending to be for weeks.
Instead, I kissed her. And then I did a hell of a lot more than kiss her.
The memory hits me with enough force that I drag both hands over my face and let out a rough, jagged breath into the dark. Jesus. My sheets still smell like her—that soft, floral perfume mixed with the scent of my own soap. It’s the most beautiful and terrifying thing I’ve ever felt.
She was here. In my bed. In my shirt. Under my hands. Looking at me like she had finally stopped trying to make herself want anything else. And then I drove her home, because even after her body answered mine with a clarity that nearly broke me, Ethan still exists in the margins.
Good, patient, decent Ethan. The guy who deserves more than finding out that while he was probably wondering where she went, she was in my bed.
My phone buzzes in my hand at 7:12 a.m. I nearly throw the damn thing across the room.
**Carter:** *u alive*
I stare at the screen. Of course. Carter has either been awake long enough to become a problem or he never stopped being one.
**Nate:** *Unfortunately.*
**Carter:** *party exit was dramatic. 8/10. lost points for not using fog machine. did hannah get back to her dorm okay?*
My chest tightens. Carter saw enough. He saw her follow me outside. He probably saw her leave the party shortly after. Carter doesn't miss much when it comes to my bad decisions; he’s made them his unpaid internship.
**Nate:** *Yes.*
**Carter:** *did she go home from the party*
**Nate:** *Eventually.*
Three seconds pass. Then my phone rings. I answer because I clearly have zero self-preservation left.
“What?”
“‘Eventually’?” Carter’s voice is too loud for this hour. “I want an explanation before I show up with coffee and a warrant.”
“You don’t have a warrant.”
“I have concern and access to caffeine. Nate—she came over, didn't she?”
I say nothing. I walk into the kitchen because sitting on the edge of the bed while Carter interrogates me about the girl who was in it six hours ago feels insane.
“I’m not giving details,” I say.
“I don’t want details. I want to know if you’re okay. You sound like someone put your soul through a pasta maker.”
I lean against the counter, staring at the two water bottles sitting there. “She came here after leaving him. I should have stopped it.”
“Did she want you to stop?”
“No.”
“Was she clear?”
“Too clear,” I mutter.
“Then what part are you beating yourself up over?”
“The part where she hasn’t talked to Ethan yet. The part where she came from him to me, and I let her in because I’m selfish.”
Carter is silent for a moment. “Letting her in isn't the same as trapping her there, Nate. She’s messy, not cruel. She’ll talk to him.”
“And if she doesn't?”
“Then you don’t touch her again until she does. You know the rules. Don't make last night a loophole.”
After I hang up, I stand in the doorway of my bedroom. The bed is unmade. It looks like evidence. It looks like memory.
Her hair tie is on the nightstand—small, black, ordinary. I pick it up, holding the elastic between my fingers. This shouldn't undo me. It does. I put it in my top drawer, hiding it like contraband because I don’t want it sitting out like a dare.
My phone buzzes again. My heart jumps so hard it actually hurts.
**Hannah:** *Are you awake?*
**Nate:** *Yeah. Are you okay?*
**Hannah:** *I’m okay. I just wanted you to know I’m going to talk to Ethan today.*
I close my eyes. Relief and guilt hit me in equal measure.
**Nate:** *Okay. You don’t have to tell me anything until you’re ready.*
**Hannah:** *I know. But I wanted to tell you. Last night wasn’t nothing.*
I stop breathing. I read the line three times. *Last night wasn't nothing.*
**Nate:** *I know. I'll be here after.*
I put the phone in my pocket and head for the shower. Carter was right—the line is gone. Last night wasn't a loophole; it was a choice. It was messy, unfairly timed, and probably wrong in the order we made it. But it was real.
I still have to face Coach in his office before practice. I still have to wait for the fallout of a conversation I’m not allowed to be a part of. But as I lock my door, I realize I’m done pretending that "backing off" means pretending I don’t want her.
I do. God help me, I do.
And waiting for her now, after knowing what her skin feels like against mine, is going to be a hell of a lot harder than waiting was before.