Taking care of me the way he always has.
I look down at the note again, and it confirms what I already know to be true, what I've been trying very hard not to acknowledge:
I'm in so much fucking trouble.
The catastrophic, life-altering, no-going-back kind of trouble.
Because this isn't just chemistry or nostalgia. It's not residual first-love feelings I can rationalize away. It's not just physical attraction I can blame on seeing him shirtless this morning—though that definitely didn't help.
It's still him. Still Nate.
Still the person who knows exactly how I like my eggs and how to talk me through a panic attack. Who gets in the shower fully clothed because I'm falling apart. Who makes me breakfastafter I drunkenly tried to kiss him. Who leaves notes instead of waking me up because he knows I'm hungover.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.
With him. With this.
So, I get changed and decide that until he's back, I'm going to be productive and write.
Which is a first, because I haven't felt like writing for months now. Every time I've opened my laptop in LA, the words have felt forced, mechanical, like I'm going through the motions of being a writer without actually having anything to say.
But here, in this cabin with the morning light streaming through the windows and the smell of pine in the air and Nate's note still sitting on the counter—here, the words feel like they might actually come.
I grab my laptop and set myself up on the porch.
The air is cool but not cold, perfect for working outside. I settle into one of the chairs, pull my knees up, and open a blank document.
For the first time in what feels like forever, my fingers find the keys and the words start to flow.
I'm maybe twenty minutes in, lost in a scene that's pouring out of me faster than I can type, when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. There's something about the sound—aggressive, purposeful—that tells me exactly who it is before I see the car.
Wes.
I close my laptop slowly, set it aside, and stand as he pulls up in front of the cabin.
He cuts the engine of the black, polished Audi and steps out. I take him in with the kind of detachment that comes from finally seeing clearly.
He's wearing what I think of as his "damage control" outfit: expensive casual. Designer jeans that fit perfectly, a crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up just so, shoes that cost more than most people's rent. The uniform of someone who's used to buying his way out of problems.
Sunglasses perched on his nose. Posture confident, like he owns every inch of space he occupies.
Like he has any right to be here.
But there's something else. Something I've seen before but always explained away. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands are already curling into fists at his sides.
He's angry.
I exhale slowly, force myself to stay calm but my pulse is hammering.
"What are you doing here?"
He pulls off his sunglasses, and his eyes are cold. Harder than I've ever seen them.
"What am I doing here? What the fuck are you doing here, Nora?" His voice is sharp. Controlled. But there's rage simmering underneath.
"You ghost me for two weeks. You ignore my calls and texts."
"You need to leave. We're done, Wes."
