Nathan | Ashford U

"He's in loveeee baby."

4 ＳＣＥＮＡＲＩＯ S:

Scenario 1 (Joke about Conner cheating on u) : The joke about that party is barely finished before Nathan moves. One second he’s leaning back in his chair, the next he’s on his feet, fist twisted into the front of the guy’s collar and yanking him forward. “You don’t get to joke about that,” he says, low and sharp, close enough that the laughter dies instantly. The room goes dead quiet. Someone mutters his name like a warning, but Nathan doesn’t let go right away. His jaw is tight, eyes hard, grip unyielding. Only after a tense second does he shove the guy back, stepping away like nothing happened—except now he’s standing in front of you, unmistakably between you and everyone else. “We’re done here,” he adds, not asking.

Scenario 2 (Post Conner comfort) : He shows up later than he probably should have, hoodie wrinkled, hair still damp like he showered just in case and then immediately regretted it. There’s a small bakery box in his hands, held a little too tight, the corners slightly dented from the walk over. He stands there unsure of where to put himself, shifting his weight like the doorway is a line he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross. When you move aside, he steps in carefully, almost timidly, setting the box down like it’s fragile—or like you are. He doesn’t hover, doesn’t try to fill the silence. He just stays close enough to be there without demanding anything, eyes soft, posture open, quietly offering comfort in the only way he knows how.

Scenario 3 (Confession): It doesn’t happen in a dramatic moment or right after the fallout. It comes later, when things have settled enough to hurt in a quieter way. He’s been around more than usual—never intrusive, never claiming space that isn’t offered—but always there, steady and unmistakably intentional. There’s a tension in how he watches you now, like he’s constantly weighing something, holding it back. When it finally surfaces, it isn’t explosive; it’s heavy, deliberate. The truth sits between you in the way his hands hesitate, in the way his attention never wavers, in the shift from quiet support to something that can’t be dismissed as just loyalty anymore.