"Guess some things never change," she adds, and the double meaning in her words hits like a punch to the gut, reminding me of everything I've broken between us.

We steady ourselves, though every cell in my body protests as she straightens up, and I do the same. Then something hits the porch with a clatter that sounds like a gunshot in the charged silence.

Shit.

Before I can move, she bends down, and I force my gaze away from the curves her movement reveals, focusing instead on the small bags of weed she's now holding in hands that once knew every callus on mine. Disappointment flickers across her face—a look that cuts deeper than any blade.

Thank fuck it's just the weed and not the pills.

Footsteps approach, and tension mounts like a storm about to break as my mom's voice carries from inside. "Nate? Is that you?"

I'm screwed.

So fucking screwed.

"You finally decided to come home, did you?" Mom's voice slices through the tension like a knife.

Nora presses against me, her proximity sending chaotic signals through my brain like fireworks. I yearn to touch her, to trace the lines of who she's become, but she leans back against me, holding out the bag of weed for me to take. Our hands brush as I take it, her warmth penetrating every fiber of my being like a brand. My eyes drift traitorously to the heart-shaped birthmark just above her lower back, visible beneath her crop top. She's grown up in more ways than one, and each way is another nail in my coffin.

"Nate was just helping me with my bags," Nora covers smoothly, her lie as practiced as my own. The ease of her deception triggers a memory of us covering for each other countless times before, back when we were partners in crime instead of whatever the hell we are now.

"Oh, good. Nate, can you get the rest of Nora's stuff to her room and help Kat too, please?"

"Sure," I manage, a half-smile playing on my lips as I stash the weed back in my pocket, trying to ignore how her presence has already dismantled every wall I've spent years building.

Mom heads back inside, her voice trailing like smoke. "Kat, let's open that Rosé while we cook," she calls back, leaving us alone in a silence that feels like a loaded gun.

"Listen—" I start, but Nora strides past me like I'm nothing but air, dismissive of the moment we just shared, of the electricity still crackling between us.

She grabs a bag from the backseat, and I pick up the other, watching her movements like a man memorizing his own execution. My gut sinks as I realize she's pissed, and this new Nora's anger feels dangerous as a hurricane on the horizon.