Nate leans back, eyes steady on me. “You want to talk about it?”
He doesn’t say his name, but we both know.
“Not really.” I push pasta around my plate. Then, quieter, “But I probably should. My therapist says it helps.”
He waits. No pressure. Just steady.
“It was buried for all these years. And then he opened his mouth, used that nickname, and it all came roaring back.” I swallow hard. “I’d made myself forget. Until I didn’t.”
His jaw works, his hands tight around his fork. But he doesn’t interrupt.
“My therapist says that’s what trauma does sometimes. Goes underground until something shakes it loose. And then…boom.”
“I hate that he did that to you,” Nate’s voice is a scrape. “I hate that he still gets space in your head. But I swear to you, Eden, he’ll never touch you again.”
Heat pricks behind my eyes. I force the words out anyway. “For years, I thought something was wrong with me. I couldn’t let go with anyone.” My throat closes, then—relief. “Until you. And now I know why.”
The hard lines of his face ease. His hand shifts on thetable, hovering toward mine before he reins it in. His voice lowers.
“That’s because it was always supposed to be me.”
My fork stills, my pulse rushing in my ears. For a second, I’m sixteen again, dizzy from pining for my brother’s best friend, then I’m here, now, with everything we’ve lived in between.
My chest tightens, full to bursting. I can’t even pretend to look away. He isn’t smiling. This isn’t a joke. His eyes are steady, reverent, laying sacred ground between us.
I swallow hard. “Nate…”
His mouth curves, not cocky, not even confident. It’s certain. “You know it’s true.”
The world tilts and rights itself again. Heat spreads through me, unexpected but grounding, and I realize my hands aren’t shaking anymore.
We eat after that. Not much more said, but not much more needed. The silence isn’t jagged anymore. It’s the space we both want to sit in.
On the walk back, Yorkville hums quiet around us. Wet sidewalks, strings of storefront lights puddling into stars on the pavement. He keeps close enough that our arms brush.
Halfway home, he halts in front of Insomnia Cookies. The smell hits instantly. Warm butter and sugar, thick enough to make my stomach flip. His grin is boyish. “Time for a treat.”
Before I can protest, he’s pulling me inside. Two minutes later, he hands me a warm paper bag.
“Check the label,” he says, tapping the folded top.
I squint. In thick marker: YOU’LL PICK THE WARM ONE.
I open the bag. Two cookies—one still molten, onealready cooling. Under them, a napkin with a second line: AND YOU’LL LET ME HAVE THE FIRST BITE.
My mouth curves. I break the warm one and lift it to his lips. His fingers skim my wrist as he takes the bite.
“Fuel,” he says, voice low. “Doctor’s orders.”
I arch a brow. “Thought you had to watch your macros? Playoffs are coming soon.”
“We won’t tell my nutritionist.” He grins, takes his own bite. “This is our secret.”
I laugh, and the tightness I’ve been carrying finally lets go. He stays close, arms grazing mine. The air is crisp; Yorkville buzzes with taxis surging up the avenue and the occasional late dog walker.
When we reach my building, I turn to face him instead of immediately reaching for my keys. “This was good. The clinic, dinner…just talking.”
“It was.” His eyes search my face. “I’ve missed this. Hanging out with you.”
