The truth about Nate's nightmares hits me like shattered glass, each piece cutting deeper than the last. These things that haunt him, even in daylight, they've always been there, tucked away underneath the surface. My chest constricts as everything clicks into place, years of puzzle pieces finally forming a complete picture. The bruises he'd laugh off, the way he'd flinch when his father's name came up, how he'd pull away if anyone got too close—it wasn't indifference. It was preservation. He's been protecting everyone else—his mom, Jake, even me—while slowly disappearing piece by piece, like a photograph fading in the sun. The realization settles in my bones, heavy and suffocating.

I turn to him, ready to unleash years of bottled anger at the unfairness of it all, but the words die in my throat when our eyes meet.

What I see there steals my breath—not just pain, but exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, years of carrying burdens that were never his to bear. Yet beneath that weight, there's something else: relief, as if sharing this secret has loosened the chains around his heart, even if just for a moment.

"People don't have power over us," I whisper, my voice trembling but sure. "We give that to them."

He stares at me, his expression unreadable, and panic flares in my chest like a match struck in darkness. But then his voice breaks through, soft as a prayer.

"Thank you."

I blink, caught off guard. "For what?"

"For being you." The rawness in his words makes my heart ache.

A shaky laugh escapes me, filled with emotions I'm not ready to name. "I don't know how to be anyone else but me around you."

When I look up, I catch that rare smile—the one that shows his dimples, the one that's been living rent-free in my heart since we were kids. His expression remains serious, but there's something different now, something softer. Like I'm seeing a version of him that's been locked away, waiting for someone to find the right key. I've seen all his jagged edges now—the parts he's buried under years of jokes, anger, and carefully maintained distance. Instead of running, I want to stay. To understand every scar, every shadow, every story written in the spaces between his words.

"I don't think you realize how much you've been doing for everyone else," I say softly, my fingers brushing his, electricity sparking at the contact. "But you don't have to carry it all alone anymore."

He looks down at our hands, and when his eyes meet mine again, the vulnerability there takes my breath away. It's like watching a fortress's walls crumble, revealing something precious and unguarded beneath.

"I never wanted to carry it," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I just didn't know how to stop."