Consciousness returns to Amber Rosenberg like a particularly vindictive hangover, each heartbeat a separate symphony of regret. The faint morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains feels like needles in her eyes, and her mouth tastes like she''s been gargling sand.


    Fragments of the previous night flash through her mind like a horror movie played in reverse: vodka burning down her throat, the diving board vibrating beneath her feet, falling—or almost falling—and then... nothing. Just a black hole where her dignity used to be.


    The silk sheets against her skin feel wrong, different from the Egyptian cotton she''s used to. Her eyes flutter open, and panic hits her system like cheap tequila as she realizes where she is. Nate''s room. The familiar sports trophies and AP certificates watch her from their careful arrangements on the walls, silent witnesses to her complete loss of control.


    But where is Nate?


    "Fuck," she whispers, the word scratching her throat. Her hands pat the bedside table, searching for her phone, finding nothing but empty space and growing dread.


    She swings her legs over the side of the bed, a move she immediately regrets as the world tilts sideways. Her fingers grip the edge of the mattress until the room stops spinning, her knuckles white against the dark sheets.


    When she can finally stand without the floor trying to escape from under her, she makes her way to the full-length mirror mounted on Nate''s closet door. The sight that greets her stops her cold. Her Harley Quinn makeup is gone, every trace of last night''s disaster carefully erased. Her hair falls straight and clean around her shoulders, the temporary pink and blue dye completely washed out. She lifts her arm to her nose—the familiar scent of Nate''s shampoo fills her senses, triggering a cascade of hazy memories.


    Nate carrying her up the stairs, his arms steady despite everything. The shower running, warm water washing away her mistakes while his voice murmured soft reassurances. Her own voice, small and broken: "I love you, I love you, I''m sorry, please..."


    Horror crawls up her throat as she realizes what she''s wearing: Nate''s old shirt from sophomore year, the one she always steals during their study sessions, and—her stomach drops—a pair of his boxer briefs, the Calvin Klein waistband sitting low on her hips.


    "Oh god," she breathes, pressing her palms against her eyes until she sees stars. She''s Amber Rosenberg. She doesn''t do this—doesn''t lose control, doesn''t need to be taken care of like some freshman at their first party. She''s supposed to be perfect, untouchable, above the messy reality of human weakness.


    Desperate for her phone—for some connection to her carefully constructed world—she returns to the bed, searching between the sheets with increasing urgency. She needs to check the damage, to see what''s been posted, to begin the careful work of reputation management that her mother taught her alongside table manners and social warfare.


    "Looking for something?"


    The voice freezes her in place. She turns slowly, her heart performing a complex gymnastics routine in her chest.


    Nate stands in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, a glass of cloudy liquid in his hand. He''s already dressed in dark jeans and a navy polo. His hair is damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges in a way that usually makes her fingers itch to touch it.


    But there''s something different in how he holds himself—a careful distance that has nothing to do with physical space and everything to do with the words they hurled at each other last night. Words that are starting to come back to her with horrible clarity.


    He closes the door with his foot, fishing her phone from his pocket. "I charged it on my dad''s charger," he says, tossing it in a gentle arc toward her.


    She catches it automatically, the familiar weight doing nothing to anchor her in this moment that feels like quicksand. Her eyes fix on the glass in his hand as he crosses to sit beside her—not too close, she notices with a pain that feels like frostbite.


    "What is it?" Her voice comes out raspier than intended.


    "ORS," he replies, clinical as his mother during hospital rounds. "Mixed with aspirin and ibuprofen." A pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Drink it. You''ll feel better."


    Amber takes the glass, their fingers carefully not touching during the exchange. The liquid tastes like artificial citrus and redemption as she drinks, each sip a reminder of how far she''s fallen. How far they''ve fallen.


    Because last night wasn''t just about her losing control. It was about trust, and phones, and Lisa Chen, and all the careful lies they''ve been telling themselves since freshman year when being together seemed as natural as breathing.


    "Nate," she starts, but he''s already standing, putting that careful distance between them again.


    "You should eat something," he says, his voice carrying that particular tone she''s only heard him use with injured teammates—gentle but removed. "I''ll bring up some toast."


    "I''m so sorry," Amber whispers, her voice barely carrying across the space between them.


    Nate remains by the door, his posture carefully neutral. "Your parents know you''re here," he says, each word measured and precise. "I texted them last night. Told them you weren''t feeling well after the party and crashed in our guest room. They don''t know anything else." A pause. "My parents didn''t notice either."


    The clinical way he delivers this information—like reading a patient chart—makes something crack inside her chest. "Nate, I''m sorry—"


    "I''ll get you something to eat." He turns toward the door, his hand already on the knob.


    "Please," The word breaks free from her throat, raw and desperate. Tears spill down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable. "I''m such a bitch. After everything you''ve done for me. Ever. Last night—" Her voice catches. "Cleaning me up, taking care of me like that. I love you, Nate Brooks. I love you so much it makes me crazy."


    Nate''s hand falls from the doorknob. He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.


    "I get these..." Amber presses her palms against her eyes, trying to stop the tears. "These moods. These mood swings. I''ve had them my whole life. My mom calls them my ''episodes.'' Says Rosenberg women are just passionate." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Yesterday, when I saw Lisa with you, something just... snapped. Like a string that''s been pulled too tight for too long."


    She looks up to find Nate watching her, his expression unreadable. "I''ve never told anyone," she continues, her voice small. "Can''t let anyone see the cracks in perfect Amber Rosenberg, right? Can''t let them know that sometimes I feel like I''m drowning in my own head, like everything''s too much and not enough all at once."


    The tears flow freely now, years of carefully maintained control crumbling like wet sand. "Sometimes I think that''s why I love you so much. Because when I''m with you, everything makes sense. Everything''s quiet. But then I get so scared of losing you that I—" She chokes on the words. "I try to control everything. And I end up destroying it instead."


    Nate crosses the room in three long strides, sinking onto the bed beside her. His eyes—those warm brown eyes that still make her heart skip—are bright with unshed tears.


    "Come here," he murmurs, opening his arms.


    Amber falls into his embrace like coming home. His arms wrap around her, strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of her head like she''s something precious. She buries her face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his soap, his skin, his essence.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "I''ve got you," he whispers into her hair. "I''ve always got you."


    In the safety of his arms, with morning light painting patterns on his bedroom walls, Amber Rosenberg finally lets herself be exactly who she is: not the queen of Riverside High, not Richard Rosenberg''s perfect daughter, just a girl who sometimes breaks, held together by a boy who loves her enough to pick up the pieces.


    They break apart slowly, like ice melting in spring. Nate shifts, positioning himself cross-legged opposite her on the bed. Something in his posture remains guarded, but his eyes hold a warmth that makes Amber''s heart flutter traitorously in her chest.


    He reaches for her feet, pulling them into his lap. His hands are warm as they wrap around her cold ankles, thumbs pressing gently against the bones there. Such a simple touch, but it anchors her to this moment, to him.


    "Tell me about these mood swings," he says softly, his eyes finding hers. "How long have they been happening?"


    Amber draws in a shaky breath. "Forever, maybe? I remember being eight, having this complete meltdown because my ballet shoes weren''t exactly the right shade of pink. Mom had to special order them from Paris." She lets out a bitter laugh. "God, that sounds so spoiled."


    "It''s not about the shoes," Nate says quietly, his fingers working gentle circles around her ankles. "Keep going."


    "Sometimes everything feels... too bright. Too loud. Too much." The words come easier now, like his touch is drawing them out. "Like yesterday, seeing Lisa with you. It''s like someone turned up all my emotions to maximum volume. I couldn''t... I couldn''t think straight."


    His hands move to her feet, warming them between his palms. "And other times?"


    "Other times I feel invincible. Like I could conquer the world with one perfectly arched eyebrow." She attempts a smile, but it wobbles. "That''s usually when I do something stupid. Like organize charity galas no sixteen-year-old should be planning, or decide the entire cheerleading squad needs new uniforms because the current ones are ''pedestrian.''"


    Nate''s thumbs press into her arches, making her gasp softly. "Your mom knows?"


    "She calls it ‘my episodes’." Amber''s voice takes on a mocking tone. "''We''re passionate women, darling. We feel things deeply. Now take your Xanax and fix your makeup.''"


    "Jesus, Amber."


    "A Rosenberg must remain strong," she recites, the words bitter on her tongue. "Must never show weakness. Must always be in control." Her voice cracks. "Even when we''re falling apart inside."


    His hands still on her feet. "Is that why you went through my phone? Because you felt out of control?"


    The question hits her like a slap, but his touch remains gentle, grounding. "I saw how she looked at you in AP Lit. The way she laughed at your stupid Hemingway jokes. And suddenly I couldn''t... I couldn''t breathe. Couldn''t think. I had to know."


    "You could have asked me."


    "Could I?" She meets his eyes. "When every time I brought up Lisa, you got all defensive? When you started spending more time in the library ''studying'' than at practice?"


    His fingers resume their gentle massage. "I was helping her with her Yale application."


    "I know that now." Amber swallows hard. "But in my head, every time I saw you together, it was like... like watching someone prettier, smarter, better stealing the one thing that makes my world make sense."


    "Me?" His voice is soft, questioning.


    "You." She blinks back fresh tears. "Because you''re the only person who''s ever seen past all the... the Rosenberg stuff. Who makes me feel like maybe I don''t have to be perfect all the time."


    "But you still try."


    "I have to!" The words burst out of her. "Dad''s on the hospital board with your mom. Our families have known each other forever. Everyone expects us to be this perfect power couple, and I just... I can''t be the one who ruins it. Can''t be the crazy girlfriend who can''t keep it together. Can''t be the reason Nate Brooks decides to date someone normal instead of—"


    "Hey." His hands leave her feet, reaching for her face. "Look at me."


    She does, finding his brown eyes serious and intent.


    "You''re not crazy," he says firmly. "You''re human. And maybe..." He takes a deep breath. "Maybe we both need to be better at talking about the hard stuff. No more checking phones. No more pretending everything''s fine when it''s not. Deal?"


    A sob catches in her throat. "Deal."


    His thumbs brush away her tears. "Now, how about that toast?"


    For the first time all morning, Amber Rosenberg actually smiles.


    Amber lets out a shaky laugh. "So I''m sitting here telling you your girlfriend is literally crazy, and you''re worried about whether I''ve eaten?"


    "I meant what I said the other day, Amber." His voice is soft but sure as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "One day, I''m going to marry you."


    The words wrap around her heart like a promise, but then his expression grows serious. "But what you did yesterday was fucked up. And I—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I was drunk too. Said things I shouldn''t have said."


    "Please don''t," Amber whispers, reaching for his hand. "You don''t need to apologize."


    "I have to." His fingers intertwine with hers. "I should have seen it earlier. Should have understood what was happening with you."


    A silence settles between them, heavy with unspoken things. Then Nate takes a deep breath. "Have you ever talked to someone about your ‘episodes’?"


    "No." Amber''s voice is small. "You''re the first one."


    "No, I mean—" He hesitates. "Someone professional?"


    She stiffens. "You think I''m crazy."


    "No, no." The words tumble out quickly as he brings her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "It''s just... you''re intense sometimes. And I love that about you—god, I love it. But yesterday was too much."


    Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I thought I lost you, Nate..."


    "You did." His words land like stones in still water. He meets her eyes, his gaze steady and serious. "Yesterday, I thought this was it. Thought we were done."


    The admission hits her like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. Because this is Nate Brooks—her Nate, who''s been her constant since freshman year, who knows all her sharp edges and loves her anyway. The idea of losing him feels like losing gravity.


    "What changed your mind?" Amber asks, her voice barely a whisper.


    Nate''s thumb traces circles on her ankle. "This. The real you. Just Amber. The girl who cries at dog commercials and organizes fundraisers because she actually cares, not just for show. The girl I fell in love with."


    "I''m so sorry about everything. The jealousy, Lisa—"


    "Fuck Lisa," Nate cuts her off, his voice hard as steel.


    Amber blinks, surprised by his tone. "But I thought... you two were friends?"


    He lets out a harsh laugh. "Friends? Right. Friends don''t send the kind of pictures she sent me at 2 AM." His fingers tighten on her leg. "You want to know something? What you did wasn''t right, but if some guy tried to come between us like that? If he sent you pictures, tried to—" He breaks off, jaw clenched. "I would have lost it completely. Because you''re everything to me, Amber. Everything."


    A soft laugh escapes her chest.


    "Always." His expression softens, eyes filled with something that makes her heart skip. "Though maybe with less public drama next time."


    "So... what now?" She holds her breath, waiting.


    "Now?" His eyes meet hers, filled with pure adoration. "Now we heal. Today isn''t about the future or the past. Today is about taking care of the most precious person in my world."


    "What do you mean?"


    A gentle smile plays at his lips. "My parents left an hour ago for that medical conference in Boston." His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining. "Which means today is about making you feel cherished. About showing you exactly how much you mean to me."


    "And how do you plan to do that?"


    "First, food, because I need you to be strong and healthy." His thumb traces her palm like he''s memorizing it. "Then? I''m going to spend the whole day proving how much I adore you. Going to give you those back rubs you love, the ones that make you fall asleep smiling. Kiss away every worry line, every trace of stress. Make sure you''re drinking enough water because I can''t bear to see you hurting like this morning."


    His voice is soft, reverent. "Going to hold you while we watch whatever movies you want, even those ridiculous romantic comedies you pretend not to cry at. Order from that little Italian place you love. Just... worship you, the way you deserve. The way I should have been doing instead of letting you doubt for even a second how much you mean to me."


    Amber feels something inside her settle, like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Not because everything''s fixed—she knows they have work to do, conversations to have, trust to rebuild. But because right now, in this moment, she''s exactly where she belongs: with a boy who sees all her broken pieces and treats them like treasures.


    "Nate Brooks," she says softly, "I don''t deserve you."


    "No," he agrees, pulling her into his arms. "You deserve the world. But until I can give you that, you''re stuck with me."


    And as morning light paints patterns on his bedroom walls, Amber Rosenberg learns that sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let yourself be weak with the right person.