Morning light filters through Amber's silk curtains, painting patterns across her Egyptian cotton sheets. She lies awake, watching Nate's chest rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of deep sleep. His dark hair is tousled against her pale pink pillowcase, last night's victory still etched in the slight smile that plays at the corners of his mouth even in sleep.

There's always been something different about post-game Nate Brooks. Something in the way victory sits on his shoulders, transforms his usual careful charm into something electric and untamed. Last night had been no exception - the way he'd looked at her across Jeff's crowded living room, his eyes dark with promise and victory-fueled confidence. They'd barely made it through their victory toasts before sneaking away, the memory making her cheeks flush even now.

Amber bites her bottom lip, warmth blooming across her face as the memories of last night crash over her. The way his hands had moved—strong, sure, as if they were meant to know every inch of her. The way he’d whispered. She swallows hard, her fingers brushing the faint marks on her hips where his grip lingered.

Her phone buzzes against her nightstand, screen lighting up with her mother's text: "Breakfast is ready. Are you and Nate joining us?"

"Nate," she whispers, trailing her fingers along his jaw. "Wake up, sleeping beauty."

His eyes open, dark and lazy, the weight of his gaze sending a familiar shiver through her. “Morning, princess,” he says, his voice rough and amused.

Amber smirks, trying for casualness, but the way her cheeks flush betrays her. “You need to get up. Mom’s going to freak out if we're late for breakfast.”

“She can wait,” he says, pulling her closer. His lips brush her shoulder, slow and deliberate, and she feels her resolve slipping. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Her laugh is breathless, and she pushes half-heartedly at his chest. “You’re insatiable.”

“Not my fault,” he murmurs, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her waist. “You’re irresistible.”

Amber rolls her eyes, but her pulse quickens. “Last night was…” She pauses, the words catching in her throat.

“Yeah?” he prompts, his tone full of teasing confidence. “Go on.”

She hesitates for a heartbeat longer before meeting his gaze. “It was the best I’ve ever had,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widens, and the mischief in his eyes is almost unbearable. “The best?” he repeats, clearly savoring her words.

“You know it was,” she fires back, flustered but unwilling to let him win entirely.

Nate chuckles, leaning closer until their noses almost touch. “I do. But hearing you say it? That’s something else.”

Amber tries to glare, but it’s impossible when he looks at her like that. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” His voice drops, low and full of promise. “And for the record, last night wasn’t just the best for you.”

Her breath hitches as his lips find hers again, the kiss deep and languid, drawing her back into the warmth of the night they shared.

The sharp buzz of her phone on the nightstand drags her back to reality. She pulls away reluctantly, resting her forehead against his. “We really have to go. My mom’s going to kill me—and you—if we don’t show up soon.”

He groans, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m not done breaking records with you.”

Amber can’t help but laugh, throwing a pillow at him as she slips out of bed. “Three minutes, Brooks. If you’re not downstairs by then, you’re on your own.”

As she heads for her closet, his voice follows her, playful and full of that Nate Brooks charm she both loves and hates. “Three minutes, huh? Just enough time for round two.”

She doesn’t look back, but the smile on her face gives her away. Last night might’ve been the best—but something tells her Nate isn’t done proving her wrong.

Amber watches as Nate quickly pulls on his jeans and polo from last night, somehow making even rumpled clothes look intentionally disheveled. She chooses a cream cashmere sweater and high-waisted slacks, her movements practiced and precise. Together, they descend the sweeping staircase, their footsteps muffled by imported carpet.

The Rosenberg kitchen gleams like a magazine spread come to life - all professional-grade appliances and marble countertops. Morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the copper pots hanging above the island into miniature suns. Her father sits at the head of the table, Wall Street Journal creating a barrier between him and the world. Tommy bounces in his chair, demolishing a stack of pancakes with the kind of enthusiasm only ten-year-olds can muster. Victoria Rosenberg stands at the Viking range, orchestrating breakfast with the same precision she uses to orchestrate their social lives.

"Nate!" Tommy launches himself across the kitchen, pancake syrup still glistening on his chin. "That catch was incredible! Like, actually incredible! Dad showed it on his iPad this morning! When you jumped over that guy and—"

Nate catches Tommy mid-flight, swinging him up like he weighs nothing. "Thanks, buddy! But you should've seen your sister's face when the ball crossed the plane. Pretty sure she screamed louder than Coach Martinez."

Amber's heart does that stupid flutter thing as she watches them together. Because this is the Nate Brooks most people don't get to see - the one who remembers Tommy's favorite cereal, who helps with multiplication tables even after exhausting practices, who treats her little brother like he's actually worth listening to.

"Excellent game last night, son." Richard lowers his newspaper, his approval warming the kitchen like expensive scotch. "That final drive was something special."

"Thank you, sir." Nate's charm slides into place as easily as his letterman jacket. "Though honestly, it was Jake's call that made it happen. He saw something in their coverage—"

"Sit, sit!" Victoria interrupts, placing a platter of perfectly scrambled eggs on the table. "Amber, darling, have you given any more thought to what you'll study after graduation? Stanford's business program is extremely competitive, but with your father's connections—"

"I don't know, Mom." Amber's voice comes out sharper than intended. "Maybe I want to explore other options."

The kitchen temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Something dark and familiar starts churning in Amber's chest - that dangerous cocktail of rage and helplessness that makes her hands shake. She stares at her mother's perfect makeup, her careful smile, and suddenly wants to throw her plate across the room, wants to scream until all the crystal wineglasses shatter.

"Other options?" Victoria's laugh tinkles like breaking glass. "Darling, we've had your path planned since before you could walk. The Rosenberg name—"

"I don't care about the Rosenberg name!" Amber's voice rises, wild and uncontrolled. "Maybe I want to be more than just another trust fund princess following Daddy's footsteps! Maybe I'm sick of you planning every minute of my life like I'm some kind of... of investment portfolio!"

"Amber Rosaly Victoria Rosenberg!" Richard's voice cracks like a whip. "You will not speak to your mother that way."

But it's Nate's hand finding hers under the table that anchors her, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. The touch is so familiar, so steady, that she feels the rage begin to recede like a tide pulling back from shore.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, hating the tears that threaten to spill. "I didn't mean—"

"Actually, sir," Nate cuts in smoothly, his voice carrying that particular tone that makes adults lean in despite themselves. "I've been meaning to ask your thoughts on something. Jake mentioned your firm is handling the Richardson development's legal work? His father was telling me about their innovative approach to sustainable urban planning..."

Richard's expression shifts instantly, professional interest overtaking parental anger. "Ah, the Richardson project. Now there's a fascinating case study in modern development..." He launches into an analysis of environmental impact assessments and zoning regulations, his earlier fury forgotten in the face of his favorite subject.

Amber barely hears them. Her mind drifts, examining her outburst like a scientist studying a particularly volatile compound. These mood swings - they come without warning, turning her from perfect daughter to rage-filled stranger in the space of a heartbeat. Sometimes she wonders if there's something broken inside her, some fundamental flaw that makes her feel everything too intensely, too deeply.

She watches Nate nod at exactly the right moments, asking intelligent questions about market projections and sustainability metrics. He's handling her father like a master diplomat, redirecting Richard's attention while simultaneously proving himself worthy of the Rosenberg name. But his thumb never stops its gentle movement against her palm, the touch saying what words can't: I'm here. I understand. You're not alone.

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Victoria busies herself with clearing plates, her movements slightly too precise, betraying her lingering tension. Tommy has returned to his pancakes, already forgetting the drama in that particular way of children. And Amber sits there, caught between gratitude and shame, wondering how many more times Nate Brooks will have to save her from herself.

Because these episodes are getting worse, aren't they? More frequent, more intense, harder to control. Like waves getting bigger and bigger, threatening to pull her under completely. Only Nate's hand in hers keeps her afloat, but how long before even that isn't enough?

Richard and Nate's discussion of sustainable development carries them through the rest of breakfast, their voices creating a soothing backdrop that helps settle Amber's frayed nerves. She watches as Nate demolishes his third helping of eggs - a sight that still amazes her even after years of dating a football player with the metabolism of a hummingbird.

"Richard," Victoria interrupts, consulting her Cartier watch. "It's nearly noon. We need to leave soon."

"Where are you guys going?" Amber asks, realizing she's lost track of their carefully scheduled weekend.

Victoria's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise in surprise. "The children's hospital? Darling, we've been planning this for months. The whole board will be there."

“Right, right,” Amber says dismissively, swirling her orange juice. “Another charity where everyone pretends they actually care about sick kids between champagne toasts. Sounds riveting.”

Victoria sighs, choosing not to engage, and begins gathering her things.

“And Tommy?” Amber asks, her tone sharper than intended.

“Hannah should be here any minute,” Victoria replies, fastening her Hermès bag with a crisp snap.

Amber freezes, her fingers tightening around her glass. Of course, Hannah. Who else would swoop in to play the perfect, competent savior while Amber is left feeling raw and exposed?

The sound of the back door opening makes her stomach twist. Sure enough, Hannah Marshall steps into the kitchen, her ever-present aura of quiet, dependable efficiency making Amber’s teeth grind. The sensible shoes, the budget-friendly sweater—Hannah doesn’t even try to blend in.

“Good morning,” Hannah says, her tone cheerful but careful as her gaze flicks toward Amber.

Amber sets her glass down with a deliberate clink. “Well, if it isn’t Saint Hannah, here to save the day. What would we do without you?”

“Amber,” Nate says softly, his hand brushing hers, but she shakes him off.

“No, really,” Amber continues, her smile sharp as glass. “It must be exhausting, always having to be so… selfless. Does it ever get old, Hannah? Always the reliable little worker bee, buzzing around, doing what you’re told?”

Hannah’s face flushes, but she keeps her posture steady. “I’m just here to help with Tommy,” she says simply, her voice calm but tight.

“Of course you are,” Amber says, leaning back in her chair. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You help. You stay in your lane, keep your head down, and hope no one notices when you start acting like you actually belong here.”

“Amber, stop,” Nate says firmly, his eyes narrowing.

Hannah doesn’t respond, focusing on unpacking her bag with mechanical precision, but the faint tremor in her hands doesn’t escape Amber’s notice.

Victoria finally steps in, her tone brisk and dismissive. “Amber, enough. Hannah’s here to help, not to spar with you. Try to keep it civil.”

Amber gives an exaggerated shrug. “I am being civil. If I weren’t, she’d know.”

Victoria shakes her head, pressing a kiss to Amber’s cheek before addressing Hannah. “We’ll be back by eight. Please make sure Tommy finishes his reading, and no more than an hour of screen time.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rosenberg,” Hannah replies, her voice steady but strained.

As the front door closes, the tension in the kitchen thickens. Tommy is still chattering away, oblivious, while Nate looks at Amber with a mix of disappointment and exasperation.

Amber doesn’t care. She crosses her arms, leaning against the counter as her gaze sharpens on Hannah. “You know,” she says with a sickly sweet smile, “for someone who’s supposed to be so smart, you’d think you’d figure out how to stop looking like you don’t belong. It’s embarrassing for all of us.”

Hannah meets her gaze this time, her eyes steady but filled with quiet defiance. “I’m not here for you, Amber,” she says softly.

“No,” Amber replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re here because my parents pay you to be. Don’t forget that.”

Hannah presses her lips together and turns away, focusing on helping Tommy. Amber feels Nate’s disapproving stare but ignores it, her satisfaction outweighing the sting of his judgment.

The tension in the kitchen becomes unbearable as Nate clears his throat. "We should probably head out," he suggests quietly, his eyes meeting Amber's with a silent plea.

"Whatever," Amber mutters, watching Tommy show Hannah his latest video game achievement with unconcealed disdain. The sight makes something twist inside her chest - a complicated knot of emotions she can't quite untangle.

Nate's hand finds her elbow, gently but firmly guiding her toward the hallway. She allows herself to be led, but every step feels like a concession she's not ready to make. Once they're out of earshot, she yanks her arm free.

"Don't," she hisses, but Nate simply takes her hand and continues toward the stairs, his jaw set in that way that means he's not backing down.

The walk to her bedroom feels endless. Each step feeds the fury building in her chest, a dangerous cocktail of rage and shame and something deeper she doesn't want to examine. By the time Nate closes the door behind them, she's practically vibrating with pent-up emotion.

"What?" she demands, her voice sharp enough to cut. The silence that follows only fuels her anger. "WHAT?"

Nate stands there, maddeningly calm, watching her with those steady brown eyes that usually make her feel safe but now just make her want to scream.

"Don't look at me like that!" She shoves his chest, hard enough to make him step back. "Like I'm some... some problem you need to solve!"

He doesn't react, doesn't raise his voice, doesn't give her anything to push against. It makes her want to hit him, to make him feel even a fraction of the chaos churning inside her.

When she raises her hands again, he catches her wrists - not roughly, but with enough firmness to stop her. "Sit down," he says quietly, guiding her to the edge of her bed. His touch is gentle but leaves no room for argument.

She collapses onto the mattress, suddenly exhausted. Nate releases her wrists and crouches in front of her, his eyes level with hers. "Talk to me," he says softly. "What's really going on?"

"I hate her," Amber whispers, the words escaping like poison from a wound. "I hate how perfect she is, how... how effortless everything seems for her. She just walks in here with her sensible shoes and her quiet competence and everyone looks at her like she's some kind of... of saint."

The words pour out now, unstoppable as a flood. "And Tommy adores her. Did you see his face light up when she walked in? My own brother looks at her like she hung the moon, while I'm just the crazy sister who can't even get through breakfast without falling apart."

Her hands shake as she continues, "Sometimes I wake up and I can feel it coming - like storm clouds gathering in my head. Everything gets too bright, too loud, too much. And then I look at someone like Hannah, who's so... so contained, so in control, and I want to break something. Want to make her feel as chaotic as I do inside."

Tears spill down her cheeks now, but she barely notices. "What's wrong with me, Nate? Why can't I just... be normal? Why do I have to feel everything so intensely it hurts? One minute I'm fine, and the next it's like there's electricity under my skin and I can't... I can't..."

She chokes on a sob, wrapping her arms around herself like she might physically fall apart if she doesn't hold herself together. "Everyone's always watching, always expecting me to be perfect Amber Rosenberg, but I feel like I'm coming undone. And the more I try to hold it together, the worse it gets, until I just... explode."

Nate pulls her into his arms, and she crumbles against his chest like a sandcastle at high tide. "Let it out," he murmurs into her hair. "You don't have to be perfect here. Not with me."

His shirt grows damp with her tears as she clings to him, her body shaking with sobs that feel like they're being torn from somewhere deep inside. His hands trace soothing patterns on her back, steady and sure, while she falls apart in the safety of his embrace.

When he tilts her chin up and kisses her softly, she tastes salt on her lips. "I don't deserve you," she whispers against his mouth. "I'm such a mess, and you're just... you're everything, Nate. How can you even stand to be around me when I'm like this?"

"Perfect," he says simply, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

"I'm not—"

"Perfect for me," he clarifies, pulling her closer. "Every piece of you, even the broken ones. Especially the broken ones."

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks as she burrows deeper into his embrace. They sit like that for what feels like hours, his heartbeat steady under her ear, his warmth seeping into her bones.

"How do you do that?" she finally asks, her voice muffled against his chest. "How do you always know exactly what I need?"

She feels rather than sees his smile. "Years of practice," he says, his fingers combing gently through her hair. "And because you're not nearly as complicated as you think you are, princess."

Before she can protest, he shifts slightly. "Come on," he says, wiping her tears with his thumbs. "Let's get you cleaned up. Shower, warm clothes, and then I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"Away. How about a walk through Ridgeline Hills? Just you and me?" His eyes light up with that particular warmth that still makes her heart skip. "And afterward, we go to La Petite Maison. You know, that little French place tucked away in the hills? The one with those ridiculous croissants you love?"

The thought of facing the world makes anxiety crawl up her throat, but something in Nate's expression makes her pause. He's looking at her like she's something precious, something worth protecting, even when she feels like a hurricane in human form.

"Just us?" she asks, hating how small her voice sounds.

"Just us," he confirms, pressing a kiss to her temple. "No expectations, no pressure. Just you and me and those completely overpriced French pastries you pretend not to inhale."

A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly through her tears. "I do not inhale them."

"Princess," he says, his voice warm with affection, "I've seen you demolish an entire basket of pain au chocolat in under five minutes. It was terrifying and impressive."

She smacks his chest lightly, but she's smiling now - a real smile, not the carefully practiced one she usually wears. Because this is what Nate Brooks does - he takes her storms and turns them into something manageable, something almost beautiful.

As they head toward her bathroom, his hand warm and steady in hers, Amber realizes something that should probably terrify her but instead feels like coming home: she may not believe in fairy tales anymore, but she believes in this. In them. In the way Nate Brooks looks at her like she's worth saving, even when she's not sure she wants to save herself.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.