Nate is still here.
Still asleep, breathing deep and even.
And he's shirtless.
Completely, devastatingly shirtless, wearing only black boxer briefs that sit low on his hips, the sheet slipped down to his waist like it's personally conspiring against my sanity.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
Traitor body.
His chest rises and falls with each breath—broader, more solid than seven years ago. His arms relaxed, one thrown above his head, the other resting across his stomach. Black ink winding up from his wrists, across his forearms, disappearing and reappearing across his ribs.
The sheet sits dangerously low, revealing that V-line that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers.
My mouth goes dry.
Get it together, Nora.
I carefully extract myself from the bed and pad toward the bathroom.
The water runs hot. Steam fills the bathroom, and for a moment I can just breathe.
Until the memories flood back.
Nate's body wrapped around mine in this exact shower. His heartbeat against my spine. His voice in my ear—steady, calm—telling me to breathe.
In for four. One, two, three, four.
I've got you.
It wasn't the first time. Every panic attack, every moment I fell apart—he was just there.
The door slams somewhere in the cabin.
I jolt.
Did Nate leave?
I turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and step out.
The bed is empty. Made, even.
My stomach sinks.
Then I see a note propped against the coffee maker.
Running to the store. Back in 20.
Realized there's no milk or bread to make you a proper breakfast. But there's aspirin in the cabinet above the sink and water in the fridge.
Drink both.
— N
Breakfast?
He's making me breakfast.
