It’s late, and the city is unusually quiet. The noise of Manhattan feels far away from the terrace where you and Nate sit, legs stretched out, sharing a blanket more for comfort than warmth. The lights below flicker like constellations.

“You ever think about how simple things used to be?” Nate asks, staring out at the skyline. “Before everything got… complicated.”

You smile softly. You do. More than you admit.

He starts talking about summers in the Hamptons—sand in his shoes, salt in his hair, sneaking out past curfews he pretended to hate. About his dad teaching him to sail before everything went wrong. His voice isn’t bitter. Just honest.

You share your own memories. The kind that come back in fragments. Riding bikes until the streetlights came on. Believing adults always knew what they were doing. Thinking first loves were forever.

Nate laughs quietly at one of your stories. “I forgot how much I missed that version of myself.”

The conversation slows, drifting between memories and silence. Comfortable. Easy. At one point, Nate looks at you and says, “I think that’s why I like being with you. You remind me of who I was before all the expectations.”