"Football. Fights I got into at high school." The lie tastes stale, practiced.

He hands me pills and water without comment, but his silence speaks volumes. We both know I'm full of shit, but he doesn't push. Instead, he settles into the chair across from me, his presence oddly comforting.

"Nate," he says finally. "How did you end up like this tonight?"

I swallow the pills mechanically, years of practice making the action smooth despite my trembling hands. The question hangs in the air like smoke, and I find myself staring at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. The weight in my chest feels heavier than any physical pain.

"I got mixed up with the wrong people a while back," I admit, each word scraping against my throat. "I thought I could handle it. Thought I could find a way out. I was just… trying to fix things, trying to stop letting everyone down."

Nick leans back, something raw and understanding in his expression. "You're not the first person to end up in a mess like that. I've been there. I know what it's like to want to fix things but feel like you're in too deep."

The weariness in his voice makes me look up, surprising me with its honesty.

"When I was your age," he continues, "I got caught up in my own shit too. Thought I could save my brother from the mess he got himself into with drugs and bad people. But I couldn't. He OD'd, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, marking the weight of his words. The pain behind them feels tangible, like another presence in the room.

"And after he died…" Nick swallows hard, his gaze distant. "I drank myself stupid. I didn't care what happened to me. I'd lost my brother, the only person who hadn't abandoned me, and it felt like I'd lost everything." His voice cracks, revealing the wound that's never fully healed. "He was my kid brother who made a couple of bad decisions with the wrong people, and the price he paid for it was his life."

The silence that follows feels sacred, heavy with shared understanding. I recognize the guilt in his eyes—it's the same one I see in the mirror every morning.

"I haven't touched a drink since the night I drove home drunk," Nick continues softly. "I almost killed a mother and her daughter coming home from the movies." His head drops, shoulders heavy with the memory. "Sometimes I think that I haven't allowed myself to fully move on either. Haven't let anyone close enough because I didn't think I deserved it after that."

His words hit too close to home—echoing my own reasons for keeping Nora at arm's length, for believing I don't deserve her light in my darkness.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, though the words feel inadequate.

"For what?"

"Calling you and showing up like this. I understand if⁠⁠—"