"That must feel…” He searches for the word. "Surreal."
"It is." I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Everything feels a little surreal lately."
"Is it good surreal or bad surreal?"
The question is simple, but the way he asks it—like he actually wants to know, like my answer matters, like he'd sit here all night if that's what it took for me to figure out how to respond—makes my chest tighten.
"I don't know," I admit.
He nods slowly, and his knee shifts just slightly. Still not touching. Just... there. A presence I'm acutely aware of.
"Nick told me you're staying for a few days," he says.
"More than a few days now. I'm staying for Mia's baby shower."
“Cool.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
The silence stretches, but it's not empty. It's full of glances neither of us quite commit to. Of breaths held and released. Of the way his hand rests on the dock between us, near enough that I could reach out and?—
I don't.
"Can I ask you something?" Nate says finally, and there's a carefulness to his voice that makes me nervous.
"I guess."
He turns to face me fully now, and the intensity of his gaze makes it impossible to look away.
"Are you okay?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
"That's a complicated question."
"Is it?"
"Why are you asking me that?"
I force myself to hold his gaze even though it feels likestanding in front of a spotlight. Something passes between us—something raw and honest and terrifying.
His eyes search mine, and for a moment I think he's going to say something else entirely.
But what comes out is: "Because the light in your eyes isn't there anymore."
The words hit like a punch to the sternum.
I stare at him, and he stares back, and the world narrows to this—to the dock, to the fading light, to the space between us that feels both infinite and nonexistent.
His eyes drop to my left hand.
I follow his gaze automatically, looking down at my bare fingers.
I haven't worn the ring since I left LA.
I'd hoped no one would notice, but of course Nate noticed. He's always noticed everything about me. Every detail. Every change. Every lie I tell myself.
"I needed space," I say quietly.
