I’m talking nonstop, smiling, grabbing cookie bags, taking payments.
And without a word, Nathan steps in beside me.
He hands me the orders before I reach for them.
He restocks the table when the gingerbread men run low.
He quietly wipes crumbs off the edge of the display case.
All without making a scene.
All without drawing attention.
All without being Nathan Thorn, rockstar.
It feels weirdly natural.
Like muscle memory.
Like the way we used to write songs together—passing ideas back and forth without ever needing to speak.
“Hey, you look familiar,” Mrs.Gulliver—our old math teacher—squints up at him.
Oh shit.
Nate shrugs and says, in the worst accent I’ve ever heard, “Don’t think so, ma’am.”
It’s so bad I choke on a laugh, and Mrs.Gulliver moves along, unconvinced but distracted by a snickerdoodle.
For a little while, we work in companionable silence.
And I hate that it feels nice.
Comfortable.
Dangerously familiar.
When the lights blink, signaling the end of intermission, Nate doesn’t leave.
He stays right where he is—hunched in the shadows beside me—watching as the auditorium quiets and the curtain rises for Act Two.
It’s time for her big scene, and Bella steps into the spotlight.
My breath catches.
She glows.
Confident.
Capable.
Alive in a way that makes my chest ache with pride.
“Is that her?”Nate whispers.
I nod, pressing a hand over my heart.
“Yeah.That’s my girl.”
