Nate made well on his 10-minute promise. As I watched the numbers on my phone's clock shift from a disarray of numbers to the uniform 00:00, the same silver car I'd seen a lifetime ago pulled up, headlights so garish I had to squint in order to properly see though the glare. Before I could properly register it, I was pulled up and into his arms, and I felt myself exhale, finally relaxing against his chest. Vero must've realised we needed some privacy, because she quickly made herself scarce, taking Mike with her. "I don't want to go home." I thought out loud, realising that I wasn't ready to climb into bed and act indifferent to everything that had happened just yet. "Okay," he said, sensing not to push and instead ushered me into his car.

We drove in silence, radio turned off and my window rolled down, enjoying the late August breeze on my face and neck, the warm humid air soothing and familiar. However, it didn't last long, as he pulled up in front of an apartment complex, idling in front of the gate. "We can go somewhere else if this feels too sudden," his soft voice seemed to prompt me to take a look around, so I did.

The area didn't seem familiar, but we seemed to be somewhere on the very outskirts of the city, lights and building in the neighbourhood scarce. The complex itself was quite imposing, with more buildings than I could count in the dimness, kept isolated from anyone but each other by a cream coloured gate and fence. In any other circumstances, I might've been afraid to find myself in the car of someone who was still practically a stranger and on foreign terrain. But right now, the only clear thought I could muster was about how much more comfortable his living room couch would be compared with this car seat. Or his bed.

"It's fine, I don't mind it." He didn't seem to need to be told twice as he revved the engine and approached the gate, which slid open almost soundlessly, metal hinges creaking mutely. I counted four buildings until he veered left, parking in the underground.

"Fancy," Well, that makes the list of pathetic conversation starters. But Nate seemed to sense me struggling, so he took it gladly. "My parents bought it as an investment years ago. I guess they were just eager to get rid of me, so they handed me the keys when I turned 18."  I was going to come up with some witty remark when I got out of the car and came to properly take in his face for the first time, particularly his purplish right eye and swollen lip.

"What happened to you?" I stepped closer and his arms wrapped around me gently, as if he were afraid of scaring me off. I lightly touched his lip, causing him to wince and move away slightly, arms dropping, which made me immediately regret it. "What happened to you?" he enquired, words harsh enough to make a point, as he proceeded to grab my arm and guide me towards the elevator.

The ride wasn't long, though time seemed to stretch on, my anxiety getting the best of me as I imagined all the possible scenarios of how an encounter between Gage and Nate could've unfolded. The fact that he seemed to be keeping his distance deliberately didn't do me any favours. The elevator opened into a corridor lit by a soft fluorescent glow, and looked oddly homely, plants sparsely decorating the space.

The jangling of keys sobered me up, as I braced myself for the talk we were inevitably going to have. To my surprise, the interior seemed fashioned to represent a merge between the Victorian era and modern times, plush ornate three seat couches, chairs, and intricate dangling chandeliers merging with sleek panoramic windows and smooth dark chocolate linoleum, books strewn all throughout. And by that, I mean on every available surface, including some precariously perched on the windowsill, the top one open, its pages ruffled by the late-night breeze.

"Black or green tea?" he asked casually, as if we didn't both look like escaped convicts on the run. "Umm, black?" I murmured distractedly, running a hand through my hair in a futile attempt to smooth it down. "Where's your bathroom?"

"To your left, next tot the bedroom." I'm glad he was distracted enough with making tea that he didn't bother to glance back at me, because my dash to the bathroom was less than dignified. Fumbling with the light switch, I was hit by an innate urge to lock myself in there as I glimpsed at myself in the mirror. Although I had always known just how easily I bruised, I was no less appalled by vividly angry red marks on my neck, still raw ad burning even after almost two hours. I cleaned my face up to the best of my abilities with a paper towel and some water, wiping away the mascara tracks off my cheeks and the sweat off my forehead, carefully tying my hair back into a haphazard ponytail. No wonder Vero was reluctant to leave. I look like a dear caught in the headlights.

I'm proud of myself for leaving the bathroom with my chin held high, despite it taking me a couple minutes and a small pep talk to myself. He was sat on his couch, two steaming tea mugs set on the table in front of him and the tv turned on, volume turned low. "Should you start, or should I?" I asked with no real edge behind it, sitting next to him on the plush couch. "It's up to you. I wont tell you something you don't want to hear, or make you say something you're not ready to share," his face was so open, his ocean eyes determined, face gaunt.

"Was it Gage?" I asked lowly, low enough that he probably found himself straining to understand what I've said. Silence. The day's events seemed to have taken their toll on my voice, as I found it hard to muster the strength to talk any louder. "Was it Gage? Please, I just need to know," although I already knew the answer, but I wasn't ready to accept it yet. It's not real until it's said out loud. But hasn't this all become just too real already?

He didn't murmur a single word. Instead, he carefully took his phone out of his pocket, and placed it on my lap. "Listen to the last recording," That was all he said before getting up and walking back into the kitchen, busying himself. Leaving the choice to me. I took his phone in my hand, feeling the metaphorical weight it now held. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed play.

I never thought 5 minutes would be enough to destroy hope or shake sanity. In fact, you only need 2 minutes and 37 seconds. "I'm so sorry." It was the only thing I could say to Nate as he came to sit back next to me, looking at me with so much pain and sadness I felt like ripping Gage into pieces, but also myself. For allowing myself to live in a delusion. Despite hearing nothing I hadn't seen coming, I felt oddly hollowed out, unable to latch onto something solid other than Nate sitting silently beside me, shoulders barely touching, allowing me to process what I'd heard on my own but close enough that I could reach for him if I needed to. I willed myself to cry, rage, scream. Anything but stare forward unseeing, mind obnoxiously blank. Yet the silver lining seemed to rest in my heart growing lighter, hollow but not constrained or muted by reason or overruled by incessant thinking.

In fact, I'm not even sure if I was thinking about anything at all when I tugged at his arm, urging him to face me, and took his face in my hands, caressing his cheek. He seemed to lean into it, enjoying the warmth and perhaps my gentleness, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had touched him so carefully, lovingly. I could feel his stare, and I felt compelled to meet his stare, stormy grey blue into dull copper. So full of life and love but so uncertain, they stared into my own, the blue of a sky seen though a broken prison wall, looking entranced and far away, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. "Why are you looking at me like that?" I said, voice cracking slightly. He seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts before giving me an answer, expression open and vulnerable. "Because I just realised that I might love you."

What I did next wasn't in any way how I would've reacted on any other day. I don't usually scoot into the laps of almost but not quite strangers and kiss them ravenously, with no regard of anything else in the world but the warmth and pleasure it elicits. But I found myself not caring about any other day in that particular moment, as I allowed him to guide me, gently.

Yet he misread me. Because it wasn't gentleness I craved, not after being deceived by fabricated tenderness and feather like kisses for longer than I would like to admit. So I knotted my hands into his shirt, trying to awaken that animalistic instinct I knew was there but simply dormant, trying to tether myself to something more real. With no regard of his split lip, I dragged my tongue over it, over and over, until he caved in, groaning low in his throat, letting me lose myself in him.