I pull his suitcase towards the idling Chevy, ignoring the way his glare burns into my back.

The driver calls out, “Mr. Brown.”

I toss the suitcase into the backseat, not even looking back at Nathaniel. “This is us,” I say, sliding into the backseat.

He slides in next to me reluctantly, still muttering about how insufferable I am as he closes the door behind him. I can feel the weight of his frustration. I like how easily I can still read him even after all this time. His eyes flicker to the window, and he leans back in the seat, his hand running down his face. And then I notice the absence of his Clark Kent glasses.

Fuck. I loved those glasses.

It’s weird. It’s like we’ve both been caught in this strange orbit, unable to fully escape the other. And then I ask, half-joking, “I really hope you're not here for the same reason I am.”

His eyes meet mine, and I see that we’re both thinking the same thing. His expression shifts from annoyance to something else—apprehension.

The possibility of it all crashing in. Wait, no, no, no.

Fuck.

10

nathan

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's the lowest priced room we have," the front desk worker says, flashing a sympathetic smile.

Caleb is insane. Eight hundred bucks for one night in a standard room? That’s my whole damn trip budget—gone. How the hell am I supposed to swing this and still afford my rent next week?

"I can’t believe you talked me into coming here. I can’t stay here. I’ll find another hotel. This is ridiculous."

"Dude, it’s Pride weekend. Every hotel in the city is booked. It’s not that complicated. You're stuck. I’ll pay." He pulls out his annoyingly sleek wallet like it’s no big deal.

"There’s no way," I snap, grabbing his arm. God, I hate him. Hate his smugness. His timing. His everything. Of course he’d pick this weekend, this one, to reappear and blow up my plans.

And now this—dragging me to some absurdly overpriced hotel just to remind me I can't afford it on my own. Yet another thing Caleb can do better.

“Relax,” he says, cool as ever. “I’m just offering you a solution.”

“Oh, and you just love that, don’t you? My own personal hero. Always saving the day.” I roll my eyes and pull out my phone, searching for literally anywhere else to sleep. But to my luck, everything’s either sold out or priced up the ass.

He was right. I’m screwed.

I look up to see him handing me another room key card. “What is that?”

“What do you think it is?”

I stare at it. “Seriously?”

“Shut up and come on,” he says, walking backward toward the elevator. “We’ll talk over a drink.”

I want to protest. Really, I do. But I’m not stupid. He’s offering me a free bed. And the reality is, I’m stranded. And yes, I hate him—but I’m also not sleeping on the street.