Page 132 of Before We Were

"It's all good." The words taste like ash.

"That's not an answer." Her tone is gentle but leaves no room for escape, and it kills me how much she still cares after everything.

"Len, it's nothing you need to worry about. I have it handled." The lie sits heavy between us, because I'm not sure I have anything handled anymore.

"Are you okay, Nate? And I mean, are you really okay?"

The question echoes in the hollow spaces inside me.

"This really does feel like old times," I say instead, though I'm not sure which times I mean—the innocent closeness of our youth or the darker moments when she'd patch me up after Scott's rages.

She looks away, and suddenly I'm desperate for her attention. "You're changing the subject," she points out.

I manage a ghost of my usual grin. "I am, but it's true, isn't it?"

"I hate seeing you like this." I can see beyond her sad eyes that she'd hoped things would be different.

Hope.

That fucking word.

It's a luxury I never could afford. Growing up the way I did, reality became my closest companion.

My hand moves of its own accord to her neck, freeing her hair from its bun. Dark waves cascade down, framing her face like a painting I want to memorize.

"I like your hair down," I whisper, watching color bloom across her cheeks. Nothing in this world compares to her beauty in this moment. Our fingers intertwine, and I can't look away from where we're connected.

"Thank you," I murmur, the words carrying the weight of years.

"I'll send you the bill via email," she jokes, and I'm laughing—really laughing—despite the pain it causes.

When our eyes meet again, she's looking at me like she can see past every wall I've built.

"What?" I ask, feeling exposed.

"Nothing," she says softly. "It's just… I haven't heard you laugh like that in a long time."

Her smile breaks through the darkness surrounding my heart. The urge to kiss her, to pour every unspoken feeling into action, nearly overwhelms me. How do you explain to someone that they make your soul feel like colliding galaxies?

"Do you want to listen to music?" she offers, but I shake my head.

"Not tonight." I lean closer, my voice dropping to match the intimacy of the moment. "I just want this." I ease back onto her bed, drawing her with me. She settles against my chest, her arms around my waist, and I run my fingers through her hair, knowing it soothes us both.

"It's finally stopped," I say after a while.

"What's stopped?"

"The noise. In my head."

We lay in comfortable silence, this moment of peace worth every ache in my body. She traces gentle fingers over my face, and I stare at her like I'm seeing her for the first time all over again.

"I miss this," I confess, barely audible, half delusional from the concussion.

"Miss what?"

"Us."

The admission hangs in the air between us, but her response is immediate, sure.

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