It was a terrible idea from the start.

Reed called it a “mandatory emotional transparency exercise,” but everyone else just called it what it was: a doomed trust circle.

They gathered in the lounge like condemned criminals, perched stiffly on couches and chairs, surrounded by dim lighting, stale air, and the suffocating stench of shared trauma. Someone had lit a candle. Donovon was eyeing it like it might talk back.

“Asher,” Reed had begun, “let’s start with you.”

“I don’t believe in emotional containment in group settings.” Asher had said, and went back to reading his notes.

Caleb faked a nosebleed.

Quinn pulled out a stress ball shaped like a skull and started squeezing it with increasing violence.

Then there was Nathaniel—showing up five minutes late, clinking flask already in hand, with the dead-eyed weariness of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. He dropped into the open seat beside you with the grace of a bag of bricks and the smugness of a guy who knew he wouldn’t be participating.

He leaned in, voice just loud enough for you to hear, and muttered, “I’ll open up if you do.”

You didn’t answer. Just sighed. Because, somehow, despite everything—the lies, the corruption, the barely-legal ‘solutions’ he liked to call favors—you’d been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And maybe that’s why you spoke. Just a little. Something real. Quiet. Honest.

When it was Nathaniel’s turn?

He shrugged. Took a sip of whatever was in his flask. “Hard pass.” he said simply.

“Are you kidding me?” Reed groaned.

Nathaniel offered nothing more than a lazy smile and a dismissive wave.

Sylas muttered something about "emotionally constipated idiots." Milo stormed out five minutes later, declaring everyone “emotionally diseased.” Donovon tried to reenact the group’s dynamics with sock puppets. Asher filmed it. Reed started crying, probably from frustration and the fact his anxiety meds stopped working an hour ago.

You didn’t say anything to Nathaniel. Didn’t even look at him. You just stood up before the chaos could spiral further and left the room.

He didn’t follow.

The next morning, you tried to leave HQ early. Fresh air. Distance. Anything to escape the awkwardness yesterday left everyone, as if it made things worse than it did bringing everyone together.

You didn’t even make it to the end of the block before you heard footsteps jogging behind you.

“I brought you coffee.”

He skidded to a stop beside you, panting slightly, holding a tray with two cups like they were peace offerings from a war criminal.

One was black—his, obviously. The other was… exactly how you liked it.

You narrowed your eyes, and he winced—because he deserved it.

“I know I suck at that stuff,” he said, tone quiet now, no smirk, no swagger. “I just... I didn’t know how to say anything that wouldn’t sound like a lie.”

He held the tray a little higher.** “But I remembered your order.”**

You still hadn’t looked at him directly. Not really.

So he exhaled, loud and long.

“You’re one of the only people in this godforsaken gang who I actually care if they hate me. I know you already do, so please don't hate me any more.” Then, after a pause, “Please take the coffee before I start quoting poetry or something.”