"Since you've been around, he smiles more." She pauses, and I hear what she's not saying—how rare it is for Nate to let anyone close enough to matter. "I know he can be distant, even difficult, especially when he's trying to figure things out. But don't give up on him."

I take a breath, her words hanging between us like something tangible.

I couldn't give up on him even if I tried.

"Actually, before I forget," Lydia says, straightening up, "Nate left his phone here this morning. It's been ringing nonstop. If you're heading to Sonder, would you mind taking it to him? It's driving me crazy."

"Of course," I say, standing. My chair scrapes against the floor, breaking our intimate moment's spell.

She hands me the phone with a grateful smile, and I tuck it into my pocket, noticing how her gaze follows the movement. There's something in her eyes, something more she wants to say.

"Thank you, love," Lydia says, her eyes lingering on me with an intensity that makes me wonder what she sees. But she doesn't elaborate, and I don't press.

Nate might not make things easy, but neither does life. And maybe that's the point—to find the people worth fighting for, even when it's hard. Even when they don't know how to ask for help, or when they push you away thinking it's for the best.

The guitar's melody reaches me before I even step inside Sonder—a soft, mournful sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes. My pulse quickens because I know exactly who's playing. I'd recognize his music anywhere.

I slip inside quietly, letting the door click shut behind me. The place is unrecognizable from my last visit. Leather booths stretch along the walls, tabletops gleam with newness, and the bar stands fully stocked, rows of bottles catching light like captured stars. But my eyes are drawn to the stage, where a single spotlight creates an island of warmth in the dim room.

And there he is.

Nate sits perched on a battered water cooler, guitar cradled against his chest like something precious. His head bows over it in complete absorption, dark hair falling across his forehead, creating shadows that dance across his face. His fingers move across the strings with a reverence I've never seen him show anyone else, plucking each note with precision and care, as if he's speaking a language only he understands.

There's something achingly vulnerable about the way he plays, how completely he gives himself to the music. It's not just a performance—it's confession. Each chord seems to pull something from deep within him, revealing layers I rarely get to see. Here, he's not Nate Sullivan, the captain of the football team, the guy everyone leans on, the one carrying burdens too heavy for his shoulders.

He's just… Nate.

Raw and real and breathtakingly honest.