By Monday, Nora had decided something.
If Eli thought she was confused— If he believed what she felt was just comfort—
Then she would prove otherwise.
Not to him.
To herself.
Because the worst part of that night wasn't that he hesitated.
It was that he dismissed it.
Comfort.
The word echoed every time she thought about it.
So she did what people do when their pride is bruised.
She doubled down.
At school, she found Liam by the lockers before first period.
She slipped her hand into his without hesitation.
He blinked slightly in surprise.
Then smiled.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
It was simple.
But intentional.
In AP Lit, she sat closer to him than usual.
Her knee brushed his.
She didn't move away.
When he leaned over to whisper a joke about the reading, she laughed and let her hand rest on his forearm.
Across the aisle, Eli didn't look up.
But he saw everything.
He always did.
At lunch, she sat at the soccer table.
She hadn't done that before.
It had always felt like Eli's space.
But now it was Liam's too.
She slid into the seat beside her boyfriend, shoulder touching his.
The team noticed.
Of course they did.
"Carter leveled up," someone muttered.
Liam smirked slightly but squeezed her hand under the table.
Eli kept eating.
Calm. Detached. Controlled.
Only his jaw was tighter than usual.
After school, she stayed to watch practice.
Not from her usual spot near the bleachers.
But closer.
Near the field.
When Liam scored during scrimmage, she clapped first.
Loudest.
He jogged toward the sideline afterward, flushed and grinning.
"That one was for you," he said lightly.
She smiled up at him.
And because she felt Eli's gaze somewhere behind her—
she kissed Liam.
Not long.
Not inappropriate.
But visible.
Intentional.
The field went quiet for half a second.
Then noise resumed.
Eli turned away first.
That night at home, she was almost overly bright.
Talking about Liam's goal. About his upcoming college visit. About how focused he was lately.
Mrs. Callahan smiled, happy her daughter seemed animated.
Mr. Callahan listened quietly.
Eli said very little.
Not sulking.
Not cold.
Just absent.
Which hurt her more than anger would have.
Later, she caught him in the hallway.
"You're being weird," she said before she could stop herself.
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shrugged. "You seem happy."
There was no sarcasm in it.
That made it worse.
"I am," she said.
He nodded once.
"Good."
And he walked past her.
No fight. No edge. No reaction.
Just acceptance.
And that's when doubt crept in.
Because if what she felt had been imaginary—
if it had truly just been comfort—
wouldn't he be relieved?
Why did he look like he was bracing instead?
That night, alone in her room, she replayed the day.
The hand-holding. The kiss. The sitting at his table.
It had felt powerful at first.
Like control.
Like clarity.
But now—
it felt performative.
And she hated that word.
Because she didn't want Liam to be a statement.
She wanted him to be a choice.
And somewhere deep down—
she knew she was still measuring.
Still comparing.
Still waiting to see if Eli would break.
He didn't.
And that scared her more than if he had.
Meanwhile, in his room, Eli sat at his desk staring at nothing.
She looked happy.
She was choosing.
He had told her to.
So why did it feel like he'd handed her away?
He told himself again:
It was comfort.
It was proximity.
She's proving it now.
But the image of her kissing Liam on the sideline replayed anyway.
And it didn't look like confusion.
It looked like someone trying to convince herself.
The question was—
convince herself of what?