The drive home starts in comfortable silence, the kind that hums with possibility. I steal glances at him, watching his fingers drum against the steering wheel, his dark hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. The muscles in his forearms flex with each turn, defined and strong, reminding me of how those exact arms had wrapped around me in the water, keeping me safe as we plunged beneath the surface. When "High and Dry" by Radiohead plays, followed by "For Me This Is Heaven" by Jimmy Eat World, his jaw relaxes in that familiar way. Memories flood back: summers spent arguing about music on the dock, him teaching me piano with endless patience, those rare smiles that felt like gifts meant just for me.

It was never just a teenage crush, though I tried to convince myself otherwise. The way my heart raced when he entered a room, how time seemed to slow when he smiled—it was deeper, more intense. He's woven into the fabric of who I am, present even when I'm not looking.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice breaks through my reverie.

I smile, studying my hands before meeting his eyes. "Did you know you hum when you're relaxed or happy?"

He laughs, rich and warm. "I do?"

"Yeah," I say softly. "You've been doing it for as long as I can remember."

His brow furrows thoughtfully. "No one's ever pointed that out before."

"Well, maybe you're not relaxed and happy often enough," I tease, truth hiding behind the lightness.

His smile grows, and something in his gaze makes my heart stutter. Snow Patrol's "Open Your Eyes" plays softly in the background, its lyrics threading through the moment like fate. I reach out, brushing his arm with my fingers. When he looks at me, there's something unspoken in his eyes that makes my breath catch.

"Hey," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the music. I love you. God, I fucking love you burns on my tongue, but instead, I say, "I'm really proud of you."

He squeezes my hand, his smile soft and real.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For not understanding sooner."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Nora. You've always been there, even when you didn't know it."

Our eyes meet again, electricity crackling between us, but his phone buzzes, shattering the moment. He doesn't reach for it, though, just holds my hand tighter as we drive through the night.

Nate drops me off and hesitates, looking down before meeting my eyes. "I, uh… I've got to take care of something."

I don't ask what—I already know. The girlfriend whose texts are lighting up his phone. I swallow hard and force a smile. He gives me one last look, heavy with unspoken words, then walks back to his car.