Nathaniel guides me toward the door without a word, his presence a steady counterbalance to the discomfort bubbling in my chest.
I glance up at him as we walk, wondering how he manages to keep so composed. There’s a calm power in the way he carries himself, an unspoken authority that even my mother seems to pick up on. And yet, his focus never wavers from me, as if the world around him doesn’t matter unless I’m at the center of it.
When we step inside the diner, the familiar smell of frying bacon and coffee greets me like a mixed blessing. Bennett’s Place hasn’t changed in years: the same vinyl booths, the same scuffed floors, the same chalkboard specials menu hanging near the counter. It should be comforting, but all I feel is tension.
“Ronald!” my mother calls toward the kitchen. “Come out and meet Nathaniel!”
There’s a pause, then the sound of clattering dishes and a gruff voice. “Huh? Yeah, give me a minute.”
I wince at the tone. Nathaniel doesn’t react, his expression as cool as ever. He leads me to a booth near the window, his movements unhurried.
When my father finally emerges, wiping his hands on a towel, he approaches Nathaniel and extends a hand, offering a curt, “Ronald Bennett.” His eyes flick to me, then back to Nathaniel. “You’re Olivia’s…?”
“Boyfriend,” Nathaniel answers without missing a beat, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
My father’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks back at me. The unspoken question in his expression is clear, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead, he nods once, muttering something about orders piling up, and retreats to the kitchen.
The interaction leaves a heavy weight in the air, one I’m not sure how to process. I sink into the booth, suddenly feeling very small.
I’m not sure why I expected more from him. He’s spent my whole life looking past me. Feeling stung by the same old disinterest makes me feel foolish.
Nathaniel slides in beside me, his arm resting lightly along the back of the booth. His presence is grounding, even as my thoughts swirl.
My mother returns with menus and an overly cheery smile. “Olivia, you must tell Nathaniel what’s good here,” she prompts. She lingers just a moment too long before turning and heading back toward the counter.
I sigh, my fingers brushing the edge of the laminated menu.
It feels strange being here like this—sitting in a booth at my family’s diner with Nathaniel of all people. Everything about him feels out of place here, from his tailored coat to the way his mere presence seems to draw attention without him even trying.
I never forget how different our backgrounds are, but on Halford’s campus the contrast is less stark because everyone there performs some version of belonging. Here, however, the dissimilarity is impossible to ignore. And while Nathaniel seems unfazed, I can’t help but wonder if he still sees us fitting together the way he swears we do, now that he’s seeing the life I grew up in from the inside.
“Hey,” Nathaniel says softly as his hand covers mine, his touch warm and reassuring. “You’re tense.”
I offer a sheepish smile. “It’s just…a lot,” I admit, my eyes darting toward the kitchen where my parents are.
“I’ve got you now,” he says simply, his fingers brushing mine. “Focus on what you want to eat.”
I can’t help but smile at that, his words coaxing a small laugh from me. “Okay,” I say. “What are you getting?”
“That depends.” His lips curve into a grin. “What are you getting?”
“Take a guess,” I tease, grateful for the momentary lightness.
He tilts his head, pretending to consider. “A BLT?”
I roll my eyes, my smile widening. “You know it’s pancakes. Any time of day.”
“Always? Is it because of this place?”
I pause, the question pulling me into a memory before I can stop it. I glance back down at the menu, my finger tracing an invisible pattern along the edge as I answer. “Yeah… I guess. They remind me of peaceful mornings here before the diner opened. I’d sit at the counter while my parents cooked breakfast. Sometimes they’d let me add chocolate chips or blueberries to the batter… Those were the only times it wasn’t so chaotic, you know?”
I don’t say the rest, though it weighs heavily in my mind. Pancakes are more than a favorite food. They’re a reminder of fleeting moments of connection, of affection. Moments that were so rare they induced a longing for something I never had consistently.
“Olivia—” Nathaniel starts, his voice gentle.
“Are you two ready to order?” My mother’s voice cuts in sharply.
I flinch at the interruption, but Nathaniel straightens immediately, his expression cooling into something sharp and unreadable. “We were talking,” he says, his tone polite on the surface but edged with unmistakable displeasure.
