Page 63 of Before We Were

“Remember Alfie from the bookstore in town?" I say, leaning back. "He inspired something in me today."

A slow grin spreads across Nate's face, unexpectedly gentle. "You know, my favorite story you ever wrote was the one about Daisy and Archer's adventures to Illyria."

I blink, taken aback. "You remember that?"

"Yeah, well," he laughs, “it cost me six packets of Skittles to read it because you wouldn't let anyone see it."

A laugh escapes me, tinged with nostalgia. "And I only ate the yellow ones."

His eyes light up with familiar mischief. "Are they still your favorite?"

Yes, they are.

Just like that, amidst the familiar banter, a sliver of the past slips in, reminding me why it's hard to completely shut him out. Because sometimes, in moments like these, he's still the boy who traded candy for stories, who knew exactly how to make me smile—and that boy still has the power to break my heart all over again.

"It was good. Hard to believe a nine-year-old wrote it," he says, his tone laden with sincerity I haven't heard since before everything fell apart.

He steps closer, his movements careful, almost cautious. I feel the heat radiating from his body, the air between us crackling with electricity that quickens my pulse. His breath fans my cheek, warm and familiar, and though he hasn't touched me yet, it feels like he's tracing lines of fire across my skin. The scent of him—pine and soap, and something uniquely Nate—wraps around me like a memory I've tried too hard to forget.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "But then again, you've always seen the world differently…” he trails off, looking away for a split second, struggling with his words. Then, like a switch being flipped, his expression shifts. He smirks—a dark, knowing smirk that makes my heart stumble even as my mind screams warnings. "It's why I'm not surprised you don't have a boyfriend."

Wait, what?

Just like that, the spell shatters. The walls slam back up—his and mine—fortified by years of practice at keeping each other at arm's length.

"Wow, you're a royal jackass," I snap, pushing past him, trying to shake off the sting of his words and the lingering warmth of his proximity.

But before I make it far, his hand gently clasps my arm, pulling me back. His touch zaps through me like lightning, my body tensing as if bracing for a storm. His eyes lock onto mine, filled with a sincerity that seems to pierce right through my armor.

"I didn't mean it like that," he murmurs, his voice low and steady, tinged with vulnerability that throws me off balance. The kitchen light catches the gold flecks in his eyes, making them appear like amber caught in sunlight.

"What I mean is you find depth where others skim the surface," he continues, his voice soft but firm. "I guess not everyone can handle that." His thumb traces an absent pattern on my arm where he's still holding me, probably unaware he's even doing it.

"Your eyes light up when you talk about what fires you up," he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, intimate as a confession. "And you're not scared to push against the grain. You just... live. And that scares people."

I stare at him blankly, unsure what to say. His words envelop me like a warm tide, threatening to sweep away my defenses.

"And that's what I admire most about you."

The moment stretches taut between us. I'm teetering on the edge of something indefinable, my emotions tangled and raw. Then, abruptly, he breaks the tension.

"Want to go to the carnival?" he suggests, his voice unexpectedly light, though something darker still lingers in his eyes.

"What?"

"The carnival," he clarifies, a casual hand slipping into his pocket. "Do you want to go?"

"Together? With you?" The question slips out before I can catch it, still reeling from the quick shift from intensity to nonchalance.

He glances around theatrically, though his eyes keep finding their way back to me. "Well, unless you see someone else lurking around here that would be better company..."

I roll my eyes, though his playful tone coaxes a reluctant smile from me. His earlier words hang in the air between us, warming me despite my reservations.

"Okay, fine," I concede, snapping my computer shut. "But I'm driving."

"Yeah, no. That's not happening."

"Yes, it is."

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