The afternoon sun glints off Lake Chickawaka like scattered diamonds, turning the flotilla of boats into a floating festival of wealth and excess. Music pulses across the water from multiple sound systems, creating a chaotic symphony of bass lines and pop hooks. Amber sways on the deck of her father's Cobalt, the pink strings of her Frankie's bikini catching the golden light. The vodka in her system makes everything feel softer, warmer, more alive.

"This is literally perfect!" Susan squeals, pulling Lisa into an impromptu dance circle. Their bodies move in sync to the beat floating over from the massive party barge anchored next to them, where some Lake Forest kid is playing DJ for the gathered crowd.

Susan takes another swig from the crystal-clear bottle before passing it to Amber. "Your turn, queen!"

The vodka burns down Amber's throat, but she welcomes the sensation. Everything feels heightened today - colors more vibrant, music more intense, emotions raw and electric just beneath her skin.

"I love you so much!" Susan throws her arms around Amber's neck, pressing a playful kiss to her cheek. "Best friends forever, right?"

"Forever," Amber echoes, but her attention has already drifted to the party barge. Jake commands center stage as usual, holding court among a crowd of admirers. But it's the scene at the edge of the deck that makes her blood run cold.

Nate stands there, golden skin glistening in the sun, those perfectly sculpted abs on full display. And Sarah Matthews - wearing basically nothing in that ridiculous excuse for a bikini - has her perfectly manicured hands all over him.

Something dark and violent surges through Amber's system, a familiar tide of rage she can't control. Her vision narrows, tunneling until all she can see is Sarah's fingers trailing across Nate's chest. The rational part of her brain tries to fight through the fog - he's just being polite, he loves you, this isn't real - but the monster inside her chest has already taken control.

With the vodka bottle clutched like a weapon, Amber starts moving. The gap between the boats looks wider than usual, but she doesn't care. Her foot slips on the gunwale and for a heart-stopping moment, she's falling into the abyss between vessels.

Strong hands grab her waist, yanking her to safety. "Whoa there, Queen Bee!" Jake's familiar drawl cuts through her rage. "Let's keep the swimming scheduled, yeah?"

"Don't fucking call me that," Amber snarls, shoving past him. The rage builds with every step, drowning out the music, the laughter, everything except the need to make Sarah bleed.

She's almost there, bottle raised, when a wall of muscle appears in front of her. She tries to dodge left, but the bare chest moves with her. Right - same result.

"Get out of my way!" She looks up, ready to destroy whoever dares interfere, only to find herself staring into those warm brown eyes she knows better than her own.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way." Amber's voice sounds foreign even to her own ears, each word dripping venom. The rage courses through her veins like fire, demanding release. "I saw her. I saw everything!"

"Princess-" Nate starts, but she cuts him off with a laugh that sounds more like breaking glass.

"Don't 'princess' me!" She tries to shove past him again, her grip tightening on the bottle until her knuckles turn white. "You want her? Fine! But first I'm going to show that little slut exactly what happens when she touches what's mine!"

"Amber, look at me." Nate's voice remains steady, but she can't focus on his face. Everything's too bright, too loud, the world spinning like a carnival ride she can't escape.

"She had her hands all over you!" The words tear from her throat, raw and primal. "Everyone saw it! Everyone's laughing at me!" Her free hand pounds against his chest, but he doesn't budge. "They all think I'm crazy! Maybe I am crazy! Maybe-"

Her legs buckle suddenly, the combination of vodka and mania finally catching up with her. Nate's arms lock around her waist, keeping her upright as she thrashes against him.

"Let me go!" She screams, not caring who hears, not caring about anything except the inferno of rage and pain threatening to consume her. "I hate you! I hate all of you!"

"No, you don't." His fingers brush against hers where they're still wrapped around the bottle neck, but she jerks away like his touch burns.

"You don't know what I feel!" The tears start without warning, hot and angry against her cheeks. "Nobody knows! Nobody understands!"

"I understand." He doesn't try to touch her again, just stands there like a wall between her and the target of her rage. "I've seen every side of you, princess. The highs, the lows, everything in between. And I'm still here."

Something in his voice - the absolute certainty, maybe, or the complete lack of judgment - makes the first crack in her armor.

"What's wrong with me?" The words come out smaller now, broken. The rage begins to recede like a tide, leaving exhaustion and shame in its wake. "Why can't I just be normal?"

Nate passes the bottle to someone - she doesn't see who - before pulling her against his chest. His skin smells like sunshine and lake water, familiar and safe. "Nothing's wrong with you," he murmurs into her hair. "You're perfect exactly as you are. Just breathe with me, okay? In and out. Nice and slow."

She presses her face into his chest, letting his heartbeat drown out the chaos in her head. His fingertips trace patterns on her back as he whispers a steady stream of comfort: "I've got you, princess. Not going anywhere. Just you and me."

The monster in her chest slowly retreats, leaving behind shame and exhaustion in equal measure. But Nate's arms stay locked around her, an anchor in the storm of her mind, keeping her safe from the darkness that sometimes threatens to swallow her whole.

Nate's lips brush against her ear, his breath warm and steady. "Let me take you somewhere quiet, okay? Just the two of us." There's something in his voice - a gentleness that makes her chest ache. "Is that alright, princess?"

Amber manages a small nod, but her thoughts feel scattered, distant. When did this become their ritual? Her falling apart, him asking permission to put her back together. The perfect boyfriend, always so careful with his broken girl.

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Strong arms lift her like she weighs nothing, cradling her against his chest. The party sounds begin to fade - the pulsing bass growing fainter with each step as Nate carries her across the weathered dock. She keeps her face buried in his neck, tears flowing freely now, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin mixed with lake water.

The temperature drops as they move into shadow. When Nate finally sets her down, the grass is cool and slightly damp beneath her. Through blur of tears, she takes in their surroundings - a small clearing just inside the treeline, dappled sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves. It feels like entering another world, one where the chaos in her head might finally quiet.

Nate drops to his knees in front of her, taking both her hands in his. "Remember what we practiced?" His thumbs trace gentle circles on her palms. "The 4-7-8?"

Of course she remembers. Dr. Harrison had taught her the breathing technique months ago, though she'd never told Nate it came from therapy. That would mean admitting she needed help, that something inside her was fundamentally broken.

"Breathe in with me," he guides, his voice steady as a heartbeat. "One... two... three... four..."

She follows his lead, matching her breath to his count. The familiar rhythm starts to ground her, pulling her back into her body. Hold for seven... exhale for eight... The world slowly comes back into focus.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers when she can finally trust her voice again. "I can't... I can't control it sometimes."

"Don't apologize." Nate squeezes her hands gently. "Just help me understand what you're feeling. What happened back there?"

"She was touching you." The words come out small and bitter. "Her hands all over your chest, like she had any right..." She swallows hard. "Something just snapped inside me. Like a switch flipping."

"I get the anger, princess. I do." His expression grows serious. "But we can't solve things with violence. You could have really hurt someone - or yourself."

Shame burns hot in her chest as she realizes how close she'd come to smashing that bottle against Sarah's skull. The monster inside her had wanted blood, had needed it with a desperation that terrifies her. Nate deserves to know the truth - about the diagnosis, the medication she sometimes skips, the darkness that lives beneath her carefully maintained facade.

But the words stick in her throat. Because the moment she admits she's broken, everything changes. No more perfect power couple, no more golden future stretching out before them. He'll see her differently - see her truly - and that vision will shatter everything they've built.

So instead, she leans forward and captures his lips with hers. The kiss tastes like salt and vodka and desperation, but Nate responds immediately, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. His touch anchors her to this moment, to this clearing where nothing exists except the two of them.

When they finally break apart, she rests her forehead against his, eyes closed. "You're always saving me," she whispers.

"That's what love is, princess." His fingers thread through her hair, gentle as summer rain. "Being there for each other, no matter what."

If only he knew what he was really saving her from.

A buzz cuts through the peaceful silence. Nate shifts slightly, pulling his phone from his pocket.

"What is it?" Amber asks, her voice still raw from crying.

"Jake checking on you." Nate's fingers move across the screen. "Wants to make sure you're okay."

Guilt floods her system as she remembers her outburst. "Tell him I'm so sorry. God, I must have ruined everything."

Nate sends a quick reply before tossing his phone into the grass beside them. He stretches out on his back, arms open in invitation. "Come here, princess."

Amber crawls into his embrace, settling her head against his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong beneath her ear, a rhythm that's become more familiar than her own. She studies his profile against the darkening sky - that perfect jawline, those warm brown eyes fixed on the clouds drifting overhead.

How did she get so lucky? Nate Brooks, number 67, star receiver and co-captain. The boy whose Stanford application shines with pure merit instead of just family connections, who spends hours studying for his SATs between practices. Who opens doors and pulls out chairs like some character from an old movie. Who's seen her at her absolute worst and somehow still looks at her like she's everything.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispers, tracing patterns on his chest.

"After graduation," Nate's voice breaks through the peaceful silence, "before Stanford... let's go somewhere."

Amber shifts slightly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. "Like the Caribbean again? Pretty sure my parents are already planning-"

"No." His fingers pause in her hair. "Just us. No parents, no friends. No Riverside expectations." There's something urgent in his voice that makes her pulse quicken. "We could do Europe. Or maybe Asia - you've always wanted to see Tokyo."

The idea blooms in Amber's mind like a flower unfurling in sunlight. Just her and Nate, wandering cobblestone streets in Rome, getting lost in Parisian cafes, watching sunset from some ancient temple in Kyoto. No carefully orchestrated family dinners, no college pressure, no Hampton Beach shadows lurking at the edges of their perfect life.

"We could get an apartment in Florence," she muses, letting herself sink into the fantasy. "One of those perfect little places with a balcony overlooking the river. Wake up every morning to fresh bread and espresso..." Her voice grows dreamy. "Spend our days in museums, our nights in tiny restaurants where nobody knows our names."

"Learning to cook pasta from real Italian nonnas," Nate adds, but there's something off in his tone - a tension that doesn't match his words.

Amber props herself up on one elbow, studying his face. The afternoon sun catches his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the subtle crease between his eyebrows that appears when he's worried about something.

"What's wrong?" she asks softly.

"Nothing." The response comes too quickly. "Just thinking about logistics. Flights, hotels..."

"Nate." She touches his cheek, turning his face toward hers. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out."

His eyes meet hers, and for a moment she sees something that makes her breath catch - a flash of raw fear, quickly buried beneath his usual warm brown gaze. "We don't even have our Stanford acceptance letters yet," he deflects, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Maybe we should wait-"

"That's not it." She sits up fully now, grass cool against her legs. "Something's bothering you. I can feel it."

"Princess..." He reaches for her, but she pulls back slightly.

"No. Tell me what's going on in that head of yours." The words come out sharper than intended, that familiar edge of command she can never quite suppress. "You've been acting strange ever since-"

"Italy," he interrupts, sitting up so suddenly she almost loses her balance. "We should do Italy first. Start in Rome, work our way up through Florence, end in Venice." His voice carries a desperate kind of enthusiasm, like he's trying to drown out whatever darkness is lurking beneath the surface. "Two weeks of nothing but art and wine and getting lost in ancient cities."

Amber stares at him, really stares, taking in every detail. The slight tremor in his hands as he gestures about travel plans. The way his smile seems painted on, a perfect mask that doesn't quite hide the storm brewing behind it. The calculated casualness in his voice that reminds her too much of her father when he's hiding something.

"You're scaring me," she whispers, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

Something in his expression cracks - just for a second, but long enough for her to catch a glimpse of whatever he's fighting so hard to conceal. Then the mask slides back into place, smooth as polished marble.

"Just nervous about Stanford," he says, but they both know it's a lie. "And this summer... I want it to be perfect. You deserve perfect."

The way he says it - like he's running out of time to give her everything she deserves - sends a chill down her spine despite the warm afternoon sun.

"Nate-" she starts, but he's already pulling her back into his arms, pressing his lips to her forehead in that way that always makes her feel safe, protected, loved.

"Trust me," he murmurs against her skin. "Everything's going to be okay. I promise."

But as the sun continues its lazy arc across the sky, Amber can't shake the feeling that this moment - this perfect, peaceful moment - is somehow slipping through her fingers like water. And Nate, her golden boy with his Stanford dreams and travel plans, is holding onto something dark enough to make his hands shake when he thinks she isn't looking.