I'm tired 《Nate Jacobs, euphoria x reader 》
Nate jacobs x femreader
Sumary: He systematically dismantles your world, because Nate Jacobs knows the chaos you hide and he's the first person who hasn't run from you.
Warnings: Strong language, suggestive content (nothing explicit), extremely toxic dynamics (If you’re in anything remotely similar, please, I’m begging, get out of there), angst, Nate Jacobs (Yes, he deserves his own warning).
A/N: This honestly wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve got a dozen half-finished things sitting in my drafts, staring at me like little abandoned children, and yet this is the one my brain refused to shut up about.
Blame it on Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, because falling in love with the Creature apparently rewired something in me. And, honestly, Frankenstein has been my favorite book since I was old enough to underline sentences and pretend I understood them. I can’t help dreaming about some story—any story—where the Creature walks in and ruins me in the most poetic way possible. Don’t tempt me (should I?). Then I rewatched Euphoria and, yeah. I fell right back into Jacob Elordi and the Nate Jacobs hellhole. I know he’s a walking red flag. I know he’s a disaster wrapped in a trauma bow. But here I am, writing him anyway like I haven’t learned a single thing.
So… sorry? You’re welcome? I don’t know. All I know is that this scene wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it down.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
“So? What do you say?”
Your heart is beating so loudly you can barely hear Chris’s voice. It thunders against your ribs, drowning out everything else, leaving you light-headed, almost dizzy. Heat creeps up your neck and settles in your cheeks, blooming into a blush you know you can’t hide.
It’s absurd, you’ve imagined this exact moment for months. Before the closed doors and the whispered demands in the dark. Back when Chris McKay’s smile actually made something warm unfurl in your stomach, signaling a simple, straightforward kind of happiness.
Now that it’s finally happening, your mind refuses to cooperate.
You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a broken little sound, a stutter swallowed before it even forms. You want to say yes. God, you want to tell him you’d love to grab a coffee, to be the kind of girl who chooses the light. But something hard and invisible has lodged itself in your throat. It’s pressure. Squeezing. Twisting. Like a hand closing around your neck.
Your brain betrays you, offering up image after image of the real reason you can’t say yes. The pressure isn't metaphorical. You’ve felt it before. Those fingers, long and deliberate, pressing into your skin until you forgot where your own breath began.
The lack of air is so vivid your hand flies to your neck, half expecting to find him there.
The touch is instantly associated with the furious, consuming heat you share. You remember the last time his hand was there, not to hurt, but to demand. The feel of his thumb, rough against the sensitive skin near your carotid, just enough pressure to make your vision swim slightly, to pull you deeper under his control. He used to watch your eyes when he did that, knowing the slight sensation of being suffocated sharpened your focus only on him, and that the thrill of the danger made you crave it more. It was a silent, dangerous way of asking for permission, and you always gave it with a helpless, consuming shudder. You craved the edge of his control.
You can almost feel those fingers again, curling possessively around your throat. Nate’s fingers. Nate’s voice. Nate’s shadow stretching over every decision you’re supposed to be able to make on your own.
You are suddenly filled with a wave of self-disgust. You, who always vowed to avoid the arrogant, cruel men like him, the boys who treated desire like ownership. You had despised Nate Jacobs for his existence. And now, you hadn’t just fallen for him, you were completely hooked, addicted to the intense, forbidden energy that came from being wanted by the most dangerous person in the room. You were falling in love with a dream, yes, but also falling into a dark, thrilling addiction that felt more real than any daylight truth.
The seconds drag themselves thin. His eyes appear again in your mind, the way they look in the dark, hungry, consuming. You remember how his thumb brushed your pulse the last time you told him to slow down. How he murmured, the words hot against your ear, “No one else gets this. No one else touches you like this,” right before his mouth dragged down your jawline, making your body seize with immediate, desperate pleasure. He wasn't just claiming you, he was giving you the kind of desperate, all-or-nothing intensity your secret self couldn't live without.
The invisible grip tightens.
You can’t breathe, but you feel the familiar pull of wanting him to tighten it just a little more.
You remind yourself, harshly, that it isn’t real.
The only thing real right now is Chris. Chris, who’s looking at you the way boys look at girls they aren’t afraid to want in public. Chris, who stepped closer, warm and patient.
You glance over your shoulder, convinced for one panicked moment that Nate might be there, listening, reminding you that your voice isn’t entirely your own anymore. But the hallway is empty. The only reality is the soft frown forming on McKay’s face, his usual ease clouded by concern.
“I… I can’t.”
The words felt borrowed, hollow. They sounded defeated. You watched the light die in Chris’s eyes, the beautiful, simple hope fading into confusion. You had just chosen the dark over the light. You had chosen the painful, consuming drug of Nate over the easy, real potential of Chris.
“Oh. Right. Okay,” Chris murmured, the embarrassment sharp on his features. He collected himself quickly, forcing a slight smile. “Is it… too much with school? Totally get it. Let me know if you change your mind.”
You shook your head slightly, unable to manage a full denial. You didn't deserve his kindness, or his understanding. But as Chris starts to turn away, the magnitude of what you just chose collapses in on you. The sight of him leaving, of the daylight happiness walking away, is a sudden, sharp shock of panic.
And then, before you can stop yourself , before you even understand why your mouth is moving, you hear the words slip out of you.
““Wait—wait, no. I mean…I’d love to.”
You didn't recognize your own tone. It sounds like a plea. You have no idea where that agreement came from; your conscious mind was yelling no. But Chris stops, and the relief that flickers on his face is dazzling. You mimic his smile even as a distant alarm ricochets through your skull, screaming that something is terribly, dangerously wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Great, great,” he says, clapping his hands once, excitement rolling off him in warm waves. You nod, telling yourself it’s fine. it’s just coffee, it’s harmless, it’s normal. And you’ll have time to finish your assignments first. Time to breathe. Time to quiet the guilt already unfurling in your stomach like smoke.
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You didn't hear a word of what happened in the locker room, just moments before practice. You were safely oblivious.
The damp, metallic air of the locker room thrummed with background noise. Nate Jacobs remained coiled on the bench, his focus on his gear, while Chris McKay, the oblivious fuse, dropped a bomb beside him.
“I finally did it.” Chris was practically vibrating with a raw, honest happiness he couldn't stand.
Nate didn’t flinch, refusing to acknowledge the excitement. He meticulously adjusted the straps of his shoulder pads, pretending his immediate world consisted only of perfectly placed plastic.
“Dude, are you even listening to me?” Chris poked his shoulder, a casual touch that Nate endured with chilling stillness. He looked up, his expression cold enough to freeze water, but it did nothing to dim Chris’s confidence. “I asked her out. I asked her out, and she didn’t hesitate for a second.”
Nate’s mind frantically shuffled through the revolving cast of girls Chris had been talking about, girls who meant nothing to him.
“Glad for you, man. Which one was it? The short girl from the party the other night? Didn’t seem like it was going to take you much effort, not sure why you’re so proud.”
Chris shook his head, the wide, unshakeable grin reaching his ears.
“Nah, man. I’m talking about the girl. I finally grew the balls to ask her. I would have bet my starting spot that she was going to say no.”
Jacobs slowly reviewed the last few conversations he'd had with his teammate, his brow furrowed in feigned concentration. Several faces flashed through his memory, and then his entire face seemed to drop—a sudden, sick plunge—when he recalled a specific conversation about a smile that was too wide and hid an incredibly sharp tongue. He could feel the blood drain completely from his face. The only outward sign was an imperceptible twitch, a clench of his jaw so strong his teeth grated together.
His muscles seized. He disguised the reaction by fiddling with his perfectly placed shoulder pad. His stomach twisted sharply, and he had to breathe hard through his nose to keep from throwing up on the tiled floor.
“...it’s just coffee, but I think she’s interested. I hope she doesn’t pull a Carrie on me or something, you know, just to laugh at me.”
Nate’s head was spinning. He latched onto his friend's monologue with detached disinterest, not wanting to know anything Chris thought about you. He thought bitterly that it would be your style. You had laughed at him plenty of times, and he had no doubt that if he hadn't managed to get under your skin, you would have publicly humiliated him without a second thought.
“Didn’t know she was your type,” He cursed himself for the words, but he was rapidly losing control. The carefully constructed ropes holding his inner chaos were slipping through his hands, and he wasn't sure he wanted to contain them anymore. He felt his blood boiling and his skin reaching feverish temperatures..
“Gorgeous, smart, and hot as hell? Yeah, sure, nobody’s type.”
Nate swallowed hard, fighting down the burning memory.
Gorgeous, smart, and hot as hell.
The words hammered in his mind. As if Chris knew anything about you. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality, his mind drowning in the intimate, secret moments. The suffocating darkness of his room,kiss that had tried to shut down a conversation that drove him crazy. A bite on his lip in protest that had only drawn a satisfied groan from him.
She didn’t hesitate for a second.
The nausea was all-consuming, he felt sick. His head was pounding, the ambient noise fading entirely, replaced by the frantic rush of his own blood. The heat in his ears brought the immediate, cruel memory of your humid breath that you could barely contain when he found your exact spot.
He squeezed his fists, fighting the tremor that ran through him. The heat was unbearable, and the mere rub of his clothes against his skin felt like sandpaper.
He was aware of the lockers, the light, the smell of sweat, and yet completely detached. The friction of his t-shirt against his chest brought the memory of your soft fingers exploring his skin curiously. He never pushed them away because, despite his usual aversion to that intimacy, he found a perverse comfort in it. He craved those smooth strokes, the way his skin rose in gooseflesh with every graze. He could feel your ghostly presence on his back, your hands moving in an ephemeral touch, climbing his chest, stopping at the length of his neck, and finally reaching his hair, where they would linger. He almost let out a guttural sound recalling your nails on his scalp, waiting for the slight, intimate tug that always preceded a deeper moment.
All of it, the raw, secret intimacy, was slipping away.
For the first time since Chris dropped the bomb, Nate looked at him. He observed the genuine smile Chris allowed to form while talking about you, the same genuine smile Nate only allowed himself in the safety of his dark room.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little worried about the whole genius thing. I have a feeling she could get bored.”
A crushing retort was on the tip of Nate's tongue, something to sink Chris and seize back what he had possessed in secret for so long. But the words died. It would be a lie. He could almost evoke the image of you sitting on his bed, wearing only one of his t-shirts, talking nonstop about some topic that had pursued you that week. He always tried to look annoyed, overwhelmed. He thought you should be exhausted, but you seemed tireless. And in all those convoluted theories that baffled him, you never once embarrassed him when he tried to answer and failed.
He realized he didn't care about being wrong with you, unlike every other situation in his life. Instead of mocking him, you would slide onto his lap and stroke his arm while patiently explaining why his conclusions didn't make sense. And he could only listen, watching you in silence.
“And you know what the best part is?” Chris said, leaning closer, oblivious. “She’s not the drama type. No games. I’m tired of all that stuff. Just chill, easy.”
Nate’s vision blurred. Chill. Easy. Chris was describing the complete opposite of what you were with him. What you both craved.
He remembered the way you looked at him in the aftermath: not sweet, but raw, exhausted, almost hating him for making you feel that much. That was the addiction. The fight. The razor-thin line between hate and want that he knew Chris McKay was too simple, too easy, to ever cross.
And he was going to lose you too easily.
The fury was no longer contained; it was pure, electric panic, the terror of a man realizing his secret treasure is about to be claimed in public. He couldn't lose the one place where he felt truly exposed and yet strangely safe.
He felt something twist in his chest. A radiating heat in his lungs, seizing his breath.
“Dude, are you okay?” Chris’s voice finally cut through the memory.
Nate blinked, shedding the heat of the past.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Doesn’t look it. You’ve been messed up since you and Maddy broke up.”
Since I started keeping a secret I couldn't reveal. But Nate didn't say it. He stayed lost in the memory of your wicked tongue and the way it moved across his skin in deep, felt kisses.
“You know what? If it goes well, and it will, I’ll tell her to bring one of her friends. Get you back in the game, what do you say?”
Nate’s eyes snapped away from Chris immediately, as if he had been physically assaulted by the suggestion.
A double date. He wouldn't even have the right to look at you. A VIP pass to watch someone else touch you in public. To hear you ramble about a thousand topics and make you laugh.
He barely had the strength to hold the chaos inside him, he had almost let it go completely. And the culprit wasn't McKay, or even you. The only one responsible was himself, maintaining the secret just to avoid stares and comments.
What would people think if they knew Nate Jacobs fell to his knees in front of that girl? The one who seemed to despise him in every public interaction? The one who made an effort to show that boys like him deserved nothing but contempt?
The truth was, at this point, he would be satisfied if you just gave him a single glance, even if he couldn't hold it. He had been a coward, and the result was that he had pushed you into the arms of someone less afraid.
He wanted to scream in frustration, to slam his helmet into Chris for taking away something he had assumed belonged to him.
Instead, he grabbed the helmet and stood up, without even looking at Chris.
“Don’t worry about me. You shouldn’t worry too much about that coffee, either. Focus on the field.”
Nate walked toward the tunnel. He was breathing hard, every breath a suppressed roar. He wasn't thinking about the coach, or the game plan. He was thinking about you, laughing with Chris, forgetting the way your breath used to catch only for him.
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The field feels wrong the moment Nate steps onto it, too bright, too loud, too open, like the world decided to stretch itself out just to make him feel small inside it. The sunlight glints off helmets and shoulder pads, too sharp to look at directly, and it needles into the growing pressure behind his eyes. He tries to shake it off. He tries to shove his thoughts back into a corner where they can’t claw at him. But Chris’s voice keeps looping in his head, bright and stupidly hopeful, like a broken tape he can’t eject. I asked her out. She didn’t even hesitate. She’s interested. Each word has weight, dragging across the inside of Nate’s skull like metal scraping concrete. He can’t breathe around it.
When the whistle blows, he launches forward with the rest of the team, but his body moves on autopilot. Every hit lands too hard, every shove borders on violent, every breath feels like he’s inhaling heat instead of air. His teammates yell at him to chill, but their voices come through warped, distant, like they’re shouting at him from underwater. He tries to focus, to anchor himself to the play, but his mind keeps snapping back to you.
The sound of your breathing when you’re close enough that he can feel your chest rise against his. The way you’d tugged his shirt one night, irritated at something stupid he’d said, and how your irritation had melted into something hungrier before either of you admitted to it. He remembers your fingers sliding up his jaw like you were testing the heat of him, the way you’d whispered you drive me insane against his throat, not like a confession but like a threat. His body reacts instantly to the memory, his pulse spikes so hard it rattles him.
He lines up for the next play. His cleats dig into the grass. He tries to shake you off.
He fails.
Because now he’s remembering last week, your voice low and sharp in the copilot seat of his car, telling him to watch the road while your hand was on his thigh, dragging deliberate patterns into his skin. He’d pretended he didn’t care, pretended he wasn’t shaking, pretended you didn’t have him wrapped around your fucking finger. And then you’d leaned in closer, brushing your mouth against the corner of his jaw, murmuring something he can’t repeat without feeling like his chest might cave in.
The whistle blows. He snaps back to the field, but the damage is done. His head feels full of heat, his lungs too tight, his vision narrowing with every heartbeat. He can’t stop picturing your mouth: smart, cutting, always getting him in trouble. He can’t stop picturing the way you’d looked at him in the dark that one night, like you hated yourself for wanting him and hated him even more for wanting you back.
His chest tightens painfully. Something inside him buckles.
Then someone bumps him—just a normal, harmless part of the drill—but it hits the last, frayed thread holding him together. The world tilts. His vision sharpens to a pinpoint. And suddenly he’s sprinting, not at the ball, not at the line. Straight at Mckay.
The tackle isn’t a tackle. It’s an attack. He slams into him with a brutal, unrestrained force that draws a collective, horrified sound from everyone around them. Chris hits the turf hard, a sickening thud echoing as his helmet cracked sideways against Nate’s, the plastic shell jolting violently, and the world seemed to distort with the sound. Jacobs felt something tear open across his eyebrow, a hot sting followed by warmth trickling down. Not a clean cut—more like the skin had split where his brow met the hard inner padding of his helmet.
For a moment he stands over him, chest heaving, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. The coach yells his name. Hands grab at him. He can’t process any of it.
He’s too busy staring at Mckay curled on the ground, clutching his ribs.
Some awful, ugly part of him feels satisfied.
Teammates curse. Someone grabs Nate but he shrugs them off like they weigh nothing. A heavy, cold, ringing blow. Pain blooms, bright and metallic. Warmth follows, sliding slow and sticky down his temple. He touches it. Blood coats his fingertips.
And the world goes red.
His vision shifts, smears, pulses. Red like anger. Red like humiliation. Red like the marks you once left on his neck when you’d kissed him too hard and he’d pretended it didn’t affect him. Red like the flush that climbed your chest when he pressed you against the hood of his car and whispered things he should’ve never said out loud. Red like your mouth when you pulled away from him and said his name like it hurt.
The coach is shouting again, distant, muffled. Someone asks if he’s okay. Someone else says he’s bleeding like hell. He barely hears them over the pounding in his ears—violent, rhythmic, drowning out every rational thought.
He’s breathing too fast. His hands shake. The taste of copper fills his mouth even though he’s not bleeding there.
He’s thinking of you again.your grip on his collar the night you kissed him first, your body leaning into his like you were daring him to step back, your voice saying his name like you hated it and needed it at the same time.
The whistle blows again, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already gone.
The coach grabs him, shouting, “Jacobs! Off the field—now!”
Nate pulls away, blood dripping in slow, hot lines down his face.
He walks off the field like a bomb that hasn’t detonated yet.
Breathing fire.
Seeing nothing but red.
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You don’t even think twice when you hear what happened on the field. The whispers, Nate lost it, Nate blindsided him, Mckay can barely breathe, Jacobs has blood all over his face, travel faster than sound, but you move on cold certainty. Someone tells you in the hallway, and you go straight to the physio room. Because of course you do. Because you’re not cruel. Because Mckay didn’t deserve it. Because someone has to clean up the mess Nate never stops making, and maybe, deep down, you need to confirm the sickening truth of why.
The room smells like disinfectant, sweat, and the sharp tang of pain. Mckay is sitting on the table, his shirt off, ribs already mottled with what will be deep bruising by morning. His shoulder is tightly wrapped. He tries to smile at you when you step in, but it wavers at the edges, pain cutting through it.
“Hey,” he breathes out, trying to sit a little straighter despite the physiotherapist’s warning. “Didn’t think you’d come.” The genuine relief in his eyes makes the cold knot of guilt tighten in your stomach. You realize he sees this visit as a confirmation of your interest, utterly oblivious to the real reason you are there.
“Are you okay?” Your voice is tighter than you mean for it to be. A little sharper. A little too full of heat that isn’t for him but bleeds out anyway. “What the hell happened?” You want to scream the question, but you settle for a strained whisper, desperate to know if Nate, in his blind rage, had revealed anything.
“Just a stupid play. Nate hit me harder than he should’ve,” Mckay admits, wincing as the physiotherapist carefully adjusts his sling. He shrugs his good shoulder, the movement painful to watch. “He was probably just in his own head. I mean, he’s been off lately, right? Since Maddy.” Chris offers you a simple, trusting explanation, one that doesn't include secrets, lies, or jealous violence. And in that moment, the weight of Nate’s explosion falls squarely on your conscience. He didn't even use the date as an excuse; he just exploded.
You nod, but your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. You didn't want anyone to get hurt. You didn't want this. You didn't want him to do this, not for you, not in this ugly, public way that screamed possession while maintaining his pathetic silence. And underneath all of that, buried so deep you barely acknowledge it, there’s a flicker of something ugly: the knowledge of why, and the sickening feeling that this is the inevitable cost of that intense, secret pleasure you share with Nate.
Chris clears his throat, his eyes earnest and slightly apologetic. “Look, I know this probably doesn’t look great right now, what with the, you know, shoulder.” He gestures weakly to his arm. “But is the coffee still on? If I can’t move this thing, at least I can still talk. We can push it back a couple of days, maybe?”
Your heart drops, hitting your ribs with a painful thud. The sheer, decent normalcy of his question is devastating. You look at his bruised ribs, his strained smile, and the total lack of suspicion in his eyes, and the irony—that your simple yes caused this—is crushing. You are furious with Nate, exhausted by the secrecy, and yet, saying no now feels like letting Nate win twice. You are tired of being kept in the dark, but the thought of stepping into the light with Chris, after this, feels like a betrayal you can't manage.
You want to tell Chris that yes, it’s still on. You want to embrace the simplicity, the normalcy, the promise that your life doesn’t have to be this complex. But the words are lodged behind that invisible pressure point in your throat, that place Nate's touch always claimed. You hate him for putting you in this position, forcing you to choose between his hidden, electric chaos and Chris's open, damaged kindness.
“Yeah,” you whisper, the word sounding borrowed, thin. It’s an act of defiance against Nate, a painful step toward freedom, even though you know your agreement is the reason Chris is strapped to this table. “Yeah, Chris. When you’re ready. Just call me.”
You stand up, unable to meet his eyes any longer. You make sure he can stand. You make sure he can breathe. And then you turn to leave.
You stood with your back to the hallway, your hand still on the nursing room doorknob. The muscles in your back fought against the urge to arch, desperate to shrug off that invisible pressure closing in on you. You closed your eyes for a second and let out the air you’d been holding, trying to shake off a feeling you couldn't quite describe.
Despite not looking up, a cold shiver ran down your spine. The weight of certain eyes upon you instantly cut off your breath. You didn't need to turn your head to know who the pressure belonged to. And while on other occasions the hairs on your arms would stand up in anticipation of inevitable yearning, this time the sensation bordered on the deeply unpleasant.
When you finally turned, his eyes were already there, holding your gaze. He was leaning against the opposite wall, looking utterly depleted, exhausted to an extreme you didn't understand. It wasn't physical fatigue; you had seen that side of Nate. This was entirely different. And the perspective of not knowing what you were about to face made your heart pound so violently you feared it might escape your ribs.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out, although you realized you didn't want it to, either. You glanced down the hall and noticed a couple of people talking distractedly, but their attention was subtly fixed on Nate’s silhouette.
You held his stare for a moment longer, trying to convey that this had crossed every conceivable line, that you were furious with him. But you met the familiar, impenetrable wall you always crashed into when trying to extract any type of emotion from him.
You shook your head in his direction and started walking, not even looking back to ensure he was following. You didn't need to, as you instantly perceived the shift of his body, detaching from the wall. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his imposing frame moving alongside yours. If you moved your hand just a few centimeters, it would brush his, and the heat of his skin would cloud your judgment. That’s why you crossed your arms and tried to increase your pace, leaving him a few meters behind.
You heard your name, and the shock brought you to an immediate halt. He had stopped, too. You looked around and confirmed that despite the presence of people, no one seemed to be paying real attention to the drama, which only reinforced your shame, the sickening feeling that maintaining this ridiculous secret had been an absurd move. The anger stained your cheeks scarlet.
You turned once again and could only stare at him. The imposing figure that seemed to swallow all the light in the room. The body you had sought refuge in for months. It seemed impossible that this serious, distant countenance was the same one you knew—the relaxed, open expression you craved on nights of need.
He took a step forward, and you instinctively took one back, forcing him to stop, as if that rejection shouted everything that was running through your head.
“Let me just explain what—”
“No, Nate. There’s nothing to explain.” You shrugged, a gesture of deep surrender, and looked anywhere but at him, blinking rapidly to relieve the burning itch that threatened to make you weep.
He took another step, and you backed away again. You watched his jaw tighten, his nostrils flare from the sheer amount of air he was taking in, trying to regulate himself.
“This is ridiculous.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh accompanied by a faint sob that anyone else might have missed, but not him. “Your friend is in there with a dislocated shoulder. And the worst part is that it was so absurd, he thinks it was an accident. It’s so ridiculous, he thinks you’re just out of it because you and Maddie are done.”
You saw his knuckles turn completely white, and you didn't know if you were pushing the buttons of his self-control too hard, but you no longer cared.
“Tell me, Nate, what was the point of dragging your teammate across the turf when he doesn’t even know why you did it?”
“I wasn’t thinking about that when it happened.”
You let out another sharp, disbelieving laugh, and it hit Nate like a physical blow. There was no trace of the certainty he always felt with you—not in this open space, not seeing your eyes reflect nothing but contempt.
“Then what the hell were you thinking about? That no one should poke their nose into your business, but you didn’t even have the balls to name what they were trying to take from you? Which, for your information, there’s nothing to take because nothing exists between us.”
He didn't give you time to react. Between one blink and the next, Nate had moved like a storm, his strides so long that he was inches away in under two seconds. His breathing was ragged, labored. His chest rose and fell violently, and his gaze raked over your face frantically.
“I was thinking about you. All I could think about was you, damn it. And I couldn’t stop seeing you, or remembering you. And it drove me completely insane.”
For a moment, your field of vision blurred at the edges. You could only clearly see Nate, furious, perceptible only by a rigid line creasing his brow; otherwise, he maintained his mask of brutal indifference. But those eyes reflected a contained rage, one that mirrored your own chaotic feelings.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” You finally spoke, a veiled whisper, as if you didn't believe your own words. “Is that supposed to justify anything? You’re an asshole, Nate. A total fucking asshole who only knows how to hide behind his rage. You’re terrified, and you think if you scream louder than everyone else, no one will notice.”
His expression shifted completely. The fury you had been seeking materialized in an instant, letting loose the torrent he usually kept buried. His gaze hardened further, and you recognized that look, the exact change that came right before he lost hold of the ropes binding the mess inside him.
The word was a bullet to the chest, delivered by the one person whose eyes had seen him flinch in the dark. It wasn't just rage he felt; it was a white-hot, suffocating pain. He had let you see the wires, let you touch the exposed circuits, and now you were using that intimate knowledge to carve him open in the sterile light of the hallway. You don't get to use that against me. You don't get to name the fear I shared with you. The betrayal was immediate and searing. He couldn't speak the pain, he couldn't admit, even to himself, how much it hurt to hear his greatest weakness spoken out loud by the one person he let close. The only possible response was absolute destruction, delivered with the same clinical precision you had just used on him.
“The amateur shrink. And what about you? Don’t you go around yelling just to see if anyone cares? Don’t you break things just to remind yourself you’re still alive? You’re fucking nuts, and you think you’re better than the rest because you won’t let anyone close enough to confirm there’s something seriously wrong with you.”
The hit landed exactly where it hurt. He always knew where. Always. A terrifying realization suddenly flooded your head: you had opened up to the wrong person. Nate had the power to destroy you if he wanted, and in that moment, he seemed to be pursuing that goal like a hunting dog that had scented prey and wouldn't let go. You couldn't comprehend that this menacing body was the same one that had so many times held you when the world seemed to be closing in. You felt stupid for ever having believed there was someone who understood you.
“I hate you,” you said, feeling something deep in your chest shatter. “But I hate myself more for still being here. For staying in this bullshit with you.”
He advanced another step, his pupils burning, his shoulders impossibly tense. He wasn't furious because of you; he was furious because of himself. Because he felt the weight of your words and didn't know how to handle the painful truth you represented.
The hatred was a mirror, and you were turning it on him. You were walking away, and that simple act was the ultimate surrender of his control. You couldn't leave, because if you left, you'd take the only fragile piece of reality he had. He had to burn the bridge behind you. You have to know that your chaos fits his chaos, and that connection is the only damn thing holding either of you together. If I can't keep her, I will ruin her so completely she has nowhere left to go but back to me.
“You are unbalanced,” he said. He spoke slowly, savoring the syllables as if to inflict maximum damage. “There is nobody who is going to put up with that. Nobody. You think I don't know why you keep coming back to my room? Because you’re fucked up. You say I’m crazy, but you’re worse. And the reason you can’t end this is because I’m the first goddamn person who hasn’t run.”
You wanted to scream, to push him, to tell him to go to hell, but you were completely paralyzed. You had been running from this truth for so long that you almost didn't recognize it when it stood right in front of you. That’s why it hurt so much, because he had seen past the thousands of layers you had woven around those testimonies. And far from leaving you behind after reaching such depths, he had seized that entire throng of destructive thoughts and carved out a space for himself among them, as if he felt comfortable with the chaos you provided. And all because, underneath it all, he fit perfectly with his own.
The sheer exhaustion of the fight finally overtook the rage. You looked at him, at the ruthless certainty in his eyes, at the way he consumed all the air and light, and saw not your lover, but your perfect, devastating mirror.
“Go to hell, Nate. You and all your bullshit behavior. Don’t talk to me again.” You turned on your heel, the finality of the statement hollow and brittle. You didn't wait for his reply. You knew you wouldn't get far. You just walked, carrying the crushing weight of the truth he had forced you to confront.
But as you took your first step away, his voice sliced through the air, low, sharp, and confident enough to be heard but not understood by others.
“You’ll text me by midnight,” Nate drawled, his tone utterly devoid of doubt, laced with a cold, triumphant certainty. “You always do. Don’t waste your time fighting it.”
You walked faster, refusing to acknowledge the prophecy. You kept your head high, every step away from him feeling like an immense effort, pulling against the invisible, impossibly strong cord tied to your core. I am leaving. I am choosing freedom.
You didn’t hear his footsteps. You didn't hear him call your name. But you felt him. You felt the space behind you expand, knowing he hadn't moved. He didn't need to chase you. He had delivered his verdict, and he knew you were carrying it away with you.
You reached the end of the hallway, pushing through the heavy exit door that led to the senior parking lot. The late afternoon light was weak, washing the concrete in a pale, indifferent gray. You leaned against the exterior brick wall, letting your shoulders fall, the physical rigidity giving way to a sudden, wrenching tremor.
He’s right. I’m unhinged. I’m broken.
You focused on the parking lot, mentally calculating the quickest route home, forcing yourself to concentrate on the mundane. But your gaze snagged on his black SUV, parked with arrogant entitlement near the entrance.
The engine was already running. Nate wasn't running; he was waiting for the perfect moment to leave.
You didn't want to look, but you couldn't resist. You scanned the tinted windows of the Escalade, and then you saw him.
Nate was already seated behind the wheel, his hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his seat reclined just enough to watch the exit. He hadn't bothered to look away. He was watching you leave.
Your eyes locked. Across the distance, through the windshield, his gaze was clinical, heavy, and utterly victorious. He gave you no smile, no wave, only a cold, silent confirmation: You tried. It didn't work.
You held the stare for a beat too long, and in his eyes, you saw the blueprint for the next time, the time you'd crawl back into his darkness.
You broke the contact first, forcing your body to move toward your own car. You didn't dare look back as the powerful, expensive engine of the SUV revved, pulling out of the parking lot with the slow, deliberate confidence of a predator who knows its prey is already tagged.
You knew exactly where he would be tonight. You knew the exact time your phone would buzz. And the terrible, sickening truth was, Nate Jacobs had never been wrong about you.
