We lay in comfortable silence, this moment of peace worth every ache in my body. She traces gentle fingers over my face, and I stare at her like I'm seeing her for the first time all over again.

"I miss this," I confess, barely audible, half delusional from the concussion.

"Miss what?"

"Us."

The admission hangs in the air between us, but her response is immediate, sure.

"Nate, I never left."

This is intimacy in its purest form—the ability to be completely bare, showing every scar and shadow, knowing you won't be turned away. But Nora and I, we're like parallel lines, destined to run alongside each other without ever truly meeting. She softens my edges in ways I never thought possible and all it takes is just a glance from those bright green eyes.

Before her, I believed I was impossible to love. She makes it look effortless, loving me despite every attempt I make to push her away. I can't pinpoint when I fell in love with her. It happened gradually, like watching the tide come in, until suddenly I was drowning.

Being this close to her is dangerous, addictive. But addiction is a monster that lurks in darkness, waiting to strike. This girl is more potent than any drug I've known, because nothing else comes close to the high of being near her. Like any addict, I can't resist the urge to stay close, to let her touch quiet the chaos inside me.

When she tightens her hold and whispers, "Stay," I know I shouldn't.

She's an addiction I can't kick, one I'm not sure I want to. Every cell in my body craves her presence. I settle beside her, holding her close, pretending this moment won't have to end.

"I'm here, Nate," she whispers into the darkness.

For the first time in forever, I let myself believe it.

40. Front Row Seats To The Shit Show

CHAPTER 40

FRONT ROW SEATS TO THE SHIT SHOW

NORA

For the second time this summer, Nate has found his way into my bed. His muscular body curves around mine like a shield, his breathing evening out as peace finally claims him. Though I can't see his face because I'm pressed against his chest, I feel the weight of exhaustion in his limbs, the way tension bleeds from him with each breath.

"Leni?" His voice carries a rare vulnerability, almost childlike.

"Yeah?"

"You're my favorite," he breathes, arms tightening around me like I might disappear.

"Favorite what?" I whisper, smiling against his warm skin.

A low hum vibrates through his chest as sleep begins to claim him. "Everything," he murmurs, grip steady around my waist.

I tilt my head up to find his eyes closed, features softened by approaching dreams. My fingers find their way to his hair instinctively, threading through dark strands in a soothing rhythm. The intimacy should frighten me, but instead it feels like coming home.