We drove until the sun disappeared, Radiohead’s “High and Dry" bleeding into Fuel's "Bad Day", then Feeder’s “Feel A Moment"—each song a thread stitching my frayed edges back together. Nate's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his presence steady and sure beside me. He didn't push me to talk, didn't try to fix what was broken. He just let the music fill the space between us until the shadows started feeling less heavy.

The opening synthesizer notes of "Bette Davis Eyes" drift through the speakers, that haunting melody filling the confined space. Kim Carnes' raspy voice follows. Nate's been trying to lift my mood all night, and when I catch him glancing at me with that gentle half-smile of his, I can tell he's not done trying.

He starts singing along, purposefully off-key and dramatic, his head bobbing with exaggerated enthusiasm. The usually composed Nate Sullivan is full-on performing now to Kim Carnes. There's something so carelessly happy about him in this moment—one hand draped over the steering wheel, polo drama forgotten in favor of making me laugh.

It's working.

Watching him like this, sometimes it hits me all at once—how much of himself he keeps hidden from the world, and how easily he lets those walls down for me. Even on my worst days, even when I'm pulling away from everyone else, he knows exactly how to slip past my defenses without making it feel like an invasion.

"Did you know this is my favorite song?" he asks, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat.

I turn to look at him, surprised. "'Bette Davis Eyes'? Why?"

His smile grows wider, streetlights catching the warmth in his eyes.

"Because thirty seconds ago, I started singing it completely off-key, and you finally smiled." He shrugs, but I can hear the tenderness beneath his casual tone. “It made it my new favorite song."

The simple honesty of it catches me off guard, making my heart beat hard and fast despite everything. He turns up the volume, and we both start singing along—me, tragically off-key, and him in perfect pitch. I tend to forget how beautiful his singing voice is until moments like this when he lets his guard down completely. Watching him now, head tilted back slightly as he hits the high notes, I feel like I'm witnessing something sacred. The way music flows through him isn't just talent or practice, it's like watching someone's soul take flight. In these rare, unguarded moments, when his voice wraps around each note like a confession, I understand why music is more than his passion. It's the language his heart speaks when words aren't enough.