you’re halfway through closing your locker when you see him.

nate. his usual confidence gone. he looks nervous. softer. and for once, not surrounded by a crowd of girls.

“can we talk?” he asks.

you hesitate. “we already did.”

“no,” he says quietly. “you talked. i just let you walk away.”

you glance down, staying quiet.

then he’s standing right in front of you, his hurt eyes flicking between yours.

“i tried,” he starts. “i tried to move on. to be the guy everyone says I am. but with other girls? nothing feels like home.”

you laugh — soft, bitter. “you don’t want home. you want attention.”

“no,” nate says firmly. “i want you.”

“you say that now,” you whisper. “but you’ll find someone else next week. and she’ll think she’s special, just like i did.”

he shakes his head.

“i’ve kissed other girls,” he admits, voice low. “but i don’t feel anything. i don’t feel. and it’s terrifying, because when i was with you—every second was loud. and warm. and real.”

you want to believe him. god, you do. but your heart is tired.

“you don’t believe me,” he says. “i get it. i don’t deserve to be believed.”

his hands hover at your waist like he’s scared to touch you.

“but if you’ll let me,” he whispers, “i want to try again. i want to prove it. because this—” he finally pulls you into him, forehead resting against yours, voice barely holding together—

“this is my home.”

you don’t say anything. you can’t. so he holds you tighter. and then, quiet. broken. real, he muttered:

“so please, can i come home?”