He says it like it’s nothing, as if it’s normal to remember what I drink when I’m out, off the clock, not paying attention.
“Right,” I say, taking a sip. “Thanks.”
He smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
We chat for a bit about the weather and playoffs, and the security protocols at the condo building. He tells a story about someone slipping past the lobby once, and I laugh—too loud, too sharp—but it seems to relax him, even though my body still feels on edge, bracing for something I can’t name.
“So,” I say finally, setting my drink down. “You said you had the footage?”
Nate taps his lapel pocket, then reaches into his coat, pulling out a flash drive and holding it up between two fingers.
“I figured you’d want it in person,” he says. “Too risky to send digitally. You never know who’s watching.”
My spine prickles. He says it like a joke, but there’s something else underneath that makes it feel like a warning. I reach for it, but he doesn’t let go right away.
“You really care about him,” he says softly, the shift in his tone snapping every nerve in my body, and the hairs on my arms lift.
“I do,” I answer, voice clipped.
He nods once and lets go of the drive, leaning back like we’re settling in for a second drink.
“That’s good,” he says, almost admiring. “Just—some of us, we’ve been around longer, you know? The real fans, watching since the beginning. We know what he looks like when he’s locked in, what messes him up. And what kinds of things ruin good players.”
My fingers curl around the flash drive, clutching it in my fingers, and my mouth goes dry. Something in the way he says it makes my stomach lurch. Not the words, more the tone. It’s fervent in a way it shouldn’t be. Possessive, like he thinks Chase belongs to him.
“Right,” I say, offering a smile. “That makes sense.”
He doesn’t notice that my voice is thinner than it was before, less warm. Or maybe he does—maybe that’s the point. He leans forward again, elbows resting on the table.
“You know, it’s always interesting, seeing who gets close to them,” he says, swirling the lime in his glass with one slow finger. “Some people don’t belong in that world. They climb their way in, all smiles and fake stories, but we see through it.”
His gaze sharpens, his smile hollow. Then his eyes dart down to where I’m carefully zipping the flash drive into my purse, and he tilts his head.
“That’s a nice nail color, by the way. Suits your skin tone.”
The back of my neck goes cold, and my pulse slams behind my ears.
I know that line.
It’s one of the messages I brushed off weeks ago. From a throwaway username and a too-vague threat, back when I was still convincing myself it was just internet trolling. But now, hearing it out loud in his flat, simmering tone makes my skin crawl.
And suddenly, I know exactly what this is.
I'm not safe.
My hand, which had hovered over my drink a moment ago, falls back to the table. He’s watching me too closely now, cataloging every flicker of emotion across my face.
"You're quite good at hiding what you're thinking, aren't you?"
I force a laugh, but it catches in my throat. “That almost sounded like a threat, Nate,” I say, aiming for light and teasing, but the wobble in my voice betrays me.
He smiles.
It’s not friendly, not the kind of smile you give your neighbor in the elevator. It’s too calm, like he’s already decided how the next ten minutes will go.
“It’s not,” he says. “Just saying—people can only pretend for so long, then the cracks start to show.”
I swallow and nod, sitting here a second too long and weighing options. Pretending I’m not rattled and this is still fine.