Chapter Five — A Witness To Betrayal

It was one of rare occurrences that Nate Mercer didn't find himself tethered and attached to Derek. He was a few hours into a forty eight hour shift and it had been good, at least, so far, Nate knew all too well nothing could be promised in a hospital.

The exam room felt colder than usual, the kind of sterile chill that crept under your skin and made you feel small. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, casting their clinical glow over every sharp corner of the space. Nate Mercer adjusted the collar of his white coat as he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. His expression was calm, professional, but there was a quiet warmth in the polite smile he offered his patient.

"Mark Holland?"

The man on the exam table looked up, slow and deliberate, as though even the act of moving his head took more energy than he could spare. His dark curls clung damply to his forehead, a faint sheen of sweat betraying his discomfort. Mark's tired eyes met Nate's, and in that one glance, Nate could see it the frustration, the worry, the weight of feeling like your body is betraying you.

"That's me," Mark replied, his voice light but carrying the unmistakable undercurrent of exhaustion.

"I'm Dr. Mercer, one of the neurosurgeons here," Nate introduced himself, stepping further into the room. He set his tablet on the counter before leaning slightly against the wall, arms crossed in a posture that was open but grounded. He wanted to set the tone: confident but approachable, reassuring without making promises he wasn't ready to keep. "I'll be heading up your case. I went over the notes from your primary care doctor—dizziness, nausea, hearing loss in your right ear. How long has this been going on?"

Mark shifted slightly on the table, moving as if even sitting upright was an effort. He ran a hand over his face before letting it drop into his lap. "Uh, it started about a month ago? At first, I thought it was nothing. I'd get dizzy if I stood up too fast, you know? But then it got worse. Like, I can't even hold my camera steady anymore."

"Camera?" Nate asked, tilting his head slightly.

"I'm a photographer," Mark clarified, though the words felt hollow, like they belonged to someone else now. He shrugged, trying to seem casual about it, but his fingers twitched against his knee, betraying the frustration bubbling beneath his surface. "And my hearing... it's not just bad. It's like someone stuffed cotton in my ear and forgot about it."

Nate nodded slowly, his expression softening. "That's got to be frustrating."

Mark let out a short, humorless laugh. "You could say that. My girlfriend keeps telling me to 'sit down and stop being stubborn,' but I can't exactly take pictures from a couch."

Nate's lips quirked into a faint smile at that. "Well, hopefully, we can figure this out so you're not stuck on the couch for much longer." He pushed off the wall, pulling a small penlight from his pocket. "Mind if I take a look?"

Mark shook his head. "Go for it."

Nate stepped closer, his movements calm and measured. The exam room fell into a quiet rhythm as he worked, guiding Mark through a series of simple tests.

"Follow the light with your eyes," Nate instructed, watching intently as Mark's gaze tracked the small beam. There was a slight delay in his right eye, almost imperceptible, but Nate caught it.

He lowered the light and moved on, testing reflexes, balance, and sensation. Each new test was met with quiet determination on Mark's part, though the effort it took was clear.

"Have you noticed any changes in your facial muscles? Any numbness or tingling?" Nate asked, tilting his head as he studied Mark's expression.

Mark furrowed his brow, his fingers twitching against his thigh again. "Now that you mention it... yeah. Sometimes I'll get this weird tingling sensation on the right side of my face. It comes and goes, though."

Nate's mouth pressed into a thin line, his suspicions solidifying into a sharper picture. He set the penlight aside and grabbed his tablet, pulling up a visual model of the brain.

"Alright," he began, his tone steady but not dismissive. "Based on what you've told me and what I'm seeing here, I think we might be dealing with something called a vestibular schwannoma."

Mark blinked, his body going unnaturally still at the unfamiliar term. "A... what?"

"A vestibular schwannoma," Nate repeated, tapping the tablet to zoom in on the auditory nerve. "It's a type of tumor that grows on the nerve connecting your inner ear to your brain. It's not uncommon, but it does explain the symptoms you've been experiencing—dizziness, hearing loss, the facial tingling."

Mark stared at the screen, his expression carefully neutral, though his jaw tightened ever so slightly. "A tumor," he said, testing the word like it was foreign on his tongue. "Is it... cancer?"

Nate shook his head. "In most cases, vestibular schwannomas are benign. That means it's not cancer. But depending on the size and location, it can still cause problems, like the ones you've been dealing with. That's why I'm going to order an MRI to confirm what we're looking at and figure out the next steps."

Mark's hands gripped the edge of the exam table, his knuckles white against the gray plastic. "Next steps meaning surgery?"

"Possibly," Nate said honestly, meeting Mark's gaze with an openness that felt grounding. "It depends on the size of the tumor and how much it's affecting the surrounding structures. Surgery is one option. Another option is something called radiosurgery—it's a non-invasive treatment that uses targeted radiation to shrink the tumor. We won't know which approach is best until we have more information."

Mark's breathing was slow but deliberate, like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. "And if we don't do anything? What happens then?"

Nate hesitated, but only for a moment. "If left untreated, the tumor could continue to grow. That could lead to more severe hearing loss, balance problems, or even pressure on the brainstem. It's not something we want to ignore."

Mark nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the screen, even though it was clear his thoughts were miles away. "Alright," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "Let's do the MRI."

"Good," Nate said, his tone firm but reassuring. He closed the tablet and stepped back, giving Mark a bit of space to process. "We'll schedule it as soon as possible. In the meantime, if you notice any new symptoms—anything at all—you let me know, okay?"

Mark gave a faint nod, though his fingers still gripped the table. "Okay. Thanks, Dr. Mercer."

Nate smiled softly. "You're not in this alone, Mark. We'll figure it out."

As he left the room, Nate let out a slow breath, the weight of the conversation settling over him like a heavy coat. Cases like this were always delicate, a balancing act between being honest and being hopeful. But as he made his way back to his office, his mind was already working through the next steps, determined to give Mark Holland his life back.

The MRI suite was dimly lit, the quiet hum of the machine providing a steady background noise as Nate stood at the glass, his eyes fixed on the screen. It was a standard procedure, a routine moment in his day. but for some reason, it felt anything but ordinary. His thoughts kept drifting back to the events that had unfolded in the last few days.

The scan unfolding in front of him demanded his attention, though, and he forced himself to focus on the patient's case. He had to. Mark Holland's tumor wasn't going to wait for his distractions to settle. He couldn't afford to let his emotions get in the way of a life-or-death situation.

"Mercer."

Nate turned at the sound of Webber's voice. The attending stood behind him now, his presence comforting and steady as always. Webber had the ability to cut through the chaos, making even the most complicated cases seem manageable with just a few words. But today, Nate was struggling to keep himself grounded, his mind a little too cluttered.

"Dr. Webber," Nate greeted, offering a brief but polite smile.

Webber joined him at the console, eyes flicking to the screen. His sharp gaze immediately took in the images. The tumor was visible now, a mid-sized schwannoma, tucked just behind Mark's inner ear, close to the brainstem. Nate had been following the scans for the past few minutes, his mind processing the data, but he couldn't shake the nagging thoughts about Derek.

"What's our next move?" Webber asked, his tone professional but with an undercurrent of quiet authority that Nate couldn't ignore.

Nate straightened up, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to return to the present. "The tumor is small enough that it hasn't fully invaded the brainstem. But if we leave it, it's going to keep growing. We'll need to move quickly. I'm thinking surgery to remove it."

Webber nodded slowly, eyes still focused on the screen. "I agree. The sooner we act, the better. But you're going to want to make sure you've got the right approach here. A schwannoma like this can cause some serious complications if you don't get it all."

"I know," Nate replied, his voice steady but taut. "I'll need to run some more tests before we do anything drastic. But I'm confident this is the best option."

Webber hummed in agreement. "You've done your homework, Mercer. Good work."

Nate's lips pressed into a thin line as he stood beside the machine, trying to focus on the task at hand. The last thing he wanted to do was share his personal turmoil with Webber, especially considering the fact that Webber had no clue about what had happened between him and Derek. Nate didn't plan on bringing it up. He didn't want anyone to know.

He couldn't risk it.

"You've got a lot on your plate, Mercer," Webber continued, his gaze flicking from the screen back to Nate. "Don't forget to take care of yourself in the process. You're doing great, but I don't want you burning out."

Nate didn't look at him. Instead, he continued to examine the scan. His stomach tightened, a wave of anxiety creeping in. He knew what Webber meant. He knew the weight of responsibility that came with his position, and he knew that it was easy to lose sight of everything else when the pressure got too intense. But he didn't need anyone telling him that right now. Especially not Webber.

"I'm fine," Nate said, his voice low. He didn't make eye contact, unwilling to let Webber see the underlying tension in his posture. "I've got it under control."

Webber studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, Nate felt as though Webber could see right through him could see the chaos brewing inside him, could see the layers of confusion and conflict that had taken root ever since that night with Derek. But then Webber turned back to the scan, nodding thoughtfully.

"Well, if you're sure," Webber said, his tone softening. "Just don't forget you've got a team here if you need help. You don't have to do this alone."

Nate opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say to that? He didn't want to share the details of what he was really going through, not with Webber, not with anyone. This wasn't about Derek. This was about Mark, about the surgery, about saving a life. Nate clenched his jaw, willing his mind to focus.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, his voice flat. He took a step back, his hands moving instinctively toward the tablet on the counter. "But for now, we've got work to do."

Webber seemed satisfied with the answer and gave a short nod. "I'll leave you to it then. You know where to find me if you need anything."

Nate barely heard him. His thoughts were already elsewhere, already back on the patient in front of him. He wasn't going to let Derek distract him. He was going to handle this. The same way he handled everything else: by burying his feelings and focusing on the task at hand. He'd done it before. He could do it again.

He just needed to get through this one moment at a time.

As Webber left the room, Nate stood still for a moment longer. His hands were clenched at his sides, his heart pounding, but he didn't move. Instead, he returned his gaze to the screen. The tumor was still there.

Nate hated this part of the job, he hated having to be the one to break the bad news to his patients, still, whilst it wasn't completely bad, Nate could feel the apprehension in his chest as he clutched his board in his hand, his expression arranged into a calm professionalism. Mark Holland sat in the bed, his shoulders hunched forward like the tension in his body was holding him upright. Beside him, his girlfriend sat perched on a plastic chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her dark curls framed her face, but it was the worry in her wide eyes that Nate noticed first.

Nate offered them both a reassuring smile as he shut the door behind him. "Thanks for waiting," he said, moving to the counter where he set the tablet down. He leaned slightly against the counter, the picture of ease, though his mind was anything but. Delivering news like this was never easy, no matter how many times you did it.

"So," he started, his voice calm but steady, "I've had a chance to review the MRI results. The good news is, the tumor is benign." He paused, letting that sink in, his gaze flicking between Mark and his girlfriend.

Mark's head tilted slightly, his brows furrowing as he processed the words. There was a flicker of relief in his eyes, but it was short lived. He wasn't naive enough to think that was the end of the conversation.

"The not-so-good news," Nate continued, his tone softening, "is that the tumor is pressing against some critical structures in your brain. That's what's been causing your symptoms; your dizziness, the hearing loss, the facial tingling. And unfortunately, if we don't address it, those symptoms are only going to get worse."

Mark nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he gripped the edge of the table. His girlfriend reached out, placing a hand over his, her fingers trembling slightly. "Surgery, then," Mark said, his voice flat, almost resigned.

"Yes," Nate said, straightening up slightly. He moved toward Mark, standing close enough to make the conversation feel personal but not overwhelming. "The procedure involves removing as much of the tumor as possible without damaging the surrounding nerves. The tricky part is that the tumor is located near some very delicate structures, nerves that control your hearing, balance, and even facial movement."

Mark's girlfriend stiffened at that, her fingers tightening over his hand. "Delicate structures?" she asked, her voice wavering. "What does that mean? What are the risks?"

Nate met her eyes, his own steady and kind. He didn't sugarcoat things, but he also didn't want to alarm her unnecessarily. "The biggest risk is further hearing loss. We'll do everything we can to preserve the nerve, but depending on how much of the tumor we can safely remove, there's a chance that your hearing might not fully recover."

Mark let out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. He looked like a man trying to hold onto his composure with both hands, and Nate felt a pang of sympathy. It wasn't easy, being told your body was betraying you. And it wasn't easy watching someone you love go through it either.

"What happens if we don't do the surgery?" Mark's girlfriend asked, her voice small but steady. She was doing her best to stay strong, but Nate could see the cracks forming in her resolve.

Nate hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. He always hated this part. "If the tumor isn't removed, it will keep growing. As it grows, it'll put more pressure on your brainstem and surrounding nerves. Eventually, it could compress your brainstem entirely, which would be life-threatening."

The air in the room felt heavier after that. Mark's shoulders sagged, and his girlfriend's hand slipped from his, falling limply into her lap. Silence settled over them, thick and suffocating.

Finally, Mark lifted his head. His eyes met Nate's, and there was a determination there that hadn't been present before. "Alright," he said, his voice firm despite the tremor in it. "Let's do it."

Nate nodded, his own expression softening. "You're making the right choice," he said gently. "I'll walk you through everything. We'll schedule the surgery as soon as possible, and I'll be with you every step of the way."

Mark's girlfriend looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're sure this is the best option?" she asked, her voice breaking on the last word.

Nate crouched slightly so he was at eye level with her, his expression earnest. "I wouldn't recommend it if I didn't believe it was the best course of action. I know it's a lot to take in, and I know it's scary. But Mark is in good hands. We're going to do everything we can to get him through this."

She nodded, her lower lip trembling as she looked back at Mark. He reached for her hand again, squeezing it tightly, and Nate felt a pang in his chest. He'd seen this scene play out countless times, patients clinging to their loved ones, trying to be brave in the face of uncertainty. But it never got any easier.

"Do you have any other questions for me?" Nate asked, straightening up again.

Mark shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "No," he said quietly. "I just, I want to get it over with."

Nate nodded. "I'll have the surgical coordinator come in and go over the next steps with you. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, don't hesitate to reach out."

He gave them both a reassuring smile before stepping out of the room, leaving them to process the news. As the door closed behind him, he leaned against the wall for a moment, exhaling slowly. Cases like this always took a toll. No matter how experienced you were, no matter how many times you had the same conversation, it never stopped being personal. It wasn't just about tumors and symptoms and surgeries; it was about people. About their lives and the lives of the people who loved them.

The on call room was dim, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as Nate sat perched on the small sofa, his posture relaxed but his focus sharp. A clipboard rested on his lap, pages of notes scrawled in his precise handwriting detailing tomorrow's vestibular schwannoma surgery. A highlighter twirled absently in his fingers, a quiet rhythm in sync with his thoughts. He'd been here for hours, running through the procedure in his mind like a mantra, ticking off risks, strategies, and contingencies.

This wasn't just another surgery. Mark Holland's tumor sat perilously close to his brainstem, weaving through the labyrinth of cranial nerves like a quiet intruder. It would take every ounce of precision Nate had to remove it without causing permanent damage.

He was so absorbed in his task that he barely registered the sound of the door opening. A soft creak, followed by familiar footsteps, pulled him out of his thoughts. Nate didn't have to look up to know who it was. He could recognize Derek Shepherd's presence anywhere, the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of his cologne. It was maddening how easily his body responded, a quiet heat curling in his chest despite his better judgment.

"You really know how to make a place feel alive," Derek said, his voice low, amused, as he leaned against the doorframe. "All work, no play. That's very you."

Nate didn't bother looking up. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were stalking me."

Derek laughed, that effortless, charming sound that seemed to echo more than it should have. "Maybe I am," he teased, but there was a softness in his tone, a lingering affection that he didn't try to hide.

Nate's jaw tightened, his pen stilling against the clipboard. He looked up then, his gaze sharp but not unkind. "What do you want, Shepherd?"

Derek pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room like he owned the place. He shoved his hands in his pockets, the picture of casual confidence as he came to stand just a few feet away. "I came to see if you're going to the party tonight. Meredith's hosting. Everyone's going."

Nate raised a brow, unimpressed. "You mean Izzie's hosting. Meredith just happens to live there."

Derek tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fair point. So? Are you going?"

"Izzie invited me a few days ago," Nate said, returning his attention to the notes in front of him. He flipped a page, his tone deliberately disinterested. "And before you ask, no, parties aren't my thing. But she wants me there, so I'll make an appearance."

There was a beat of silence, the kind that felt loaded with things unsaid. Nate could feel Derek watching him, could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. It was infuriating, how easily Derek unsettled him without even trying. He refused to look up again, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting under his skin.

"I think you'd enjoy it," Derek said after a moment, his voice lighter now, more conversational. "It's not all that bad, you know. Just drinks, music, some terrible dancing."

Nate huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Terrible dancing sounds like a great time."

"Come on," Derek said, taking another step closer. "It wouldn't kill you to have a little fun. Let someone else carry the weight for a night."

Nate finally looked up, his expression sharp, like he was dissecting Derek with his gaze alone. "Fun," he repeated, his voice dry. "Right. Because the guy with a tumor pressing on his brainstem can just take a backseat in my mind for a night so I can enjoy cheap beer and awkward small talk. Sounds fantastic."

Derek's smile faltered, just a little. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Do I?" Nate's brow arched, his tone pointed. He leaned back against the sofa, crossing his arms as he held Derek's gaze. "You're really going to lecture me about balance?"

Derek winced, just barely, and Nate felt a bitter flicker of satisfaction at the reaction. But Derek, being Derek, recovered quickly, masking the hit with a soft laugh. "Touché," he said, tilting his head slightly. "But for the record, I didn't come here to fight."

"Then what did you come here for?" Nate shot back, his voice clipped. "To flirt? Because if that's the case, you're wasting your time."

Derek smirked, a flash of that infamous charm slipping through. "Flirting? Who said anything about flirting?"

"You didn't have to." Nate set the clipboard aside, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. "This little routine of yours? It doesn't work on me, Derek. Not anymore."

"It did the other night." Derek smirked casually, before his expression softened, a shadow of something almost vulnerable crossing his face. He sat down in the chair across from Nate, his posture casual but his gaze intent. "It's not a routine," he said, his voice quieter now. "I meant what I said. You should come to the party. Not for me, not for anyone else. For you."

Nate snorted, shaking his head as he looked away. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend like you care," Nate said, his tone bitter but not loud. "You're good at a lot of things, Derek, but you're not good at being honest. Not with me. Not with Meredith. Not with yourself."

Derek leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his thighs as he tried to catch Nate's gaze again. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Nate finally met his eyes, and for a moment, the weight of everything unspoken between them hung heavy in the air. The kiss, the stolen glances, the way Derek always seemed to find him no matter how hard Nate tried to stay out of his orbit, it was all there, unspoken but painfully obvious.

Derek sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look, I know things are... complicated. But I'm trying, Nate."

"Trying?" Nate laughed, a short, humorless sound. "You want credit for trying? You don't get points for effort when you're playing both sides of the field."

"That's not what this is," Derek said firmly, his voice taking on a rare edge of defensiveness. "I care about you. I always have."

Nate's chest tightened, the words hitting a little too close to home. He wanted to believe him. God, a part of him wanted nothing more than to believe Derek Shepherd cared about him in the way he said he did. But actions spoke louder than words, and Derek's actions had always left Nate feeling like the backup plan.

"That's not enough," Nate said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."

Derek didn't respond right away, his expression unreadable as he watched Nate with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. After a long pause, he stood, smoothing his hands over his lab coat.

"For what it's worth," Derek said softly, "I think you'd be great at parties."

Nate didn't respond, his gaze locked on Derek as he stood there, the words hanging awkwardly in the space between them. The room felt smaller now, the air thicker, like the weight of everything they weren't saying was pushing in on the walls. Nate was used to the silence, used to pushing down the way Derek's words made his chest feel tight, used to ignoring the part of himself that wanted to reach for something he couldn't have.

Derek hesitated for a moment longer, like he was expecting Nate to say something, but when the silence stretched on, he gave a small nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, his voice almost hesitant, before turning and heading for the door.

But as Derek reached for the handle, Nate couldn't help himself. "You care about me?" he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet.

Derek froze, his hand hovering just over the door handle. He turned slowly, his expression carefully guarded now, but his eyes gave him away, they always did. They were too blue, too open, too full of things he tried to hide but never could. "I do," he said simply.

The roar of Nate's motorbike died out as he pulled into a spot down the street from Meredith's house. The faint echo of his engine rumbled in the stillness of the night, swallowed quickly by the muffled bass of the party spilling from the house ahead. Nate kicked the stand down, tugging off his helmet as he took in the scene.

The driveway was crammed with cars, one of which immediately caught his eye: Derek's. Sleek, silver, and impossible to miss. Nate's fingers tightened on the strap of his helmet, his jaw clenching for a moment before he shook it off. He hadn't come here for him.

Izzie had begged Nate to show up for her party days ago. She'd teased him mercilessly about his lack of a social life, promising that she'd make it worth his while, and despite himself, he'd said yes. And yet she wasn't even showing up as she was trapped at the hospital, swamped with patients.

Now, standing at the curb with the party pulsing ahead of him, Nate wondered if it had been a mistake to come at all. Parties weren't his thing. They never had been.

He slid his helmet onto the handlebars of the bike and walked toward the house, his boots crunching softly on the pavement. As he neared the front yard, he spotted a familiar figure sitting on the steps, slumped forward, a bottle dangling from her hand.

Meredith Grey.

Her blonde hair was tangled, her shoulders slouched in a way that looked like she'd been sitting there for too long. She took a lazy sip from the bottle, her head tipping back as if she were trying to take in the stars above.

"You good out here?" Nate asked, his voice low as he stopped a few feet away.

Meredith startled slightly, blinking at him with glassy, unfocused eyes. Recognition clicked a second later, and she gave him a sloppy smile. "Nate Mercer," she slurred, drawing out his name like it was some grand revelation. "You came to my party."

"Izzie invited me," he said simply, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "Didn't think you'd be outside."

Meredith shrugged, lifting the tequila bottle in a lazy toast. "Needed air. The party's... loud."

Nate gave a small nod, unsure of what to say. Meredith looked drunk enough to forget this conversation by morning, her words already tipping over each other like dominoes. He hesitated, debating whether to leave her to her stargazing, when the front door creaked open behind them.

The soft hum of conversation and music spilled out onto the porch as Derek stepped into view.

"Meredith," Derek said, his voice smooth and warm. "What are you doing out here?"

Meredith's smile widened at the sight of him, and she held the bottle out toward him like it was some sort of greeting. "Just... thinking."

Nate stiffened, his chest tightening involuntarily as Derek stepped closer to her. He should've gone inside, should've spared himself the awkwardness of standing there like a third wheel but his feet wouldn't move.

Derek crouched down in front of Meredith, his hand coming to rest lightly on her knee. "Thinking about what?" he asked, his tone light, almost teasing.

Meredith let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I don't know. Just... life. Stuff." She hiccupped slightly, looking down at Derek with wide, earnest eyes.

Derek smiled at her, a small, crooked thing that Nate had once thought was meant for him.

"I think you've had enough tequila for tonight," Derek said gently, reaching for the bottle. Meredith didn't fight him, letting him take it from her hands with a little giggle.

And then it happened.

Derek leaned closer, brushing a stray piece of hair out of her face, and Meredith tilted her head toward him, like gravity was pulling them together. Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, one that felt far too intimate for Nate to be watching.

He looked away, his stomach twisting in a way he couldn't entirely ignore. The porch seemed smaller suddenly, the air too thick. He could still see them out of the corner of his eye, Derek leaning in, Meredith letting out a small laugh against his lips.

Nate swallowed hard, forcing himself to move. He stepped up onto the porch, his boots creaking against the wood, and pushed the door open without looking back.

Inside, the party was everything Nate had been dreading. Too loud, too warm, too full of people he didn't know or didn't care to know. He weaved through the crowd, keeping his head down, his shoulders brushing against strangers as he made his way to the kitchen.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary, and took a long sip. The taste barely registered, bitter and sharp against his tongue, but he didn't care. He leaned against the counter, his back to the chaos, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Derek was outside kissing Meredith.

It wasn't his business. It shouldn't be his business. But the thought was there, sitting heavy in his chest like a stone he couldn't quite shake.

The house felt smaller, more suffocating with each passing second. Nate set the beer down on the counter, barely touched, and pushed off the wall, heading for the door.

The cool night air hit him like a slap as he stepped outside. He didn't look toward the porch as he walked past, didn't let himself glance back at the silhouette of Derek and Meredith still sitting together.

By the time he reached his bike, his helmet already in hand, his chest was tight and his throat burned with something he didn't want to name.

He didn't stop until he was home, the roar of his bike drowning out every thought, every feeling, every lingering memory of Derek Shepherd's stupid, crooked smile.

AUTHORS NOTE

this was so hard to write :( but derek and nate are very very messy. i want to say it's going to get better for them but 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️

it's actually so hard to fit nate with the last few episodes of the first season, so i apologise 💔

i hope you enjoyed reading this chapter!!