When I arrive home, I hear something unexpected—music. Not just any music, but the familiar strum of a guitar and Nate's voice humming along. The melody pulls me in like a siren song, and before I can stop myself, I'm following it down the hall.

I find him in his room, shirtless, his back to the open door. Sunlight streams through the window, painting golden stripes across his skin as his fingers dance over the strings.

"I haven't heard that song before," I say softly. My voice startles him; his fingers freeze on the strings as he turns. Something flashes in his eyes—raw and vulnerable—before he blinks it away, like shuttering a window against a storm.

"Didn't realize you were home," he mutters, fidgeting with the pick between his fingers. The casual gesture belies the tension suddenly thrumming in the air between us.

There's a flicker of something in his voice—desperation maybe, or resignation—and it catches me off guard. His eyes meet mine, searching, like he's trying to gauge whether I'll push or let this moment slip away like all the others. I step closer, drawn by whatever's crackling in the space between us.

"Nick asked me to play on opening night," he says finally, the words falling like stones in still water.

"Are you going to do it?"

He sighs, shoulders heavy with something more than just uncertainty.

"Not sure yet. Been forever since I played for anyone, let alone a crowd."

"Could've fooled me." The corner of his mouth lifts slightly—almost a thank you for noticing what he never says out loud.

"We'll see," he murmurs, trying to brush it off like it doesn't matter. But I know it does.

He's been tiptoeing around me for days, and I'm tired of this dance. My emotions are frayed, patience worn thin by his constant hot-and-cold routine. Taking a deep breath, I ignore my thundering heart and just say it.

"Can we talk about the other night?"

The question hangs between us, heavy as summer storm clouds. He doesn't answer right away. His fingers move absently over the guitar strings, the notes muted like his voice. Then he drags a hand through his hair—a gesture I know means he's wrestling with something he doesn't want to say.

"Nora, I just..." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I can't do this." He gestures between us, his hand slicing through the air like he's trying to sever whatever thread still connects us.

"This. Us. Whatever it is, or isn't. I can't."

The words steal the air from my lungs. My mind races, replaying every moment, every look, every lingering touch that led us here. And now, just like always, we're back to square one.

I force a bitter laugh to cover the ache spreading through my chest. "Wow. Nice to see I'm that easy to throw away."