Chapter 170 What He Heard

Chapter 170 What He Heard
Nate’s POV
The bathroom door closed behind the girls, and the diner went still.
Not quiet — still.
Like the air had paused to listen.
Caleb leaned back in the booth, posture loosening as if he’d been waiting for an audience to leave. His shoulders dropped. His smile flattened. The polite, eager version of him evaporated, stripped away in seconds.
He didn’t look at me.
His phone buzzed.
He answered instantly.
“Yo,” he said, voice shifting into something cocky and unfiltered. “Yeah, I’m with the community college girl.”
My jaw stilled.
He laughed. “She’s low-hanging fruit. Easy enough to play until that party on Fifth starts.”
He stretched out his legs, comfortable now, like he’d been holding his breath all night and finally exhaled. His sneaker brushed the edge of my boot. He didn’t notice.
“I’ll be there by eleven,” he continued. “She’ll buy whatever story I give her. Girls like that always do.”
He didn’t lower his voice.
He didn’t check the room.
He didn’t care.
“Backup plan,” he added. “Total backup plan.”
He said it casually, as if it were nothing.
My vision tightened.
He kept going. “Nah, man, I’m not staying the whole night. Her friend’s here too — the plain one.”
Plain.
He meant Mila.
My Mila.
He laughed again. “Yeah, dude, I know. Total downgrade. But whatever. I’ll ditch them after food.”
A coldness settled in my chest. Not anger. Not shock. Just precision — the kind that made everything around me sharpen into clean lines.
He hung up, tossed his phone onto the table, and finally looked at me.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “You caught that, right?”
I didn’t answer.
He shrugged. “Whatever. No harm done. It’s not like she’s your girl.”
He nodded toward the hallway where the girls had disappeared.
“Unless you want her to be.”
My pulse didn’t spike.
My breathing didn’t change.
But the air around us shifted — heavier, tighter, charged.
He noticed.
His smirk faltered.
He tried again. “Relax, man. I’m just talking.”
I didn’t speak.
He cleared his throat, trying to recover. “Look, if you want to ditch them, we can. Grab a drink somewhere. You look like you need one.”
I stared at him.
He swallowed.
“Or… not,” he said quickly. “Just throwing it out there.”
He reached for a fry from the basket the waitress had dropped off earlier. He didn’t thank her. He didn’t even glance her way. He chewed loudly, eyes flicking between me and the hallway.
He was too busy watching me now, trying to read me.
Trying to figure out why I wasn’t reacting.
He didn’t understand that I was reacting.
Just not in a way he could see.
“So,” he said, forcing a laugh, “you and Mila. That’s a thing, right?”
I didn’t respond.
“She’s cute,” he continued. “Kind of quiet. Plain, but cute.”
Plain.
He kept using that word like it meant something.
“She seems like the type who’d be grateful,” he added. “You know. For the penthouse. The car. The whole rich-guy setup.”
My vision went red.
Not loud red.
Not explosive red.
Just the kind that narrowed everything down to a single point — him.
He didn’t notice.
He was too busy talking.
“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t get the appeal. She’s not—”
I moved.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the space between us.
Caleb froze.
His mouth snapped shut.
He stared at me, eyes wide.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t threaten him.
I didn’t touch him.
I just looked at him.
And whatever he saw in my eyes made his breath hitch.
He tried to laugh. “Dude… I was kidding.”
He wasn’t.
He knew he wasn’t.
I spoke for the first time.
“Don’t.”
He blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend you were joking.”
The color drained from his face.
He shifted in his seat, trying to find a way out of the moment. “Look, man, I—”
I stood.
Slowly.
Caleb’s back hit the booth cushion.
“Nate,” he said, voice cracking. “Come on. I didn’t mean—”
I didn’t give him time to finish.
I reached across the table, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him forward so fast his milkshake tipped over. The metal cup clattered against the table, vanilla spilling across the Formica.
He gasped.
I pulled him closer, close enough that he could see exactly what lived behind my eyes — the part of me that didn’t negotiate, didn’t warn, didn’t forgive.
He tried to speak.
I didn’t let him.
My fist connected with his jaw.
The sound was sharp — a clean, brutal crack that cut through the diner noise like a blade. A couple at a nearby table flinched. A fork dropped somewhere behind me.
Caleb’s head snapped sideways.
He slumped against the booth, stunned, mouth open, eyes unfocused.
I didn’t hit him again.
Not yet.
I stood over him, breathing steady, watching him try to understand what had just happened. His hand lifted to his jaw, fingers trembling.
“What the hell—”
He looked up at me, terrified now, all the swagger gone, all the smirking stripped away.
He opened his mouth again.
I didn’t let him speak.
I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright, dragging him halfway across the table. His feet scraped against the floor, knocking into the leg of the booth.
He choked out a sound — fear, pain, something pathetic.
I didn’t care.
I leaned in, voice low, lethal. “You don’t talk about her.”
He swallowed hard.
“You don’t talk about either of them.”
His eyes darted toward the hallway.
He knew the girls were coming back soon.
He knew they’d see him like this.
He knew he’d lost whatever game he thought he was playing.
I tightened my grip.
He whimpered.
“You opened your mouth. Now you deal with it.”
And then—
Footsteps.
Light ones.
Two sets.
Coming down the hallway.
I didn’t look.
I didn’t let go.
Caleb’s eyes went wide.
He knew exactly what was about to happen.
I pulled my fist back.
And swung.