The winter air bites at Hannah's cheeks as she pushes through the gymnasium's side door, desperate to escape the suffocating press of formal wear and carefully maintained facades. Music pulses through the walls behind her, the bass line following her like an unwanted shadow as she stumbles across frost-covered ground.

Tears blur her vision, turning the school's carefully strung lights into abstract watercolors. Her midnight blue dress - purchased with such hope, such foolish dreams of belonging - catches on dead flower stems in the winter-dormant gardens. She doesn't care. Let it tear. Let it stain. What does it matter now?

Lisa's words echo in her head, each syllable a fresh wound: "I made it all up for attention." The careful way she'd avoided Hannah's eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the slight tremor in her voice that spoke of fear rather than truth. Something had happened between their confrontation with Megan Carter and tonight. Something that had turned her only ally into another carefully constructed lie.

The main entrance teems with late arrivals and cigarette-seeking seniors, their laughter carrying across the frozen grounds like mockery. Hannah veers away, seeking somewhere - anywhere - that might offer shelter from watching eyes. Her heels sink slightly into the frozen earth as she makes her way around the building's corner, where math class windows stare blankly into the December night.

She finds refuge on a low decorative wall, the same one where she sometimes eats lunch when the cafeteria feels too much like a battlefield. The stone is ice-cold through her dress, but she barely notices. What's a little physical discomfort compared to the hollow ache in her chest?

Somewhere inside, Alex and David are probably still wrapped in their own private world, discovering each other with the kind of single-minded focus that makes the rest of the universe disappear. She doesn't blame them - how could she? Their happiness is genuine, untainted by social hierarchies and carefully maintained lies. But their absorption leaves her adrift, alone with thoughts that spiral darker with each passing moment.

Hannah Marshall. Such a simple name for such a complicated position - too smart to be invisible, too poor to be accepted, too stubborn to stop fighting battles she can't win. The words taste bitter on her tongue as more tears threaten to fall.

The sound of expensive shoes on frozen ground makes her chest tighten. She doesn't look up, doesn't want to see which of Riverside's elite has come to witness her breakdown. The footsteps pause, and something in their rhythm feels familiar in a way that makes her heart perform unwanted acrobatics.

"Hey."

One word. Just one word, spoken in that particular tone that still features in her daydreams, and Hannah's world tilts sideways. Because of course it would be him. Of course Nate Brooks would find her here, looking like a prom dress disaster and feeling like a kicked puppy.

"Hey," she manages, hating how her voice catches on that single syllable. She keeps her eyes fixed on the disturbed frost beneath her feet, not ready to face whatever expression he's wearing.

"I'd ask if you're okay," he says after a moment, his voice carrying that gentle understanding that makes her want to simultaneously kiss him and punch him, "but that seems kind of redundant given the current situation."

A laugh escapes before she can stop it - wet and broken but genuine. Because trust Nate Brooks to know exactly how to pierce her carefully constructed walls with nothing but honest observation.

She risks a glance up and immediately regrets it. The white tuxedo transforms him from star wide receiver to something that belongs in fairy tales, all clean lines and careful grace. His dark hair catches moonlight like it's been waiting all evening for this moment, and his eyes - god, his eyes still hold traces of the boy who shared fruit roll-ups in third grade.

"Want to talk about it?" he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes fresh tears threaten to fall.

Hannah shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. Because how do you explain to someone that your whole world is unraveling? That every attempt to fight for justice seems to end in deeper wounds? That sometimes the hardest part isn't the battle itself but the loneliness of fighting it?

"Alright then," Nate says with such easy acceptance that it makes her chest ache. "I'll talk about something else." Without waiting for permission, he settles beside her on the wall, close enough that she can smell his cologne - something expensive and subtle.

A metallic glint catches moonlight as Nate produces an elegant silver flask from his pocket.

"Liquid warmth?" he offers, his smile carrying that particular mix of mischief and charm that still makes her heart skip beats. "Fair warning - it's not exactly school-approved refreshment."

Hannah shakes her head, but something about the way he holds the flask reminds her of shared secrets in elementary school hallways. He shrugs, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease before taking a careful sip.

"Your loss," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand - a gesture so un-Riverside it makes her smile despite herself. "It's actually pretty good. Sweet, kind of fruity." His eyes catch hers, and something playful dances in their depths. "Reminds me a bit of fruit roll-ups, actually."

The words hit her like a physical force. Because of course he remembers. Of course Nate Brooks would casually reference their shared history like he's been carrying it around all these years too.

"You remember that?" The question escapes before she can stop it, her voice smaller than intended.

His laugh is warm as summer memories. "Are you kidding? Hannah Marshall, trading her fruit roll-ups for my apple slices every day in third grade? That was the highlight of my lunch period." He grins, and suddenly she's eight years old again, watching him carefully unwrap those coveted treats. "Pretty sure I developed a permanent sweet tooth thanks to you."

Something shifts in her chest - not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but some complicated mix of both. Her eyes drift to the flask still dangling from his fingers. Maybe a little liquid courage wouldn't be the worst thing right now.

"Changed your mind?" he asks, reading her expression with uncanny accuracy. When she nods, he passes the flask with exaggerated ceremony. "Just don't tell Coach Martinez. Pretty sure this violates about twelve training rules."

The liquor burns sweet across her tongue - some expensive blend that probably has a French name she couldn't pronounce. But he's right - there's something almost nostalgic about the fruity undertones, like childhood memories distilled into alcohol.

"Remember that time in fourth grade," he says as she passes the flask back, "when Mrs. Davidson caught us trading snacks and made this huge deal about 'proper nutrition'?" His impression of their old teacher is so perfect it startles a laugh from her chest.

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"And then you tried to convince her that fruit roll-ups were basically the same as real fruit?" Hannah finds herself smiling at the memory. "What was it you said? 'It has fruit right in the name, Mrs. D!'"

"Hey, that was solid nine-year-old logic!" He takes another sip before continuing. "Though not as solid as your argument that since apples have natural sugar, processed sugar must be natural too."

A shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with their conversation. Nate's eyes narrow slightly as he studies her face.

"You're cold."

"I'm fine," she lies, but her goosebumps betray her.

"Right, because shivering is totally a sign of being warm enough." Before she can protest, he's shrugging out of his beige jacket, the movement smooth as water. The white dress shirt beneath stretches across his shoulders in a way that makes her mouth go dry.

"Nate, don't-" she starts, but he's already draping the jacket around her shoulders. The fabric carries his warmth, his scent - that subtle cologne mixed with something uniquely him that makes her head spin more than the alcohol.

"Can't have Hannah Marshall turning into an ice sculpture," he says casually, as if he hasn't just performed the kind of gesture that belongs in romance novels. "Though I guess you'd make a pretty one. All that dark hair frozen in waves, probably catch moonlight like something from a fairy tale."

He launches into another story about elementary school adventures before she can process that casual compliment - something about the time they tried to convince the cafeteria lady that chocolate milk counted as a vegetable because chocolate comes from beans. But Hannah barely hears him over the thundering of her own heart.

"So," Nate's voice breaks through the comfortable silence they've built, "are you going to tell me why Hannah Marshall is sitting out here alone instead of dancing with some lucky guy who finally worked up the courage to ask her?"

"Why is Nate Brooks hiding from his own kingdom?" she counters, surprising herself with her boldness. Maybe it's the alcohol warming her blood, or the weight of his jacket on her shoulders making her brave.

His laugh carries no trace of his usual careful charm. "Alright, fair enough." He takes another sip from the flask before continuing. "Truth? Sometimes it's just... too much in there. All the expectations, the perfect smiles, the endless performance of it all."

"You?" Hannah can't keep the surprise from her voice. "But you're Nate Brooks. What could possibly be too much for you?"

He's quiet for so long she thinks he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a weight she's never heard before. "It's Amber," he says softly, his eyes fixed on the falling snow. "Don't get me wrong, I love her. God, I love her more than anything. But sometimes she gets so... intense. Like she's burning too bright, and I can't..." He trails off, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. "There are moments when I just need to breathe."

Hannah's heart performs complicated acrobatics in her chest. The medical records she found between Amber's mattress flash through her mind - clinical terms describing mood swings and manic episodes. She could tell him now. Could explain why his girlfriend sometimes burns too bright, why she needs his steady presence like an anchor in a storm.

But some secrets aren't hers to tell, even to the boy who's finally showing her his own carefully hidden truths.

"I've never told anyone that," Nate admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even Jake. How messed up is that? My best friend since kindergarten, and I can't tell him that sometimes I need to escape from my own girlfriend."

"It's not messed up," Hannah says softly. "Sometimes the people we love the most are the hardest to talk about."

He turns to look at her then, really look at her, and something in his expression makes her breath catch. "How do you do that?" he asks.

"Do what?"

"Make everything seem... simpler. Clearer." His eyes catch moonlight like they're gathering stars. "You've always been able to do that, you know? Even back in elementary school, you had this way of cutting through all the noise to what actually matters."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching snowflakes dance in the space between them. Hannah feels the weight of unspoken things pressing against her chest - the medical records, the careful lies, the way his jacket feels like armor against more than just the cold.

"Your turn," he says finally, nudging her shoulder gently with his. "Since apparently we're doing impromptu therapy sessions at Winter Ball."

Hannah hesitates, her fingers twisting in the soft fabric of her dress. But Nate has trusted her with his truth, hasn't he? Maybe she owes him a piece of hers in return.

"Lisa," she says finally, the name tasting bitter on her tongue. "We were friends again, real friends, not just... whatever we were before. Working on something important together. And then tonight she just..." Her voice catches as the memory of Lisa's cold dismissal washes over her. "She basically told me everything we'd been doing was a lie. That she'd made it all up for attention."

"Everything you'd been doing?" Nate's voice carries a careful neutrality that makes her look up sharply. But his expression gives nothing away as he watches snow gather on the dormant rosebushes.

Hannah's heart pounds against her ribs as she studies Nate's profile in the moonlight. Does he suspect? Could he possibly know about their investigation, about the careful questions they'd asked, about Megan Carter's terrified face in that Brookswood parking lot? No. It's impossible. Unless...

The memory of Lisa's words floats back to her: "Nate was there." He'd been at Hampton Beach that night, had seen everything, had chosen loyalty to Jake over truth. The realization settles like ice in her stomach. Of course he can't be trusted. He's part of their carefully constructed world of privilege and protection, where monsters wear letterman jackets and good girls look the other way.

"Oh, you know," she forces a laugh that sounds hollow even to her own ears, "just typical girl stuff. Shopping, homework, trying to figure out which shoes go with which outfit..." The lies taste like copper on her tongue.

"Mhmm." Nate's voice carries a dangerous gentleness as he turns to face her fully. "That answer took you about three years too long to come up with." His eyes find hers in the darkness, and suddenly Hannah feels pinned like a butterfly to cork. "Is there something you want to tell me, Hannah?"

Panic claws up her throat as she meets his gaze. Because this is Nate Brooks - the boy who shared fruit roll-ups in third grade, who still sometimes looks at her like he remembers every shared secret. But he's also Nate Brooks who stood by while Jake Woodland destroyed lives, who helps maintain the careful facade that keeps Riverside's elite safe from consequences.

"No," she manages, but her voice shakes on that single syllable.

To her surprise, his face breaks into that familiar warm smile - the one that still makes her heart perform illegal gymnastics. "Okay," he says simply, like he hasn't just sent her into an internal spiral of terror. "I was just messing with you."

His hand finds her back, warm and steady through the layers of his jacket and her dress. The touch should be comforting, but it makes her skin prickle with awareness of every secret she's keeping.

"What Lisa did?" he continues, his voice gentle. "That's rough. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially not you."

"Thanks," she whispers, relief flooding her system as the moment of danger passes.

"Why don't you come inside?" He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing hers. "Hang with us for a bit, have a few drinks. Better than freezing out here alone."

"Us?" The question comes out sharper than intended.

"Yeah, you know - me, Amber, Justin, Susan..." He pauses, and something in her chest tightens as he adds, "Jake..."

The name hits her like a physical blow, making bile rise in her throat. Because suddenly she's back in that pool house, feeling Jake's weight pinning her down, his hands insistent and unwanted against her skin.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Nate continues, oblivious to her internal horror, "sitting out here with you has been great, but I'm pretty sure important parts of my anatomy are about to freeze solid."

Hannah shrugs off his jacket, forcing her hands not to shake as she hands it back. "Thanks, but I should probably find Alex and David." The lie comes easily now, practiced as breathing. "Make sure they haven't accidentally suffocated each other with all that making out."

"Fair enough." His laugh carries no trace of suspicion as he stands, offering his hand to help her up. The gesture is pure Nate Brooks - thoughtful and automatic, like kindness is coded into his DNA. "Though if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

Hannah takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. His fingers are warm despite the cold, and for a moment she allows herself to imagine a different world - one where she could tell him everything, where he would choose justice over loyalty, where the boy who shared fruit roll-ups grew into a man who fights monsters instead of protecting them.