The streetlights of Riverside cast intermittent shadows across the dashboard of Nate's black Ford Raptor as he grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other desperately trying to reach Amber. Her voicemail greeting plays for the seventh time - that cheerful, carefree voice feeling like a knife to his chest.

"Come on, princess," he mutters, ending the call only to immediately redial. "Pick up. Please."

Seven days at Lake Chickawaka had felt like another lifetime - a bubble of perfect moments now shattered by reality. Just hours ago, he'd been regaling his parents with carefully edited tales of wakeboarding and bonfires, strategic omissions of vodka-soaked nights and Jake's "premium" party favors. He'd fallen into bed exhausted, sinking into the first truly peaceful sleep he'd had in weeks.

That peace had lasted exactly thirty-seven minutes after waking up.

The texts had started rolling in like incoming artillery. Jake's message hit first: "Brother, I hate that you're hearing this from me, but you need to know." Then Jeff: "Bro, this is seriously messed up. You okay?" The group chats exploded next, each notification another nail in the coffin of Amber's carefully constructed image.

The medical report had been clinical, devastating in its precision. Bipolar II Disorder. The words burned into his brain like brands. Four years by her side, and he'd never known. Sure, he'd noticed the mood swings, the intense episodes of rage followed by crushing depression. But he'd attributed it to stress, to the pressure of being Richard Rosenberg's only daughter, to the weight of expectations that came with their particular slice of society.

"FUCK!" The word explodes from his chest as he slams his palm against the steering wheel. The truck swerves slightly before he corrects, his heart pounding against his ribs.

His initial reaction - alone in his bedroom twenty minutes ago - had been pure rage. Four years together. Four years of holding her through panic attacks, of talking her down from ledges both literal and metaphorical. Four years of "I'm fine" and "just tired" and perfectly crafted excuses. He'd screamed into his pillow until his throat felt raw: "WHY CAN'T ANYONE IN THIS TOWN JUST TELL THE TRUTH?"

But rage had quickly given way to fear. Because he knows Amber - knows how she spirals, knows how she processes betrayal. And having her deepest secret exposed to the entire school? That's the kind of wound that might never heal.

The Rosenberg mansion appears ahead, its white columns gleaming under strategically placed landscape lighting. Amber's Range Rover sits in the circular driveway - the first good sign he's had all night. He pulls up behind it, killing the engine but leaving the keys in the ignition. Just in case.

The kitchen door feels miles away as he crosses the manicured lawn, his sneakers leaving slight impressions in the perfectly maintained grass. Most of the house is dark, but warm light spills from the gourmet kitchen's windows. Through the glass, he spots Victoria Rosenberg perched at the marble island, a nearly empty wine glass dangling from her manicured fingers.

His knuckles rap gently against the French doors. Victoria startles, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. Recognition floods her features - relief mixed with something darker - as she moves to let him in.

"Where is she?" The question comes out steady despite the storm in his chest.

Victoria's perfect posture crumples slightly, her daughter's delicate features reflected in the way her shoulders curve inward. "She's having..." She pauses, searching for the right words. "One of her episodes."

"Mrs. Rosenberg." Nate keeps his voice gentle but firm. "Please. Where?"

"Her bedroom," Victoria whispers, fingers tightening around her wine glass. "But Nate-"

He's already moving, taking the marble stairs two at a time. Victoria's voice follows him up: "Be careful. She's not... she's not herself right now."

Nate pauses at the landing, turning back to meet her worried gaze. "I've got her, Mrs. Rosenberg. I promise."

The hallway stretches before him, its wallpaper and carefully curated artwork a stark contrast to the chaos he knows awaits. Amber's door - that familiar white panel with its crystal doorknob - stands closed like a barrier between two worlds.

His knuckles barely graze the wood when Amber's voice tears through the silence: "GET AWAY FROM ME! I HATE ALL OF YOU! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE TO DIE!"

"Princess." The word catches in his throat as he tries the handle, finding it locked. "It's me."

The silence that follows feels endless.

"Amber, open the door." He keeps his voice steady, remembering all the times they've been here before - all the storms he's weathered with her. "Please."

"NO!" Something crashes against the door from the other side. "CRAZY! Just like everyone's always said!"

"I'm going to count to three," Nate says, injecting authority into his voice despite the way his heart is shattering. "Then I'm breaking this door down. One..."

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"Go ahead!" Her laugh sounds like breaking glass. "Show everyone how the perfect Nate Brooks handles his psychotic girlfriend!"

"Two..."

The lock clicks softly. Nate waits a heartbeat before slowly pushing the door open, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The scene before him makes his chest ache - clothes strewn across the floor, a shattered vanity mirror, torn magazine pages scattered like confetti. And there, in the middle of her California king bed, a quivering mass of blankets where his princess hides from the world.

He closes the door with deliberate gentleness, crossing to perch on the edge of the mattress. Her muffled sobs pierce the silence, each one feeling like a knife between his ribs.

"I remember the first time I saw you cry," he begins softly, staring at his hands. "Freshman year, after that disaster of a dance recital. You were hiding in the prop closet, mascara everywhere, convinced your whole future in dance was over because of one missed step." He smiles slightly at the memory. "You told me to go away, that you didn't want anyone to see you like that. But I stayed. Sat right outside that door for two hours until you finally came out."

The blankets shift slightly, but no response comes.

"Or that time this summer, when you had that panic attack? You locked yourself in your car, convinced you were having a heart attack. I climbed through the sunroof, remember? Ruined my best dress shirt getting stuck."

A tiny sniff emerges from the blanket fortress.

"The thing is, princess..." Nate's voice softens further. "I've seen every version of you. The queen bee running student council meetings like a CEO. The girl who stress-bakes at 3 AM before big tests. The fury when someone crosses you. The devastation when things slip out of your control." He reaches out, letting his hand rest on what he thinks might be her shoulder. "And you know what? I'm still here. Still yours. Still completely, stupidly in love with every single piece of you - even the pieces you try to hide."

The blankets tremble beneath his touch.

"This diagnosis? It's just a word. It doesn't change who you are. Doesn't erase a single moment we've shared. Doesn't make me love you any less." His thumb traces gentle circles through the fabric. "And anyone who thinks differently? Anyone who dares to use this against you? They'll have to go through me first."

A small hand emerges from the blanket cocoon, finding his. Her fingers intertwine with his, holding on like he's the only thing anchoring her to earth.

"I should have told you," her voice comes out raw, barely above a whisper.

"When you were ready," he corrects gently. "On your terms. Not like this. Never like this."

The blankets rustle and slowly peel back, revealing Amber in her pink silk pajamas. Her face is a masterpiece of chaos - mascara streaked in dark rivers down her cheeks, eyeshadow smudged like watercolors across her temples. Her eyes are red and puffy, hair a wild tangle around her face. She looks nothing like Riverside's queen bee and everything like the girl he fell in love with.

Nate pulls her against his chest without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other traces soothing patterns on her back. "I've got you," he whispers into her hair, punctuating the words with gentle kisses. "Always got you, princess."

"I'm so sorry," she chokes out between sobs, her fingers clutching his t-shirt like she's drowning. "I should have told you. Should have trusted you. I just... I couldn't..."

"Shhh." He kicks off his sneakers and shifts them both until they're lying properly on the bed, Amber curled into him like a comma. "Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all."

Her whole body trembles against him as fresh tears fall. "I can't... I can't ever show my face at school again. Everyone knows now. Everyone's seen..." Her voice cracks. "They'll all look at me different. Poor crazy Amber. The bipolar princess of Riverside."

"Then don't go," Nate says simply, running his fingers through her tangled hair. "Take all the time you need. The world can wait."

"But it won't just stay here." Her voice rises with panic. "People talk. Word spreads. When Stanford finds out-"

"Fuck Stanford." The words come out with such conviction that Amber actually pulls back slightly to look at him.

"What?"

"You heard me." He touches her nose with his index finger, an intimate gesture that's become their own private language over the years. "Fuck Stanford. Fuck their football program. Fuck this whole town and everyone in it. Let's go somewhere else - anywhere else. Europe maybe. Study art history in Paris or business in London. Somewhere nobody knows our names or gives a damn about Riverside politics."

"But... your football scholarship?" Her eyes search his face. "Your whole future..."

"You're my future." He kisses the tip of her nose, tasting salt and expensive face cream. "Football's just a game. You're everything."

A ghost of a smile flickers across her tear-stained face, there and gone like lightning.

"There's my girl," Nate whispers, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "I've missed that smile."

The smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by fresh tears. But these feel different somehow - not the desperate sobs of before, but something softer, more vulnerable. She presses her face into his chest again, and he can feel her tears soaking through his shirt.

Nate holds her closer, smiling despite everything. Because this is his Amber - raw and real and beautifully broken in all the ways that match his own fractures. This is the girl who stress-bakes at midnight and knows every word to every Taylor Swift song. The girl who can destroy lives with a single Instagram post but cries at dog food commercials. His fierce, fragile, complicated princess.

Bipolar II is just another piece of her puzzle, another shadow in the masterpiece that makes her uniquely, perfectly Amber. And as he strokes her hair and whispers promises into the darkness, Nate knows with absolute certainty that he wouldn't change a single thing about her - diagnosis and all.

Even if it means burning down the whole world to keep her safe.

The silence wraps around them like a blanket as Amber's breathing finally steadies, her body growing heavier against his as exhaustion claims her. Nate stares at the shadows dancing across her bedroom ceiling, his mind spinning with terrible clarity.

Hannah Marshall.

The name tastes like copper in his mouth. She must have found the medical records while babysitting Tommy - probably searched Amber's room the moment she was alone, hungry for anything she could use as a weapon. One wrong move in their elaborate game of chess, and suddenly the pawn thinks she's winning.

Nate presses his lips to Amber's forehead, whispering promises he intends to keep: "Everything's going to be okay, princess. I swear it."

She makes a small sound in her sleep, burrowing closer into his chest. So fragile in this moment, his fierce queen laid bare by betrayal. But Hannah's forgotten the most important rule of chess - the game doesn't end when you capture the queen.

It ends when the king falls.

"No one hurts my girlfriend," he whispers into the shadows, each word a death sentence, "and lives."

The night stretches endless beyond Amber's windows, but Nate Brooks has never seen things more clearly. Hannah Marshall wanted to play games?

Fine.

Let's play.