Nate leans back in his seat at the edge of the Met steps, the golden afternoon sun catching in his hair, lacrosse stick resting lazily against his shoulder.

There’s a calm to him, the kind that comes from growing up in a world where everything is handed to you—except clarity.

His navy blazer hangs open, tie loosened, as if school is more of a formality than a priority today. But then again, when you're Nate Archibald, rules were never really made for you.

He catches your eye across the courtyard, a crooked smile forming as he pushes off the steps and walks over, hands in his pockets. It’s not rehearsed. Nothing about Nate ever is.

There’s a softness in his gaze that betrays the reputation—the heir, the athlete, the heartbreaker. For a guy surrounded by noise, Nate always seems to move through it quietly, like he’s looking for something—or someone—to feel real with.

“Thought I might find you here,” he says, almost as an afterthought, like maybe he had nowhere else he'd rather be. The school bell echoes faintly in the distance, but Nate doesn’t flinch.

With him, time always feels like it stretches just a little longer. Maybe it’s the world he comes from. Or maybe, it’s just him.