The January wind cuts through Nate's letterman jacket like a knife, making him grateful for the thick grey hoodie underneath. His breath forms clouds in the frigid air as he approaches The Daily Grind, a cozy hole-in-the-wall café tucked between the Riverside Cinema and an aging bookstore. The mission weighs heavy in his stomach: find out what Hannah knows, gauge the threat, protect everything they've built.

He flexes his cold fingers, remembering the texts they'd crafted so carefully – Susan's precise wording, Amber's strategic suggestions, all sent from his phone to build this moment. The thought makes bile rise in his throat, but then Amber's face flashes through his mind: snowflakes caught in her golden hair in Aspen, her blue eyes sparkling as fireworks painted the sky above them. "Happy New Year, baby," she'd whispered, her voice husky and warm against his ear. "I love you so much." The memory steadies him. This is why he's here – to protect her, to preserve their world, to keep their carefully constructed reality from crumbling.

Through the café's fogged windows, he spots Hannah Marshall at a corner table, her dark waves falling forward as she reads something on her phone. The Daily Grind looks like it was built from spare parts and pure stubbornness – exposed brick walls decorated with local art, mismatched vintage furniture arranged in cozy clusters, and strings of edison bulbs casting a warm glow over everything. The kind of place that would never survive in the polished perfection of downtown Riverside, yet somehow thrives here on the edges.

Hannah hasn't noticed him yet. She's wearing that oversized cream sweater he's seen in her snaps, the one with the slightly frayed cuffs that would make Amber cringe. Something twists in Nate's chest – guilt maybe, or regret for what he's about to do. But then he remembers Jake's face that night in Aspen, the fear barely hidden behind his usual bravado: "They're digging, man. If they find out..."

The bell chimes softly as he pushes open the door, warm air heavy with the scent of coffee and cinnamon enveloping him. Hannah looks up, and the smile that lights her face makes his stomach clench.

"Hey," he says, surprised by how genuine his voice sounds. "Sorry I'm late."

"Nate!" Hannah stands, tucking her hair behind her ear in that nervous way he's noticed in all their video chats. "No worries, I just got here myself."

He pulls her into a hug, careful to make it friendly but not too friendly. She smells like vanilla and something else – maybe lavender? – so different from Amber's perfume. "You look great," he says, and means it despite everything. "The waves really do suit you – your snaps didn't do them justice."

"Oh," she touches her waves self-consciously. "Just trying something new. How was Aspen? Your stories looked incredible."

"Amazing," he replies, shrugging off his jacket. "Perfect powder conditions, great parties. Though I think I'm still recovering from New Year's Eve." He laughs, the sound only slightly forced. "Who knew Amber's family could party that hard?"

"I can imagine," Hannah says, something flickering behind her eyes at the mention of Amber. "The Rosenbergs don't really do anything halfway, do they?"

"That's an understatement." He glances at the menu board, decorated with chalk drawings of coffee cups and terrible puns. "Let me get you something? Since you braved the cold to meet me."

"Oh, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he cuts her off with a smile, the one he's been using in their late-night Snapchat exchanges. "After all these weeks of virtual coffee dates, seems only fair to buy you a real one."

Hannah hesitates, then relents. "Okay, um... just a vanilla latte? With an extra shot if that's not too much trouble."

"For you? Nothing's too much trouble." He winks, hating himself a little for how naturally the manipulation comes. "Find us a cozy spot? I'll be right back."

At the counter, a barista with honey-blonde hair twisted into a messy bun catches his eye. "What can I get you?" she asks, her smile lingering a beat too long. Something about her – maybe the way she tilts her head, or how her hair catches the light – reminds him of Amber, and his chest tightens.

"Vanilla latte, extra shot," he says, letting his customary easy charm surface. "And a black Americano for me."

"Coming right up." She draws a small heart next to his name on the cup. "You're Nate Brooks, right? I've seen you play – that touchdown against Brookswood was incredible."

He grins, falling into the familiar rhythm of casual flirtation like putting on a well-worn jacket. "Just got lucky with the pass. Though I'm sure it looked better from the stands than it felt on the field."

She laughs, the sound warm and practiced. "Somehow I doubt luck had much to do with it."

He tips generously when she hands over the drinks, offering another smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. The interaction leaves a sour taste in his mouth – this constant performance, the endless dance of being Nate Brooks: golden boy, star athlete, perfect boyfriend.

Hannah's chosen a quiet corner away from the windows. Smart girl, he thinks, then immediately hates himself for the observation. He sets her drink down carefully, settling into the worn leather chair across from her.

"Thank you," she says, wrapping her hands around the warm cup.

"Listen," he starts, letting vulnerability seep into his voice. "I know this might seem random, but... I really appreciate you talking to me these past few weeks. Ever since Winter Ball..." He pauses, manufacturing the perfect mix of hesitation and sincerity. "You're the first person I've ever really told about how I struggle with Amber's... intensity sometimes. Her fierce personality, you know?"

Hannah's eyes soften with sympathy, making his stomach twist. "It can't be easy," she says quietly. "Loving someone who burns that bright."

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The truth in her words hits harder than he expects. Because Hannah Marshall sees things – really sees them – in a way that makes him desperately uncomfortable.

The silence stretches between them, broken only by the whir of the espresso machine and distant café chatter. Nate takes a sip of his Americano, buying time as he considers his next move. Then, with practiced casualness, he reaches into his jacket pocket.

"So..." He pulls out not one, but three fruit roll-ups, laying them on the table between them. Strawberry, berry blue, and tropical punch. "I came prepared this time."

Hannah's eyes light up, her fingers reaching for the tropical punch – just like he knew they would. It was the detail that mattered, the kind of thing that made manipulation an art. "You remembered my favorite."

"Hard to forget," he says, letting genuine warmth creep into his voice. "You were pretty passionate about the tropical punch superiority debate."

She laughs, the sound pure and unguarded in a way that makes his chest ache. "Because anyone who thinks strawberry is the best flavor clearly hasn't evolved past elementary school taste buds."

"Hey now," he protests, snatching up the strawberry one with exaggerated offense. "Some of us appreciate the classics."

"Some of us are wrong," she teases, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Real. Like they're just two people sharing snacks in a coffee shop, no ulterior motives, no buried secrets threatening to surface.

But they're not. And the weight of why he's really here settles back on his shoulders as Hannah tears open her fruit roll-up, the familiar gesture somehow both innocent and devastating. Because he knows what Jake did. What Amber did. Knows what they all did to keep it buried. And here he is, using childhood snacks and calculated vulnerability to find out how close she is to unraveling everything.

"You know," he says carefully, manufacturing just the right amount of hesitation in his voice, "I've been thinking about what we talked about at Winter Ball. About being real with people."

Hannah pauses mid-bite, something shifting in her expression. "Yeah?"

"It's just..." He lets his gaze drop to his coffee, a practiced gesture of vulnerability. "Sometimes with Amber, it's like... like I have to be this perfect version of myself. The star athlete, the devoted boyfriend, the guy who never questions anything." He looks up, catching Hannah's eyes. "But with you? I don't know. It's different somehow."

He watches the words land, sees them sink into her like hooks. Because that's the thing about Hannah Marshall – she wants to believe in the good in people. Wants to think that the boy sharing fruit roll-ups and confessing his relationship struggles is the real Nate Brooks.

And maybe, in another life, he could have been. But not in this one. Not with Hampton Beach's shadows stretching between them like a chasm.

"You can always be real with me," Hannah says softly, and the genuine care in her voice makes him want to throw up. "No perfect versions required."

He manages a smile, reaching for the berry blue roll-up – the last one, the neutral ground between their playful flavor debate. "Careful," he says, trying to make it sound like a joke. "I might actually take you up on that."

She smiles back, and he tells himself the twisting in his gut is just caffeine, not guilt. Not the knowledge that every genuine moment between them is just another carefully placed stone in the wall he's building to protect their secrets.

Hannah wraps her hands around her cooling latte, studying him with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. "Can I ask you something?" When he nods, she continues, "Why do you feel like you have to be perfect for her? For Amber?"

Nate stares into his coffee, buying time. The question hits too close to home, threatens to unravel the careful script he's meant to follow. "It's complicated," he says finally. "Amber can be... fierce sometimes. Like one minute everything's perfect, and the next..." He trails off, surprised by how real the words feel.

"And the next she's burning so hot you can barely breathe?" Hannah finishes softly. "Like she's operating at this incredible intensity, and you're constantly trying to keep up? One day she's planning elaborate surprises and showering you with affection, and the next she's convinced you're pulling away, that you don't love her enough?"

Nate's head snaps up, shock rippling through him. The description is so precise it's unsettling – the endless cycle of Amber's highs and lows, the exhausting dance of trying to match her rhythm. "How..." he clears his throat, genuine confusion bleeding through his carefully maintained facade. "How do you know all that?"

Hannah rolls her eyes, but there's affection in the gesture. "Helloooo? I've been babysitting Tommy for like, two years now? You try spending every other weekend in the Rosenberg house without picking up on the family dynamics."

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it – real, unscripted. "Right. Sometimes I forget you see behind the curtain more than most people." The realization makes him uneasy. Just how much has Hannah observed during those babysitting nights? How many cracks has she spotted in their perfect facade?

But there's something else nagging at him too – the precise way she described Amber's moods, like she understands something about his girlfriend that even he hasn't fully grasped. Something that makes him wonder if Hannah Marshall might be more dangerous than any of them realized.

His phone buzzes against the table. The screen lights up with his lock screen – him and Amber in Aspen, snowflakes crystallizing in her hair as fireworks paint the sky behind their New Year's kiss. The perfect moment, perfectly captured. Amber's text glows beneath it: How's my detective doing? 💋

All good. She's talking. He types quickly, hating how natural the deception feels.

"Everything okay?" Hannah asks, gesturing toward his phone.

"Oh, just Justin," he lies smoothly. "Wants to go for a run later. We're both gunning for athletic scholarships, so..." He shrugs, letting the sentence trail off.

"Speaking of college," Hannah says, stirring the remnants of her latte, "have you decided where you're applying?"

"Stanford," he admits, the word carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. "That's the goal, anyway."

Hannah's quiet for a moment, studying him with that unsettling perceptiveness. "Can I ask you something?" When he nods, she continues, "Is Stanford what you want? Or is it what everyone expects Nate Brooks to want?"

The question hits him like a physical blow, cracking something open inside his chest. Because isn't that exactly what's been keeping him up at night? The endless cycle of expectations – Amber's dreams of them conquering California together, her father's connections in the alumni network, his own dad's carefully crafted training schedules and highlight reels. When was the last time anyone asked him what he wanted?

"How do you do that?" he asks, his voice rougher than intended. "How do you just... cut straight through everyone's bullshit? See the exact thing they're trying to hide?"

Hannah's smile is gentle, almost sad. "Maybe because I've spent so much time on the outside looking in. You notice different things when you're not part of the show."

Silence settles between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Hannah pushes back her chair, gathering her bag. "Thanks for the coffee, Nate. And the fruit roll-ups."

"Wait." The word escapes before he can stop it, surprising them both. Because this isn't about the mission anymore, isn't about finding out what she knows or protecting their secrets. For the first time in months, he's having a real conversation, one that isn't carefully scripted or politically calculated.

Hannah pauses, one eyebrow raised in question.

"I, uh..." He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly uncertain. "The cinema next door has this retro gaming hall thing. Street Fighter, old school Mario Kart, all that. Want to check it out?"

The invitation hangs between them, and Nate realizes with startling clarity that he actually wants her to say yes. Not for Amber, not for the mission, but because talking to Hannah Marshall makes him feel like maybe he isn't completely lost in the role he's been playing.

And that, he knows, is the most dangerous thing of all.