She studies me, that maternal worry etched deep. "Your mom is at the country club for a volunteer meeting, Ollie went to the beach, and Jake and Nora spent the morning out."

Nora's name twists something inside me. I nod, feigning indifference and failing miserably. I wonder if Kat knows about what happened last night.

"Nate..." she starts, eyes fixed on my busted hand. "What happened?"

My fucking hand.

"Rough night," I say, which isn't entirely a lie.

Kat steps closer, commanding, "Sit," in a tone that brooks no argument. So, I do, feeling more like a kid than a twenty-year-old.

She tends to my cuts with gentle hands but sharp eyes that dare me to break.

Does she know how many times her daughter has done this for me when we were kids?

"Want to tell me what's really going on?"

I swallow hard. "It's nothing, Kat. Just boys being boys."

"Mhm." Her skepticism is thick. "I've known you your whole life. I know when you're bottling things up. And I'd bet it's more than just last night."

I wince, not from the antiseptic but because she's right. She's always been. "It's complicated," I admit, my voice barely a whisper.

Kat finishes with my cut but doesn't pull back. Instead, she takes my hand in hers, anchoring me to the moment. "Most things are. But you don't have to keep everything bottled up. I know I'm probably the last person you want to spill everything to, but just know that if you ever do, I'm here. Now take your shirt off so we can hide the evidence from your mom."

I look down at the blood-stained shirt that's also covered in dirt, probably from the dusty couch I slept on last night. Kat takes the shirt and when she does, I notice her staring at old scars across my body.

"Football," I lie. "It's a rough sport."

The lump in my throat swells, and I look away to hide the storm of emotions inside me.

"Kat, I know I haven't been around much. I'm sorry for that. I've just... been dealing with a lot and it shouldn't be an excuse but⁠⁠—"

She stays quiet, her thumb softly caressing the back of my hand. It's a simple touch, but it makes me feel less adrift. "Stop. We've all got our demons, Nate," she murmurs. "But you've got people who love you that you can lean on."

I nod, unable to speak, and finally, she releases my hand. She turns back to her pie dough, giving me space to breathe. I think about walking out, escaping this gentle scrutiny, but I stay. Maybe it's her unpushy kindness, or maybe I can't stand the thought of being alone right now.

"How's Nora?" The question slips out before I can stop it.