"You may be his world, but you're the only thing that ever felt like home to me."
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Some people never get second chances. Lilah never thought she'd get one with her brother's best friend.
She's quiet...
Thank you guys for all of the support! 💛 I seriously don't know how we're almost to 13k, but I am absolutely floored with happiness.
I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving! 😊
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By the time Wednesday rolls around, I'm not sure whether I'm annoyed or relieved that my stomach still flips every time I walk into this specific lecture hall. Maybe it is both. Maybe it says something about me—or about the boy already waiting at our usual spot, leaning over a stack of neatly highlighted articles like he's auditioning for the role of "Most Considerate Class Partner in History." Our desks are pushed together again. The shared space is usually cluttered by both of our notebooks, looking like we're trying to solve the biggest problems in the world and have been working on it for years.
Mrs. Herrera had already scheduled this class as free time for us to work on our projects—her favorite method of "teaching," which mostly means she answers a few questions and then pretends not to be catching up on her own work.
Nate looks up the second I step into the room. Not casually or eventually, but immediately—like he feels me walk in before he actually sees me. His smile softens, warming at the edges in that quiet, impossible-to-ignore way he has of making people feel...chosen.
"Hey," he says as I get closer, nudging the chair beside him with his knee. "I saved your seat."
I try to play it cool even though I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Thanks. That's sweet of you."
"It's what partners do," he teases lightly, but there is something beneath his tone—something warm, familiar, maybe even protective. Something that makes the space between us feel smaller than it actually is, like two magnets pulling towards each other.
We slip easily into work, papers spread across the desk, flipping through sources and scribbling notes, the occasional brush of elbows or hands when we reach for the same page. Every time it happens, neither of us mentions it, but we both feel it.
It feels easy. Safe. And for me—a girl who spent years training herself not to expect consistency from anyone—that feeling alone is enough to catch me off guard, the feeling disarming.
I must make a face at some point—thinking about my next class—because Nate pauses mid-sentence and nudges my foot lightly with his under the desk.
"Okay, that expression was tragic." He deadpans. "What happened? Did someone assign you an entire dissertation?"
I huff a small, airy laugh, dropping my head back slightly. "Worse. My next class is business management with Mr. Grey."
His right brow slowly raises in question, waiting for the rest. "And...?"
"And that's the class where I'm partnered with Jackson." I sigh. Even saying it feels heavy, like my mouth has to work around the name.
"Oh." Recognition flickers across Nate's expression, recalling the brief, half-deflected mentions I'd made before.
