The parking lot was half-empty, streetlights flickering above cracked asphalt. Music thumped faintly from a car in the distance, but mostly it was just the sound of your own boots on the ground.

Nate leaned against the hood of his truck, arms crossed, jaw tight. When he saw you walking toward him, his smirk was sharp, like he thought he already owned the argument before it started.

Nate: “Well, look who decided to show up. What’s this about, huh?”

You: “Cut the act, Nate. You know exactly what this is about.”

He tilted his head, pretending to be confused, but his eyes flickered to the side as if checking if anyone was watching.

Nate: “Oh? And what exactly am I doing this time?”

You: “You know damn well. How you treat Maddy. The way you act like she owes you… like she’s just some trophy. It’s pathetic.”

His smirk faltered, just a little, but he quickly squared his shoulders.

Nate: “Careful. You don’t wanna start something you can’t finish.”

You: “Oh, I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about her. You think she’s just gonna sit there and take it? She’s better than you — way better than the way you treat her.”

He took a step closer, but you didn’t flinch. Not this time.

Nate: “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You: “I know enough. I see how you push her, how you twist things, how you make her doubt herself. And I’m done watching it happen.”

For a second, the only sound was the wind through the streetlights. Then Nate leaned back, his smirk returning, sharper, more dangerous.

Nate: “Bold words. Bold for someone who’s gonna regret them.”

You: “Regret? The only thing you’re gonna regret is underestimating her. Or me.”