Page 136 of Before We Were

Nate doesn't respond.

His fists clench at his sides, knuckles turning bone white beneath tanned skin. His breathing comes shallow and quick, like he's holding onto control by the thinnest thread. I can almost see it fraying.

"Nate?" I call softly, taking a step toward him, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself.

His face is etched with a pain that makes my chest ache, eyes darkening as if the shadows inside him are growing, threatening to consume everything soft and vulnerable I'd held in my arms last night. I want to throw myself between him and this moment, protect him from it, but I know that won't be enough. Nothing ever is when it comes to Scott.

"Nora, don't," Jake mutters under his breath, suddenly beside me. His voice is tight, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "He's fine. He just needs to calm down."

But Nate isn't fine. He's anything but. His whole body is wound tight, like a bomb ready to explode, and I can almost hear the fuse sizzling down.

Scott shifts his attention to Lydia, deliberately ignoring the ticking bomb in front of him. "I was just about to speak to your mother," he says, his tone too familiar, too dismissive. The audacity of it makes my skin crawl.

"You lost the fucking right to speak to her a long time ago." The icy tone in Nate's voice and the intensity of his gaze was a look that could kill. Right now, Nate was contemplating acting on his anger.

Lydia's eyes narrow, noticing too that Nate was on the brink of losing his self-control. "Scott, I think it's time for you to leave."

"What? Why?" Jake cuts in, disbelief clear in his voice, still that little boy desperate for his father's attention.

"Jake, it's fine. I have some business to attend to while I'm here. Thanks for the invite, champ," Scott says, clapping Jake's shoulder in that fake, fatherly way that makes it look well-rehearsed.

I catch the flicker of hurt in Nate's eyes—that split-second tell that says he's used to this. Used to being second-best. Used to watching his father choose Jake, over and over, while pretending it doesn't cut him to the bone.

Nate's entire body goes rigid beside me. The muscles in his jaw work beneath his skin, and I practically hear his teeth grinding. His eyes, when they flick between Jake and Scott, hold something dangerous—a mix of betrayal and dawning realization.

Jake's expression hardens.

"Today of all days, you just had to be a dick. Couldn't let me have just one fucking day. No. Because everything is about Nate. Can't we do anything anymore without you turning it into some fucking drama?"

"Jacob!" Lydia's sharp voice cuts through the tension. She steps between them, every inch the protective mother, but I see the strain around her eyes. "You should have told me you were inviting your father."

"Why wouldn't I invite my own dad to my birthday?" Jake's voice rises, anger and hurt bleeding together. "He's your husband for Christ’s sake! You're always saying he's never around, and now you're kicking him out because golden boy here can't handle??—"

"Fuck you, Jake." Nate's words come out as a growl, vibrating with barely contained fury.

"No, fuck you," Jake fires back, face flushed. "I'm so sick of your shit, Nate. Everything always has to revolve around your damage, your issues. God forbid anyone??—"

"Boys, enough!" Lydia's voice cracks like a whip, but the damage is already done. I see it in the way Nate's shoulders bunch, in the dangerous stillness that settles over him.

I reach for his hand, desperate to calm him, to pull him back from whatever edge he's approaching. His fingers twitch against mine, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—I feel him soften. But then he lets go and storms after Scott.

I can't let him do this on his own, so I follow him.

It's Nate's voice I hear first as I round the corner to the front door.

"You've got some fucking nerve showing up here," Nate spits, voice dripping venom.

"Calm down," Scott dismisses, as if Nate's fury is merely childish rebellion.

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down," Nate snaps, barely containing his rage.

"Watch your tone, boy," Scott growls, advancing on Nate. "We both know what happens when that smart mouth runs. Don't forget whose house you're still under."

Nate's fists clench tighter, knuckles white with strain. He gestures violently toward the house. "You think I give a fuck about any of this? Your money? Your name? It means nothing to me." His voice cracks with years of accumulated pain. Scott laughs, cold and bitter, the sound like ice cracking.

"Spoon-fed your whole life, and you still don't appreciate what I've done for you. You're exactly like your mother."

I see the exact moment something fundamental breaks in Nate—a fault line finally giving way. His eyes darken to obsidian, holding years of repressed pain and rage. He's on Scott in an instant, pushing him back, every muscle coiled with barely contained violence. When he speaks, his voice is raw, stripped of everything but pure, distilled fury.

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