"Maybe it's a sign. The pieces might be aligning for you in plain sight," he says, looking up through those ridiculous eyelashes, his defined jawline and dimples making my mouth go dry.

"Do you still play?" I ask suddenly, needing to shift focus.

His smile fades. "I quit football a while ago..."

"I meant music. Do you still play?"

The haunted look in his eyes makes my heart crack. "I- I haven't touched a guitar in years."

His words throw me back to summer days—his guitar singing through open windows, Def Leppard riffs and Oasis tracks painting the air gold. His playing was effortless then, natural as breathing, passion evident in every note. Seeing him let it go is like watching someone dim their own light.

"I miss it," I confess, ache vivid in my voice. "Hearing you play."

Shock and vulnerability war in his eyes. "You do?"

"Yeah, I do." Struck by sudden inspiration, I offer, "Okay, how about this. I'll submit my scholarship application... if you start playing again."

Something raw flickers across his features. "I don't have my guitar anymore."

"We'll find you one."

He studies me for a long moment before a genuine smile breaks through. "I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

I hold out my pinky finger—a childhood gesture that feels both ridiculous and profound. "Nope, especially if you pinky swear right now."

He laughs softly, rich with memory. "We only made pinky swears for promises we intended to keep."

"I know," I reply, surprising myself with my confidence. "And we're going to keep this one."

As our pinkies link—his warm and calloused, mine small and determined—it feels like more than just a childhood ritual. It feels like a bridge being rebuilt, like finding a missing puzzle piece. Surrounded by scattered jigsaw pieces and the fading notes of "November Rain," we're making a promise to stop running from the things that make us whole, to start believing in the possibility of putting broken things back together.

Some promises are made to be broken, but this one?

This one feels like the beginning of something real, something that might just save us both.

23. The Thing About Odds

CHAPTER 23

THE THING ABOUT ODDS

NATE

Things between Nora and me are complicated. Not the bullshit "it's complicated" Facebook status kind of complicated.

This is deeper. Rawer.

The tension's shifted—not gone, just...transformed. Like some fucked-up alchemy that turns sharp edges into something that burns slower, more dangerous. I'm still trying to keep her at arm's length, but my arms keep getting shorter.

I see it in her too—those quick glances, the way she pivots conversations like she's dodging landmines. We're both walking this razor-thin line between what we want and what we think we should do. Protecting each other by staying away, which is basically the most fucked-up version of love I can imagine.

I want to dive deep with her.