Nate: Be there in ten. I’ll drop Tilly off at my grandparents’ place.
For a moment, I stared at the screen, watching the little bubbles that meant he was still there, still on the other end of all this mess. The relief was sharp and sudden, cutting through the static in my head. I set the phone down and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to slow my breathing, counting heartbeats as if that could keep the panic at bay. I tried to focus on the familiar things—the cats winding around my ankles, the faint whistle of the kettle cooling, the muted sounds of Honeybrook Hollow behind double-paned glass. Still, every sound seemed too loud, every shadow too deep. But at least Nate was coming. Maybe that was enough for now.
I had to talk to him. I needed to explain why we had to stop seeing each other. Again. Damn it.
When he knocked, I opened the door and let him in without a word.
He stepped inside, his expression shifting from worried to soft the second he saw me.
“Hey,” he said gently, not pushing, not asking me for anything, just being there when I needed him, which was more than I could ever want.
I let out a breath. “Hey.”
We stood there in the soft quiet of my living room, the only sounds the hum of the fridge and Remy’s light thump as he jumped off the windowsill. Nate opened his arms. I didn’t hesitate.
I walked into his hug and stayed there, his body warm and solid against mine, his hand smoothing down my back like he could iron out the chaos inside me.
He kissed my hair. “You okay?”
“No,” I whispered.
He didn’t say anything. He just held me tighter.
I tipped my face up to his and found him already looking at me, brown eyes full of something I couldn’t name without breaking.
I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, letting myself breathe in the familiar scent of him, the blissful comfort that came with every gentle touch. For a few moments, wrapped in the safety of his embrace, the world outside faded to a blur, and I let myself believe that maybe, just for tonight, things could be simple. The quiet wrapped around us, softening the edges of everything I was too afraid to say.
When he kissed me, I didn’t pull away.
I should have said his name. Should have told him everything that was clawing at my chest. But instead, I let the kiss answer for me—slow and searching, like we were both afraid to ask the question out loud. His hands framed my face, warm and careful, and I slid my arms around his neck, pressing closer because the truth was, I didn’t want to lose him.
Not yet. Not ever.
Some part of me knew I was falling—too fast, too deep—and that scared me enough to make me reckless. I told myself I needed one more moment. One more memory of what it felt like to be held by him. To be wanted. To be safe.
So, I kissed him back.
We moved together like we’d done it a hundred times already, like our bodies knew a language our hearts were still trying to translate. By the time we reached my bedroom, words felt impossible. Clothes were shed between soft laughter and breathless pauses, his eyes never leaving mine, like he was checking in with me every second.
When he pulled back long enough to ask, “Eliza, are you sure?” I nodded, even as something inside me whispered that this wasn’t just about wanting anymore.
It was about love.
Being with him was tenderness and heat and comfort all at once—his touch reverent, his mouth gentle, like he was memorizing me. I held onto him, to the way he said my name like it mattered, to the way my heart felt too full for my chest.
And afterward, when we lay tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow, soothing paths over my shoulder, reality crept back in.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Sacred.
And it was also full of everything I hadn’t said.
Guilt settled in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome. I’d asked him here to talk. To warn him. To protect him. And instead, I’d let myself pretend—just for a little while—that none of it existed. Exactly what I’d done since I got into town. Bury my head in the sand and pretend that my problems weren’t real.
I pushed up onto one elbow, staring at the familiar curve of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest beneath my hand.
“I don’t think we should do this,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t do this with you.”
Nate went still beneath me. “What do you mean?”
