"I'm trying, you know," I say, my voice low as I watch the shadows play across the dashboard. "To be better. Better than my dad ever was."

Nick doesn't respond right away, and I feel him weighing his words. When he does speak, his voice is calm, steady.

"Nate, listen. We don't get to choose our parents or the way we come into this world. But we do get to choose what we do with it. We can decide to accept who they are, let go of what they've done, and become everything they weren't."

His words settle in my chest, heavy and solid like truth. After a moment, I exhale.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, my gaze still fixed out the window at the passing night. "For being a burd⁠⁠—"

"Don't," Nick cuts me off, his voice firm but not harsh. "You're not finishing that sentence. The people who made you feel like you were? They were dead wrong."

I don't know how to respond to that—to the unwavering certainty in his voice, to the fact that someone sees me as worth something.

Instead, I pivot.

"I know about Monty," I say after a pause. "I'll pay you back. Every cent."

Nick looks over at me briefly, his expression unreadable in the dim light, before turning back to the road.

"You call me when you're in trouble—that's the deal. Always has been." His jaw tightens. "As for Monty, guys like him who prey on kids need to be put in their place." He shifts in his seat, the tension in his expression softening as a smirk tugs at his lips.

"But if you're serious about paying me back, I've got a deal for you."

I arch a brow, grateful for the lighter turn. "What kind of deal?"

"You say yes to playing on opening night."

I laugh, shaking my head. The sound feels foreign after everything tonight.

"You know playing one gig doesn't even come close to covering what you probably paid."

"Maybe not," he admits with a grin. "But it's a start."

I stare at him for a moment, my chest tightening with the question that's been gnawing at me since I found out what he did.

"Why?"

"Why what?" he asks, glancing over.

"Why do you keep helping me when I keep screwing up?"

Nick pulls into the driveway, kills the engine, and turns to face me fully. His usual teasing expression softens, something raw flickering in his eyes under the porch light.

"Because I don't see a screw-up," he says quietly. "I see a guy who got dealt a shitty hand but keeps fighting anyway. Someone who loves hard, even when it'd be easier to give up."

He pauses, his jaw tightening with old pain. "I wasn't there for my brother when he needed me most. That's a regret I'll carry forever. But I'm here now—for you. Got it?"