56
Hannah
The first time I walk across campus with Nate Wilder as my official, non-clandestine boyfriend, no one claps.
Which feels like a massive oversight on the part of the university administration.
After the emotional obstacle course it took to reach this point—the fake dating, the "lessons," the late-night panic, and the wreckage of my own denial—I feel like I deserve some kind of ceremonial archway.
Maybe some confetti. Maybe Ella standing by the fountain with Gerald Reed-Wilder in a tiny, hand-knitted tuxedo, announcing, *“Congratulations, you’ve survived your own stupidity. Please collect your commemorative hydration bottle at the gate.” *
Instead, it’s just a Tuesday morning.
The air is cold enough to make my lungs sting, and the sidewalks are still damp from an overnight drizzle.
Students are rushing toward their 9:00 a.m. lectures with a collective look of dead-eyed determination and caffeine-dependency.
A guy on a skateboard nearly takes out a trash can near the quad, and somewhere behind me, a girl is loudly explaining to her friend why she “definitely passed” an exam she hasn't even graded yet.
Normal campus noise. And Nate is right beside me.
Not "fake-dating" beside me. Not "hiding in plain sight" beside me. Not even "walking carefully enough so people can pretend we’re just friends" beside me.
Nate is *Boyfriend* beside me.
The word still feels a little like a firework I’m holding too close to my face—bright, exciting, and capable of leaving a mark.
He’s dressed in a black Northwood hoodie and dark jeans, his hair still damp from morning skate.
He has his left hand shoved into his pocket, and his right hand is free between us, swinging in rhythm with mine.
He isn't reaching yet, but the space between our knuckles feels electric, a high-voltage current waiting for a circuit to close.
I notice because I notice everything about him now. Actually, I noticed everything about him *before*, too—I just used to categorize it as "situational stress" or "irritation."
“You’re thinking loudly again,” Nate says, his voice a low vibration that cuts through the morning fog.
I glance over, trying to keep my face neutral. “Thinking loudly is not a scientific phenomenon, Wilder.”
“With you? It’s a broadcast. I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Careful, boyfriend. I have a lot of data on you.”
His mouth curves, just a fraction. That tiny flash of a pleased smirk still does more damage to my nervous system than I care to admit. “Still like saying that, do you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good.”
“Smug.”
“Accurate.”
We keep walking. His hand brushes mine—a deliberate, soft graze. My stomach performs a violent somersault, and I look straight ahead, trying to act like a normal girl on a normal walk and not a haunted Victorian heroine who has just been touched by a ghost.
People are looking. Not everyone—the world isn't a stage—but enough. Nate Wilder has a specific kind of athletic gravity; he pulls glances into his orbit without even trying. Usually, when I’d see girls noticing him, I’d feel that sharp, defensive prickle. Today, it’s different.
A girl near the student union whispers something to her friend as we pass.
A guy from my lit seminar glances at Nate, then at me, then back at Nate with a look of pure, bewildered calculation.
Two hockey players from the team—I think one of them is the backup goalie—pass us on the opposite path.
They both grin like they’ve just spotted a rare, exotic animal in the wild.
Nate doesn't react. He doesn't speed up. He doesn't puff out his chest. He doesn't look around to see who is watching. He just matches my pace, his thumb hooked into his pocket, his attention anchored to the sidewalk and the girl next to him.
He isn't hiding me. But he isn't performing me, either. He’s just *here*. Mine enough that he doesn't have to prove it to the gallery.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave.
I let out a small, breathless laugh. “There it is.”
He flickers a glance toward me. “What?”
“The question. Always the question.”
“I’m consistent.”
“You’re relentless.”
“You didn’t answer.”
I exhale, the steam of my breath dissipating in the cold. “I’m okay, Nate. Real okay.”
His hand brushes mine again, and this time, I don’t wait.
I reach out and slide my fingers between his.
His grip closes around mine instantly—firm, steady, and entirely unapologetic.
He doesn't hesitate. It’s like he was waiting for the circuit to close, and the second it did, he knew exactly how much power to run through it.
My chest goes warm, a localized heatwave in the middle of November.
It’s such a small public gesture, but it feels like a monumental private victory.
We walk hand in hand across the quad, and for once, the guilt about Ethan—though still there, a dull ache under my ribs—doesn't pull me backward.
It sits beside the truth of this hand in mine.
Ella is waiting outside Briar Hall like she was summoned by a romantic smoke signal. She has a steaming coffee in one hand and her oversized tote bag over her shoulder. Gerald Reed-Wilder is sticking halfway out of the bag, his tiny plastic helmet slightly crooked.
Nate slows down as we approach. “Is that Gerald?”
“Yes.”
“Why is he in public? Does he have a permit for this?”
“He has rights, Nate. He’s a citizen.”
Nate’s mouth twitches. “Of course. My mistake.”
Ella sees our hands first. Her eyes track from our joined fingers up to our faces, and then back down again. Her smile starts as a tiny quirk of her lips before blossoming into something warm enough to make my throat tighten.
“Morning,” I say, feeling my face heat up.
“Morning,” she replies, her gaze fixed on Nate. “Boyfriend.”
I choke on my own air. Nate, however, doesn't even blink. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the man. He just nods once, accepting the title like a high-ranking military promotion.
“Roommate,” he counters.
I look between them, bewildered. “Are you two starting some kind of weird power dynamic? Because I will leave.”
“Already started,” Ella says, shifting her tote bag. Her gaze drops back to our hands, then lifts to Nate’s eyes. “You taking care of her, Wilder?”
Nate doesn't look away. He doesn't crack a joke. He doesn't dodge. “Yes.”
One word. Simple. Certain.
Ella studies him for a long beat. It isn't a threat—not exactly—but there’s a soft, steel-thread protectiveness in her stare that makes me want to hug her. “Good,” she says. “But remember, she takes care of herself, too.”
Nate’s expression shifts. It goes soft and respectful. “I know.”
That answer seems to satisfy the High Council of Ella. She reaches into her bag and pulls Gerald out by his helmet, holding him up toward Nate. “Gerald also requests a formal statement regarding your intentions.”
I groan into my free hand. “Ella, please don’t do this.”
Nate releases my hand only to place his own over his heart with grave, theatrical sincerity. “Gerald, I respect your seniority in Hannah’s life. I will not challenge custody without written notice and a formal mediation session.”
Ella’s eyes dance with delight. “He accepts. Begrudgingly.”
“Generous of him,” Nate says.
I am never going to survive this.
Nate walks me all the way to Hale’s lecture hall. He’s going to be at least five minutes late for his own class across campus, a fact I remind him of twice.
“You’re going to be late,” I say as we reach the heavy oak doors.
“I’ll make it. I’m an athlete.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Probably.”
I try to look stern, but Nate steps closer, cutting off the drafty hallway and creating a tiny, private pocket of warmth against the wall. He looks down at me, his eyes dark and focused, the playful edge from earlier replaced by something more grounded.
“Text me after?” he asks.
“I’m having lunch with Ella.”
“After that, then.”
“Bossy.”
“Consistent.”
I look at him, suddenly struck by the reality of it all. The hallway is full of people rushing past us, the air thick with the smell of old paper and wet wool, and Nate is just... mine.
“What?” he asks softly, noticing my stare.
“Nothing,” I say, smiling. “Just a private thought.”
“Good thought?”
“The best.”
His eyes soften, and for a second, I forget we’re in public.
He leans down and kisses me. It isn't a frantic, desperate kiss like the one in his hallway last night.
It’s a slow, certain, *boyfriend* kiss. It’s an announcement made in the middle of a crowded hallway, and when he pulls back, my heart is thrumming a frantic, happy rhythm in my throat.
“Good?” he asks.
“Nine point five,” I whisper, my face glowing.
He lifts a brow. “Room for growth?”
“Always.”
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I’ll earn the other half-point later tonight.”
A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold ripples through me. He pulls back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Go to class, girlfriend.”
The word turns my internal organs into pudding. I push lightly at his chest. “Go be late.”
“Worth it.”
At lunch, Ella is already in our usual booth at the student center. She looks up from her smoothie as I slide in across from her.
“So,” she says, leaning forward. “How did the ‘Grand Tour’ feel?”
“It felt good,” I admit, unwrapping my sandwich. “A little scary. I kept waiting for the floor to fall out.”
“And did it?”
“No. It felt... steady.”
Ella nods, her expression thoughtful. “I saw how he looked at you this morning, Han. I know I gave him a hard time with the duck, but Nate didn't get defensive. He didn't act like your feelings were his to manage, and he didn't try to perform for me. I think he’s good for you. Annoyingly so.”
I look away, my throat tightening. Hearing Ella say that—the person who has seen me at my messiest over the last few weeks—is the final piece of the puzzle. If she sees it, then it’s real.
Later that afternoon, I see Ethan.
It happens fast. I’m leaving the student union with Ella, and he’s coming up the path with a few guys from his building. Everything in me freezes. My heart hammer-taps against my ribs. Nate isn't there, but the memory of his hand in mine is still fresh.
Ethan sees me. For one agonizing second, I think he’ll look through me. But he doesn't. He gives me a small, dignified nod. It isn't warm, and it isn't happy, but it isn't cruel either. It’s acknowledgment. A tiny bridge over the damage I caused.
I nod back, my chest aching with a dull, familiar guilt. He keeps walking, and I stand there for a beat, letting the breath out of my lungs.
“You okay?” Ella asks.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Real okay.”
We keep walking. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Nate.
**Nate:** *Practice done. Still alive. Barely.*
**Hannah:** *Proud of your survival.*
**Nate:** *Dinner at seven? Picking you up.*
**Hannah:** *Bossy.*
**Nate:** *Consistent.*
I tuck my phone away and smile at the gray sky. This morning, people looked at us, and for the first time, I didn't wonder if they believed we were a couple. I just wondered why it had taken me so long to believe it myself.