Seeing Nate for the first time in over a year unleashed a flood of memories I'd fought to lock away in the darkest corners of my mind. The image I'd preserved of him now felt like a mirage, something that shimmered and shifted the closer I tried to examine it. Time has this cruel way of fooling you—making you believe nothing has changed until suddenly everything does. It reshapes people, sometimes into better versions of themselves, sometimes into strangers wearing familiar faces.

Standing before him now left me unmoored, experiencing the vertigo you get when you lock eyes with someone from your past only to realize you've both become different people, traveling separate paths. Even though he stood right there, looking at me the way he always had, the Nate I once knew felt like a ghost. Or maybe he was still there, hiding beneath layers, concealing himself from truly being seen.

But I've always seen Nate Sullivan, always.

Nate had always been that bright-eyed kid who shot up in height early, bypassing the awkward teenage phase entirely and landing straight in heartthrob territory—an annoyingly smooth transition that still irritates me. He can make torn jeans and a simple dark grey t-shirt look like haute couture, as if he just stepped off a Paris runway. Now he's even taller, his already imposing six-foot-four frame somehow stretching further skyward. The lean build from high school remains, but everything about him seems more defined—his shoulders broader, his presence more commanding. There's a new edge to his aura too, something darker and more guarded, as if he's carrying secrets he's determined to keep buried.

Being this close to him scrambles my thoughts. The intoxicating blend of tobacco, leather, and bergamot that clings to him makes it impossible to think straight.

He's been talking since our collision on the front porch, but my traitorous eyes keep drifting to the solid plane of his chest, only to snap back up when I catch his knowing, sideways grin—the one that tells me he knows exactly why I haven't heard a word he's said.

Stupid grin. Stupid piercing eyes. Stupid perfect face.

No, we're not doing this.

Never again.

Wait—what did he just ask?

Shit.

One moment with Nate is all it takes to unravel years of carefully constructed defenses. A single look, one ghost of a smile, and suddenly I'm that seven-year-old girl again, helplessly drawn to a boy who's always been just out of reach.

When our eyes meet, something electric crackles between us—a bone-deep recognition that thunders through my body. For a heartbeat, wrapped in his arms, I forget everything: where I am, what happened, even the anger I've harbored against him for so long.

Damn you, Nate.

The solid warmth of his body, his overwhelming proximity, the way his eyes hold mine as if I'm the only person in his universe—it's too much, too intense, too everything.