Page 40 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

I’d help, but we’ve been through that shit before.

History’s proven that the outcome is better for everyone if I keep the fuck out of his way.

Nate’s not just particular in the kitchen, he’s obsessive.

He’s got rules, systems, methods that make sense only to him.

The second you step into that space, you’re a threat.

You’re throwing off his rhythm, fucking with his balance.

You’re risking your hand if you reach for the wrong spoon.

And honestly, he loves the whole world of it.

The prep, the order, the control. He doesn’t just enjoy the process, he disappears into the ritual.

If music hadn’t claimed him first, food would’ve taken him instead.

No question. I can see the picture clear as day—Nate with his own restaurant, apron tied around his waist, scowling at line cooks while Gordon Ramsay–style yelling at someone for burning the fucking sauce.

He’d probably name the place something ridiculous. One word. Pretentious as shit. All clean lines and moody lighting. Menus with no prices. Steaks cooked to perfection for assholes in designer shirts who couldn’t tell the difference between rare and raw if it punched them in the face.

Still, when I watch him out here, with his shirt sleeves pushed up, jaw relaxed, face flushed from the heat of the grill, it makes me wonder if he ever imagines that life. If he ever lets himself picture a version with less noise. Less chaos.

I glance at Quinn.

She’s watching him too, eyes following every movement as Nate tends to the grill.

“Did you get some good shots today, Q?” Nate asks once the flames catch.

“Yeah,” she says. “Let me show you.”

She starts scrolling through the photos, and Nate steps closer without hesitation, his focus pulled straight to her.

I push up from my chair, scoop up my empty beer bottle and hers, and head inside for a refill.

The kitchen is still warm from earlier, the scent of garlic clinging to the air. I pop the fridge open, grab three beers, and when I shut the door, something catches my eye.

Through the open window, I catch a glimpse of them.

Nate’s leaning in, one hand braced on the edge of the table, his body angled toward her. Quinn’s showing him something on the screen, her finger tracing across the photos while her mouth moves in quiet explanation. Their heads are close. Shoulders brushing.

There’s a stillness between them. A gravity I wasn’t ready for.

And then it slams into me.

I know Nate. Every mood, every shift in his voice. Every wall he’s built since Bianca. And right now, those walls aren’t up. He’s open in a way I haven’t seen in years. Not with anyone and yet he’s letting Quinn in.

There’s something in the way Quinn looks at him, open, easy, familiar. Maybe she’s the one he’d risk everything for again.

I grab the beers and head back out before I start thinking too much.

Nate looks up as I hand him one. He cracks it open without a word, takes a long drink, then nods toward Quinn.

“She got some good shots. Kit’s gonna lose her shit.”

Quinn shrugs, thumb still moving over the screen. “I hope so.”

It catches me off guard.

This is the same girl with sarcasm on her tongue.

The same girl who never seemed to flinch, no matter what was thrown at her. Back then, she carried a kind of confidence that made you pay attention. Not loud or showy. Just steady and fucking unshakable. She was certain of who she was. What the fuck happened to her?

Nate moves to the grill, loading it with steaks as he talks shit about Ace’s inability to cook anything that isn’t frozen. Quinn laughs and for a second it all seems too easy. Too familiar.

I sit back in my chair and take a long pull of my beer, eyes drifting to her again. That same twist coils through me, heavier now.

I tell myself it’s nothing, but the burn in my chest says otherwise.

I meet Quinn’s eyes, and fuck me, there’s something there.

Her gaze lingers on mine longer than it should. I toss her a slow, smug smirk, letting her know I see it. I see her and every bit of that charged silence hanging between us.

My cock stirs at the thought, my mind already painting the picture in high-definition. Her, naked and spread out, thighs open, mouth parted. Me and Nate taking our time, working her over, giving her no room to think. Just pleasure. Just us.

I wonder what the fuck she sounds like when she comes. Does she fall apart fast or make us earn it? Is she loud? Does she take control or let herself be ruined?

I snap out of the spiral when she suddenly stands, camera clutched tight in her hand.

“I’m just gonna take this inside,” she says, voice a little too quick. “Won’t be a minute.”

She walks past me, and her scent slams into me. Sweet, warm, something soft I can’t name but want to drown in. My fingers twitch against the bottle in my hand, fighting the pull to reach out and make her stop. But I don’t.

She disappears through the door, and the second she’s gone, a weight settles on my skin.

Nate’s eyes are on me.

I turn and meet Nate’s stare, lifting one shoulder in a half-assed shrug. I don’t say shit. Don’t admit I was staring too long, mind already crossing a fucking line I won’t be able to step back from.

Nate checks the grill first, turning one of the steaks before stepping back. He grabs his beer from the table, eyes still fixed on the door she slipped through.

“Is she alright?”

“Yeah,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “I think so.”

“She did good with those photos,” he says.

“She did.” I take a drink, forcing my thoughts somewhere safer. “Did she show you the one of me and Ace?”

Nate lets out a low laugh. “Yeah. You look like you’re halfway through saying something that might’ve gotten you killed. She’s got good timing. Caught the whole mood.”

Silence drifts in for a beat. I watch him, the way I always do.

He stands at the grill, steady and focused, turning the steaks with that quiet intensity he brings to everything. Subtle but solid. Every move has weight. Nate’s never been the type to waste movement.

He grabs the empty plate he brought out earlier, the one that held the raw meat, balancing it easily in one hand. On his way to the door, his other hand lands on my shoulder. Just a quick touch. Barely there. Easy. Thoughtless.

But it wrecks me.

He doesn’t know what that touch does.

Doesn’t know I hold onto it longer than I should.

Has no idea how it steadies me in ways nothing else ever has.

I welcome it.

I live for it.

I fucking crave it.

Because I love him.

Not the watered-down version people throw around to make themselves feel better. This is the kind of love that lives in your bones. The kind that aches with every breath. The kind that never lets you forget.

He’s been my anchor ever since that afternoon he found me sitting on the side of the road, bleeding out in places no one could see. From that moment, he became my safety. My constant. My gravity in a world that never made any fucking sense.

And I could never risk losing him with the truth.

Not with a confession that might turn everything we have into ash.

I’ve told him I love him, but never the way it’s meant. Tossed it out casually, the way guys do between beers and bruises. “Love ya, man.” Covered it with a smirk, a punch to the shoulder, a laugh that made it sound harmless.

But it’s not harmless or nothing.

He doesn’t know that it eats me alive.

He doesn’t know that every time the words leave my mouth, I mean them with every fucked-up part of me. He doesn’t know how raw my throat feels afterward, how it burns to swallow it back down, how it nearly kills me to keep it buried.

There was a night I can’t forget. A few years back, when I almost told him.

We’d just finished moving into this house. It was late. We were on the couch, beers in hand, bodies half-sprawled from exhaustion. Shoulder to shoulder. Music low. The air still sharp with fresh paint and sawdust.

We sat there, taking in the house we had designed. The walls. The kitchen Nate had always wanted, all steel and dark counters. Eight fucking burners. A monster of a stove he’d gone on about for months before we bought it. Said a man wasn’t a real cook until he could command a range that big.

Boxes lined the edges of the room, still half-unpacked.

Shit we’d collected over the years—band posters, beat-up vinyls, that dented kettle we shared.

All stacked and labeled in Nate’s handwriting.

Every piece proof of a life we built without ever having to say that’s what it was.

The history of every fucked-up version of ourselves that somehow found something steady.

Watching Nate sip his beer and glance around as if he was letting himself breathe for the first time in years, I felt it hit me hard.

I felt the need to say it. That I loved him. Not the way you love a best friend. Not the way you love a brother. Something heavier. Messier. Something that’s lived in my chest since we were sixteen, before I even had the words for it.

The confession sat behind my teeth. I opened my mouth. Then I shut it.

Because what if it destroyed everything? What if he looked at me and saw something he couldn’t unsee? What if he walked away? I wouldn’t survive that. Not when he’s my entire fucking world.

So I swallowed it.

One more secret.

Another piece of myself buried with the rest. Maybe it will always stay there. It’s safer that way.

When we fuck, it’s always about the girl. We share them, pass them between us, the same way we always have. The rules never change. She’s the focus. The center of it. Never us. It’s never us.

But there are moments when I sense him.

In the way he moves. In the way our bodies fall into rhythm without thought.

He fucks with control. With intent. He always has. And somehow, I always fall into sync with him every single time.

Every first that ever mattered, Nate was there.

The first time I fucked, Bianca. Both of us tangled in her body, her breath, that single moment where everything seemed right. Him on one side, me on the other. Hands, mouths, sweat. Chaos and beauty all at once.

He’s threaded through every memory worth holding. Every scar I carry from the life I crawled out of, he softened just by standing next to me. Every win I’ve ever had, he’s been in the room.

And I’ve never told him, because I’m terrified of what it would change.

Of what it would ruin.

So I stay quiet.

I let it bleed through every smile I throw his way.

Every joke I crack.

Every night we sit together, pretending this isn’t something more.

I watch him.

I love him.

And I keep my mouth shut.

He’s my everything, and yet I’m too fucking scared to let the words out.