It started with a text at 11:42 p.m.

Nate: you up? You: barely. why? Nate: get dressed. I’m outside. trust me.

You peeked out your apartment window, and sure enough — there he was. Nate Archibald. Leaning against his car, grinning under a streetlight like he owned the night.

You sighed, already knowing resistance was pointless. “You’re insane,” you muttered as you climbed in beside him.

He just smiled. “Yeah, but you love that about me.”

You didn’t even ask where you were going. The city was alive — neon, laughter, and the hum of taxis flying by. Nate’s hand rested casually on the wheel, the other tapping the rhythm of the music.

When he finally stopped, it was in front of an all-night diner on 9th Avenue — the kind with flickering signs and old jazz drifting from inside.

“Midnight pancakes,” he said, hopping out. “It’s tradition.”

“Since when?” you asked.

“Since right now.”