A soft click from the door behind me. I scramble to my feet as it opens a few inches, chain still latched. Elena's face appears in the gap, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.
"You shouldn't be here," she says, her voice flat.
I resist the urge to push against the door. "Can I please come in? Just for a few minutes?"
She stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then she closes the door. For a moment, I think she's shutting me out again, but then I hear the chain sliding, and the door reopens fully.
She walks away without waiting for me, back straight, shoulders tense. She's wearing running clothes—black leggings and a loose tank top. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
I follow her into the living room, closing the door behind me. Her apartment is unnervingly tidy, as always, except for a throw blanket rumpled on the couch and an empty wine glass on the coffee table.
"Five minutes," she says, turning to face me. Her arms cross over her chest.
"The photo is old, Elena." I dive right in, not wanting to waste a second. "It was taken over a year ago, long before I met you."
"So you mentioned," she says, the words sharp as a blade.
"It's the truth." I take a step toward her, but she backs away slightly. "Her name is Melissa. We went out a few times—nothing serious. The picture was taken at The Drake. It was a charity thing."
"And I'm just supposed to believe that?" The bitterness in her voice cuts deep.
"Yes. I would never lie to you." I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "Look, I know how it looks. But why would I text you all day, make plans for tonight, if I was with someone else yesterday?"
"I don't know, Nate. Why do guys like you do anything?" Her eyes narrow. "Maybe because you can? Because you're used to women falling over themselves for you, and you figure why limit yourself to just one?"
"Guys like me?" I repeat, the words like acid in my mouth. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what it means." She turns away, moving to the kitchen counter where her phone sits. "Players. Literally and figuratively."
"That's not fair." I follow her. "I've been nothing but honest with you from the beginning. I've been seeing a therapist. I'vebeen working on my shit. I haven't so much as looked at another woman since you and I?—"
"Yet there you are." She picks up her phone, holding it up to show me the photo again. "Looking very cozy with someone who definitely isn't me."
"A year ago!" My voice rises despite my best efforts. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. Getting angry won't help. "Elena, think about it logically. Look closely at the photo—that’s not even the same haircut I have now."
She studies the photo, her expression softening slightly. Then she sets the phone down.
"My agent is already putting out a statement clarifying when it was taken," I add. "The press does this shit all the time—recycles old photos with new dates to generate clicks. It's bullshit, but it's part of my life."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" She looks up at me, eyes suddenly vulnerable. "Is it always going to be like this with the press hounding you and even making stuff up? Because I don't know if I can handle a lifetime of wondering whether the latest photo or story is real or fake."
The question hits me like a body check. A lifetime. She's thinking about a lifetime with me, even in the midst of her doubt.
"I can't promise it won't happen again," I say honestly. "People are going to write shit about me as long as I'm playing. And yeah, sometimes they'll make things up or twist the truth."
I move around the counter, slowly, giving her time to back away if she wants. She doesn't.
"But I can promise you that none of it will be true. Not when it comes to other women." I stop in front of her, close enough to touch her but not reaching for her. "I don't want anyone but you, Elena. I haven't since the night we met."
She studies my face, searching for truth or lies. "I want to believe you," she whispers.
"Then believe me." I reach for her hand, relieved when she lets me take it. "I'm not that guy anymore. The one who bounced from woman to woman, never letting anyone get close. You changed that. You changed me."
Her fingers are cold in mine, but she doesn't pull away. "I know who you were before. Everyone does. That's the problem."
"I know." I squeeze her hand gently. "And I know it's not fair to ask you to ignore all that history, to just trust me. But I'm asking anyway."
She looks down at our joined hands, then back up at me. "I need some time, Nate. To think about all this."
