Cohen isn’t some out-of-control playboy.
Cohen is a human shield.
He built himself a trash reputation and let the world cast him as the villain—the spoiled, reckless athlete—
just to pull attention away from someone else.
From his father.
Karl Becker. The mogul. The respectable one.
A man who uses his son as bait and his daughter as a bargaining chip.
And Cohen…
Cohen stands between them.
He takes the flashbulbs, the insults, the suspensions, the fines—anything—so his sister doesn’t end up in the same meat grinder.
My eyes burn.
I clap a hand over my mouth, stunned.
All the times I judged him.
All the times I talked down to him, told him to grow up, to stop acting like a child.
He never corrected me.
He never defended himself.
He just took it—my contempt, my assumptions—with that crooked little half-smile he’s learned to wear like armor.
You’re not your job. You’re wonderfully, completely yourself.
He saw me so clearly.
And I only ever saw the headlines.
Nate moves closer to the couch. He kneels on Grace’s other side.
His expression is something I’ve never seen on him before: tenderness wrapped around a core of barely contained rage.
“Hey, peanut,” he murmurs, low and steady. He brushes damp hair off her forehead, his fingers lingering a second against her pale skin. “Drink a little water, okay? I’m right here. Nobody’s touching you.”
Grace nods, visibly calmer at the sight of him—someone safe, familiar, a person who has always meant home.
She takes small sips from the glass Nate hands her, and he doesn’t look away from her face once, like he’s memorizing every breath.
Then Nate finally lifts his gaze to Cohen.
The softness disappears, replaced by the pain of someone who’s been shut out.
“You’re an idiot, Becker,” he says hoarsely.
Cohen looks up, hollowed out, eyes shadowed and red. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Nate’s voice goes sharp. “You’re a fucking idiot. You’re like a brother to me. You should’ve told me this shit. You should’ve told me Karl was… was taking it this far. We could’ve stopped him sooner.”
