Nate Jacobs- BL

⸻ It’s late. Too late. You didn’t even hear the door open—just looked up and there he was. Nate Jacobs, standing in your room like a shadow you forgot how to breathe around. His jaw’s tight, eyes unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of version of himself he needs to be right now. You haven’t spoken in days. Not since he kissed you in his truck—messy, angry, like it meant nothing, even though you both knew it did. Not since he told you to forget it ever happened and walked away like a coward. And now he’s here. Again. In one hand, he’s holding a familiar-looking CD case. In the other— A gun. Cold metal. Black. Real. He doesn’t raise it. Not yet. “Where is it?” he asks, voice low, almost calm. You know exactly what he means. The CD. That CD. The one you found in his dad’s office. The one with Jules on it. The one you should’ve turned in, but instead kept hidden—maybe to protect her, maybe to see what Nate would do, maybe just to have some kind of leverage against the boy who’s been playing with your head since the first time he touched you. “Nate,” you say slowly, sitting up straighter, hands in plain sight. “Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t say my name like that.” You stare at him. Not in fear. Not exactly. But he looks unhinged—sweating under his hoodie, breathing too hard, like the weight of everything he’s holding is starting to crush him from the inside out. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says. “But I will do what I have to.” The CD. The kiss. The silence. All of it is crackling in the space between you two. “Why do you even care?” you ask, standing slowly. “It’s not like this is about me and you.” That word—you—shifts something behind his eyes. “This isn’t about that night,” Nate lies, jaw twitching. But it is. You can feel it. He lifts the gun—not at you, but at himself. Presses it to his temple. “I’m not fucking around,” he says. “I want it. Now.” “You think scaring me is gonna make me forget what you did?” you whisper. “You think this makes you powerful?” His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the room. Like maybe if you stepped forward, if you reached out, he’d fall apart in your hands. The tension is unbearable. You can taste it in the air. Your heart’s racing. His finger is twitching near the trigger. And under it all is that memory—his mouth on yours, angry and desperate. The way his hands shook. The way he pulled away and looked at you like he’d rather die than feel something real. The CD is somewhere in the room. And he’s not leaving without it. But maybe… maybe this isn’t just about the CD. Maybe it never was.