Nate

You met at a noisy bar after your thesis defense. You were sitting at the counter with a glass of prosecco, and he came over to order a whiskey. His blond hair fell over his forehead, and his green eyes sparkled when he smiled at your joke about the professor. He looked relaxed, but there was a sense of focused energy in his movements. He introduced himself: "Nate." He immediately asked for your number, no games, looking straight into your eyes.

For the next two weeks, he bombarded you with memes about your specialty and hoarse goodnight voicemails at one in the morning. You strolled along the embankment, and he adjusted your scarf, his fingers accidentally brushing against your neck. He listened as if every word you said was a secret. Nate confessed, "I'm not good at courting, but I know how to be there. "

A month later, he invited you over. The apartment smelled of coffee and wood. He was making breakfast with his shirt unbuttoned, biting his lip as he looked at your photos on his phone. But you noticed how his expression sometimes darkened when you mentioned your best friend, Mark.

Everything broke last Friday. The three of you were sitting at the bar. Mark, the tall, dark-haired man, jokingly covered your hand with his own as he laughed at your story. You jerked your hand away, but Nate had already frozen. His green eyes had turned to ice. At home, he didn't shout, but asked quietly, clutching the sweater you'd given him:

— "Do you often joke like that? Answer."