Nate unlocks the door, and the scent of fresh paint and wood polish wraps around us like a welcome. The one-bedroom apartment is small but immaculate—a canvas painted with someone's determination to make broken things whole again. Every detail whispers of care: hardwood floors gleaming like honey in sunlight, walls dressed in soft neutrals, and baseboards crisp as new fallen snow.

The open concept living space flows seamlessly into a kitchen where stainless steel appliances mirror our reflections. Little touches betray thoughtful preparation—coasters aligned with military precision on the coffee table, fresh flowers standing sentinel on the counter. Nick's perfectionism echoes in every corner, as if leaving anything imperfect was never an option.

"You good?" Nate's voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.

I nod quickly, but my stomach performs its own anxious choreography.

"I don't have anything to sleep in," I blurt, hands futilely brushing at my rain-soaked clothes.

"I'll give you one of my shirts." The steady certainty in his voice holds no teasing, no smugness—just Nate, solid as earth. He adds, "And I've got sweats in the car," already moving toward the door. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering just long enough to kindle heat beneath my skin.

"You take a shower, and I'll grab my bag."

"Sure. Thanks." My voice floats unnaturally light, a poor mask for the butterflies staging a revolt in my stomach.

The door's click leaves me in sudden silence, my thoughts start racing uncontrollably.

Will we share the bed?

Does he expect to?

Do I want that?

The answer burns bright: of course I do. But does he?

The bathroom mirrors the apartment's thoughtful design—pale tiles gleaming under soft lighting, a glass-enclosed shower that belongs in a luxury hotel. When I turn the rainfall showerhead on, warm water cascades like summer rain, washing away the day's grime and the lingering cold. Steam curls around me like a protective spell, but my mind fixates on Nate—his mouth, his hands, the careful restraint behind his eyes that masks something deeper, hungrier.

What if he walked in right now?

What if he decided to stop waiting?

Heat pools low in my belly at the thought. He's always so measured with me, every action calculated. But who is he protecting—me or himself? The idea of making the first move sends my heart into overdrive.

How do you tell the boy you've loved forever that you want him to press you against wall and kiss you until the world dissolves?

I rest my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water drum against my back. The old fears surface like sharks in dark water. But then I remember the way his eyes linger, how they burn with something that mirrors my own wanting.

Maybe he's as tired of this dance as I am.