The pool house windows reflect the night like dark mirrors, turning Nate's sanctuary into an island of light floating in the November darkness. The familiar sounds of EA25 fill the space - digital crowds cheering, commentators narrating every play, Justin cursing as Jake's Manchester United demolishes his Arsenal squad.

Nate's phone buzzes again. Amber's text makes him smile despite his exhaustion:

*Miss you already. Susan's being impossible about Winter Ball dresses. Save me?*

He types back: *Thought you liked Susan*

*Usually. But she's in one of her moods. Everything is "too basic" or "too last season." I might murder her with my shoe.*

Nate watches the typing bubbles appear and disappear, remembering his mother's words from dinner last week. She'd been discussing one of her patients - "Classic borderline symptoms. The mood swings, the intense relationships, the fear of abandonment." Her eyes had lingered on him a moment too long, and he'd wondered if she was trying to tell him something about Amber without actually saying it.

His chest tightens as another text comes through: *Plus she keeps talking about Justin asking her to the Winter Ball. Like it's some huge surprise. They've been circling each other since freshman year.*

The weight of expectations settles on his shoulders. His mother's carefully planted brochures for medical schools, her casual mentions of "following in my footsteps." But the thought of med school makes his stomach turn. He wants business - or at least he thinks he does. Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he only chose business to impress his father, to make Richard Rosenberg see him as worthy of his daughter.

"FUCK!" Justin's shout jerks Nate from his thoughts. The controller sails through the air, and Nate catches it reflexively. "Your turn, golden boy. Show Jake how it's done."

"How's Amber tonight?" Jake asks, already navigating to team selection. "Still recovering from her little scene at breakfast?"

Nate's jaw tightens. "Watch it," he warns, but there's no real heat in his voice. How can there be, when Jake's been his best friend since they were trading Pokémon cards on the playground?

"Dude," Justin laughs, sprawling across the leather sectional, "she's got you so whipped you probably have her initials branded on your ass."

They select their teams - Nate taking Manchester City, Jake sticking with United. As the match loads, Justin props his feet on the coffee table. "Speaking of Winter Ball, guess who's taking Susan Lawrence?"

"You didn't," Jake's controller nearly slips from his hands. "Susan's my backup! Everyone knows that!"

"Should've moved faster, quarterback." Justin's grin is sharp as a knife. "Early bird gets the hot blonde."

Nate scores with Haaland before Jake can respond, the virtual crowd erupting. "Fuck!" Jake mashes buttons furiously. "Whatever. Half the girls at Riverside would kill to be my date."

"True that," Justin nods. "Hey, what about Hannah Marshall? She seemed pretty into you at Halloween."

They all laugh, but something in Jake's expression makes Nate's stomach twist. "Yeah," Jake's voice carries an edge that shouldn't be there. "Until she went all psycho bitch on me."

"What actually happened that night?" Nate asks carefully, eyes fixed on the screen. "For real this time. Amber's not here."

"Nothing happened," Jake says too quickly. "Told you, she was all over me, then suddenly started acting weird."

"Total slut," Justin adds. "You should've seen her, throwing herself at him like some desperate groupie."

Nate's thumbs move automatically, controlling virtual players while his mind races. Because he knows Jake - has known him since before social hierarchy and family expectations turned their lives into carefully choreographed performances. Knows when he's lying.

But Jake's also his best friend. The guy who helped him perfect his routes, who stayed up all night helping him study for AP Bio, who's always had his back. So Nate does what he's been doing more and more lately - he swallows his doubts and focuses on the game.

Virtual Haaland strikes again, the ball curling into the top corner with surgical precision. Nate can't help but grin as Jake unleashes a string of creative profanity.

"Since when did you get so fucking good at this game?" Jake demands, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"What can I say?" Nate smirks, leaning back into the leather couch. "My great grandmother's British. Soccer is in my blood, baby."

"I'm out," Justin announces, pushing himself up from the sectional. "Got that AP Lit paper due tomorrow."

"Hold up." Nate turns, eyebrows raised. "Since when does Justin Moore do homework before midnight?"

"Since college acceptance letters are becoming terrifyingly real." Justin runs a hand through his carefully styled hair. "Can't all ride football scholarships to the promised land like you two."

After Justin's departure, the pool house feels different - more intimate, the kind of space where secrets feel safer to voice. Jake unpauses the game, but his movements are distracted.

"Can't believe he's taking Susan," he mutters, barely paying attention as Nate's De Bruyne dances through his defense. "That's like breaking some kind of bro code."

"You actually into her?" Nate asks, watching his friend's reaction carefully.

"Nah, man." Jake shrugs, but something flickers across his face. "I mean, she's hot, obviously. And the Lawrence name carries weight. Perfect match on paper. But she's more like... I don't know, a sister or something." He grins suddenly, the expression sharp as a knife. "Gives amazing head though."

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Nate laughs because it's expected, because it's easier than examining why comments like that have started making his skin crawl.

"You're Jake fucking Woodland," he says instead, the words familiar as a script. "You could have any girl at Riverside eating out of your hand."

"That's the thing about girls," Jake's voice takes on an edge that makes Nate's stomach turn. "They're all the same underneath those designer labels. Just need to know which buttons to push."

The silence that follows feels heavy, charged with things Nate doesn't want to face.

"About Hannah..." Nate hesitates, remembering the strange tension at the country club, the way Susan had jumped to change the subject, the carefully crafted story that felt too rehearsed. "I was not there that night, Jake. But the way you and Susan talked about it at the club—"

Jake explodes off the couch, controller crashing to the floor. "What the fuck, Brooks? You calling me a liar?"

Nate stands too, squaring up to his best friend. They're exactly the same height, mirror images in different colors - Jake's blonde to his dark, blue eyes to his brown. "I'm saying something doesn't add up."

"Nothing happened!" Jake's face flushes red. "How many times do I have to say it? The girl got drunk, tried to hook up, then got all weird about it. End of story."

They stand there for a moment, the game's menu music filling the tense silence. Nate runs a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted.

"Look, whatever," he says finally, his voice deliberately casual. "Just... be careful, alright? We don't need any more drama this year. Scouts are watching, colleges are looking at us..."

Jake's shoulders relax slightly, recognizing the out Nate's offering. "Yeah," he says, picking up his controller. "I got it. I'm not stupid."

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but they seem to work. Jake's shoulders relax slightly, his expression softening into something more familiar.

They fall back into the rhythm of the game, but something's shifted in the air between them. Jake's shoulders remain tense, his movements less fluid than usual.

"Look, I'm sorry," Jake says suddenly, his eyes fixed on the screen. "I know you've got my back. Always have." He swallows hard. "But lately..."

Nate threads a perfect pass to Foden, who slots it home with mechanical precision. "FUCK!" Jake throws his head back against the couch. He hits pause, the screen freezing on the replay. "I can't... I can't focus for shit."

"Everything's just..." Jake's voice cracks slightly. "That fight with Brookswood. That fucking guy calling me... you know. These panic attacks that come out of nowhere. My parents riding my ass about early decisions. Sometimes I feel like my head's gonna explode, you know?"

Nate studies his best friend's profile, seeing the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. He thinks about Amber, about her own battles with demons no one else can see. For a moment, he considers telling Jake about his suspicions, about how sometimes loving someone means watching them wage war with their own mind. But the words die in his throat.

Jake reaches into his pocket, producing a perfectly rolled joint with practiced casualness. The gesture is so familiar it makes Nate's chest ache - how many nights have they spent exactly like this, hiding from expectations behind clouds of smoke?

"Dude, it's a school night," Nate says, but there's no real conviction in his voice.

"I know." Jake turns the joint between his fingers like a conductor's baton. "But it's the only thing that keeps my brain from..." He waves his free hand vaguely. "You know."

Nate glances over his shoulder through the pool house windows. The main house is dark, his parents' bedroom windows black against the night sky. Without a word, he gets up and draws the curtains, the heavy fabric cutting them off from the watching world.

Jake lights up, the flame from his lighter casting momentary shadows across his face. He looks younger in that flash of light, more like the kid who used to share his lunch when Nate forgot his.

Nate settles back onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. The familiar scent fills the air - not the harsh stuff Coach Martinez's son sells behind the gym, but the premium quality that comes with having disposable income and connections.

He watches Jake take a long drag, sees some of the tension leave his friend's body on the exhale. His own mind feels like a tornado of thoughts - Amber's mood swings, his mother's medical school brochures, the weight of being Nate Brooks, star receiver, perfect boyfriend, loyal friend.

"Let me get a hit," he says finally.

Jake's eyebrows shoot up. "What happened to Mr. Clean Living? The carnivore diet and toxin-free pans?"

"Sometimes," Nate says, taking the joint, "you need a break from being me."

The first hit burns his throat - it's been months since he's done this. He coughs slightly, earning a laugh from Jake.

"You're so out of practice, Brooks." Jake takes the joint back. "Remember sophomore year? When we hotboxed my dad's Porsche before that charity gala?"

"God," Nate groans, letting his head fall back against the leather. "Your mom kept asking why we were giggling during her speech about endangered butterflies."

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth. The pool house feels smaller somehow, more intimate, like they're kids again hiding in Jake's treehouse sharing secrets.

"You ever think about how weird it is?" Jake's voice is softer now, relaxed. "Like, one minute we're trading Pokémon cards, and the next we're supposed to have our whole lives figured out?"

"Yeah," Nate exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. "Med school, business school, football scholarships... sometimes I feel like I'm just playing a part in someone else's story, you know?"

"At least you've got Amber," Jake says, but there's something in his tone that makes Nate turn to look at him. "You guys are like... destined or whatever. The rest of us are just trying not to fuck up too badly."

Nate thinks about Amber - about her fierce love and her fragile heart. About how loving her feels like trying to hold lightning in his hands.

"It's not..." he starts, then stops. The weed is making his thoughts fuzzy, comfortable. "Sometimes I wonder if any of us know what we're doing. If we're all just pretending to have our shit together."

Jake's laugh is hollow. "Speak for yourself, Brooks. I'm living the dream." But his hand shakes slightly as he stubs out the joint. "Star quarterback, rich parents, whole world at my feet... what more could a guy want?"

The question hangs in the air between them, heavy with things they can't or won't say. Outside, a security light flicks on, casting strange shadows through the curtains.

"I should head home," Jake says, standing with exaggerated care. "Got that Calc test tomorrow."

Nate watches his best friend gather his things, seeing double - the Jake of now overlaid with memories of the boy he used to be. Before Hampton Beach, before carefully buried stories and midnight panic attacks.

"Text me when you get home?" Nate says, the words automatic as breathing.

"Always do." Jake pauses at the door, his hand on the knob. "Hey, Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For... you know. Everything."

Then he's gone, leaving Nate alone with the lingering smoke and the weight of secrets he's not sure he can carry much longer.

Because some friendships are built on shared history and genuine love. Others survive on carefully maintained lies and collective guilt. And lately, Nate's having trouble telling which kind he and Jake have become.

He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over Amber's name. She'd understand - she knows all about carrying other people's expectations like crosses. But telling her would mean admitting his own doubts, his own role in maintaining the carefully constructed facade that is life in Riverside Heights.

Instead, he texts: *Get some sleep, princess. Love you.*

Her response comes immediately: *Love you more. Sweet dreams, 67.*

Nate stares at the words until they blur, wondering if any of them deserve sweet dreams anymore.