harry-hollands - Tumblr blog

harry-hollands · 7 months ago

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Summary: In the aftermath of your choice to leave Nico behind in Paris, your world shrinks to the cold, suffocating walls of an estate where the past comes to haunt you. Isolated and broken, you resign yourself to a fate sealed in blood. Nico, on the other hand, steels himself to ensure that his promise to bring you out of the shadows rings true. Together, you make a choice: to stay in the dark or to fight for a future outside of it, however harrowing it may be.

Word Count: 10k Warnings: angst to fluff!! swearing, bad parenting, there's an action sequence here so like...fighting? reader is NOT having a grand old time until nico arrives

READ PART ONE HERE

Nico wakes up on the rooftop in Paris, his body sore and head pounding, a faint sting on his arm where you’d injected him with the anesthetic. He reaches into his pocket for his phone—it’s almost dead, teetering on the edge of shutting down. Still, there’s enough battery left to see a stream of messages from his colleagues, congratulating him on completing his final mission and wishing him a happy retirement.

Your words echo in his mind.

Be happy, okay? For me?

You’d said it with a smile, but he remembers the fear in your eyes, the way it lingered beneath the surface. Why did you do it? Why did you take the fall?

He knows the answer, of course, and the weight of that knowledge gnaws at him, knowing you’d chosen this path because of him.

He lets his head fall back against the rough stone wall, closing his eyes, forcing his mind to drift to the happier moments with you—those days wandering Paris together, where the world felt small and full of possibility, where he could almost convince himself that you could both leave the underworld behind together and start a new life somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful.

His thoughts slip further back, to the first night he saw you at that gala in Germany, all those years ago. He smiles faintly, remembering how you had captured his attention so thoroughly he nearly forgot his own purpose there. Amidst the polished crowd, under the glow of chandeliers, you stood out with a quiet allure that blurred everyone else to shadows, like a flame he couldn’t look away from.

He reminded himself back then he was above distractions, especially on a night with a mission so crucial. As an agent, he’d learned to see through beauty and charm, to focus on his objective. But you—you felt different. Genuine but guarded, elegant but dangerous.

From across the room, he’d watched you, unable to look away, studying your every move with the precision he usually reserved for a target. Yet this time, it felt different—as though he were the one being lured, the one about to be ensnared by a trap he hadn’t seen coming.

And looking back at it now, he realizes he never stood a chance.

Nico reminded himself of why he was there—to extract sensitive information from a French diplomat. But then your arm brushed against his, and he caught his first glimpse of your face. You were stunning, a vision that made him falter. He watched as you slipped through the crowd and headed to the balcony doors. His carefully honed focus wavered, pulse quickening as he watched you pass, something inside him urging him to follow.

He’d built a career on staying disciplined, never letting a pretty face or a fleeting distraction pull him off course. But this was different. There was no logic, no reason to abandon his position, but the pull was undeniable. The thought of letting you disappear, of not stepping out onto that balcony, felt like a missed chance he’d regret forever.

So, against his better judgment, Nico left his mission on hold and followed you into the night, needing to know who you were—and why he couldn’t look away.

He thinks back to that night, to the flirtation and the way you’d smiled at him, playful but guarded. He knows now it was all part of your act, but he doesn’t care. In his memory, it feels real. He remembers the moment he was about to ask if you wanted to slip away from the gala, explore the city with him—something he didn’t get to ask until Paris.

Just as the words were on his lips, your father had entered, stealing you away. Nico remembers the frustration, the urge to punch the man right then for interrupting, unaware then of how deeply he’d come to loathe the man you called ‘Father.’

If he’d known back then how your life was probably like under his care—the fear in your eyes last night was more than telling—he might have swung that punch. He should have, he thinks now, even if it blew his cover and ruined any chance with you. The man deserved it.

Then he remembers the moment he realized who you truly were and what you were after. You’d let him kiss your gloved hand, your lips curled in that mysterious smile of yours. It had all seemed so innocent until his lips met the fabric, and he felt the burn of the poison seeping in. If he hadn’t already had an antidote with him, he’d have been dead within minutes.

In some darkly ironic way, he admires the elegance of it all, the lethal grace with which you’d nearly killed him. There was a certain style to it, a quiet artistry.

For the next five years, he laid low, staying far from anything that could alert anyone to his movements. But he kept tabs on you—your assignments, whispers of your work. It was almost an obsession, though he’d never admit it. Every time he caught a mention of you, even something as small as a rumor, he couldn’t help but listen. Morbid, maybe. But it was you. And he could never turn away from that.

And then he saw you again. Paris. It felt like fate, almost laughably so, meeting in the city of love. Seeing you there stirred something in him, a silent thrill he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. He felt a pull, a longing to rewrite that first encounter—minus the poison, maybe. This time, you spent days together, sharing quiet glances, stories, and stolen moments that spoke volumes. It wasn’t a surprise that he wanted it to last forever.

But he wasn’t naive. He knew you’d come to Paris for a reason, and he knew exactly who you were after. So he brought you to his favorite haunts and little cafes, tucked treasures into your hands—a tiny Eiffel Tower charm, photos of you on either your phone or on his old film camera. Maybe it was foolish, but he wanted to leave something of himself with you, something you’d carry after it was all over.

Still, there was a small, stubborn hope in him, one that maybe—just maybe—you might walk away from it all for him. That tiny hope was enough to keep him from doing anything drastic, from confronting you. And the worst part? He genuinely thinks you would have left with him, if things had been different.

He doesn’t know what your fate would be exactly when you got back to your ‘Father.’ But he has an idea. And he doesn’t like it, doesn’t want to live in a reality where he got so close to what he wanted, but was unable to grasp it within his hands.

Now, though…well, he doesn’t know exactly what would await you on your return to your ‘Father,’ doesn’t exactly know what consequences you’d face for treason of this scale. But he has an idea. And he doesn’t like even the mere thought of it. He clenches his jaw, hating the helplessness, the idea of coming so close to the life he wanted, only to have it ripped away, just out of reach.

He steadies himself, pressing a hand to the cool wall for balance as he rises. His legs are still shaky from the anesthetic, but his mind is clear. A grim resolve takes hold, a fire ignited by the fear of losing you entirely.

He moves quickly, descending the staircase, each step sharpening his focus. He doesn’t have a real plan yet—just an unshakable decision. He’d saved countless lives in his career, operated in situations where failure meant the end, but this was different. This was you.

He isn’t naive about what he’s walking into. Your ‘Father’ wouldn’t make it easy, and the odds were stacked against him. But he’d spent years keeping an eye on you, learning everything he could. He knows your father’s tactics, knows his inner circle and, with any luck, knows enough to get close.

As he reaches the entrance to the hotel, the weight of his decision settles in. There’s no guarantee he can pull this off, no assurance he’ll be able to save you. But he’ll die trying if he has to.

You don’t run from ‘Father’s’ guards when they meet you at the airport. You expected it, the cold efficiency of their movements, the lack of any question about what you’ve done. They take your suitcase and purse, and, just as you anticipated, they blindfold you when they shove you into the car. It’s almost as if ‘Father’ is giving you one last small mercy—a blindfold instead of a bag.

The car ride is silent, the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of the tires against the road the only sounds. You feel the weight of what you’ve done pressing down on you with every mile. The tension in your chest is unbearable, but you don’t fight it. You don’t fight them. You know what’s coming, and you’ve accepted it.

When the car finally stops, they take off your blindfold, revealing a sprawling estate, one of the many hidden manors 'Father' uses for those who’ve betrayed him. And betrayal is an understatement. You didn’t just defy him, you obliterated his empire, his carefully built legacy.

The guards don’t speak as they usher you out of the car, up the stone steps, and into the house. They take you to a room on the highest floor, secluded from everything and everyone, as though they’re already preparing for the isolation that awaits you.

You don’t complain. You don’t fight. You know what you did. You know what you deserve. The silence in the room is suffocating, but it’s a kind of peace. A peace you’ve earned, a peace you’ve sealed with your own actions. They leave you there alone after ensuring you’re unarmed, that you have nothing to aid in any attempts to escape. You’re not sure how much time passes—three days, maybe four or five, you’d lost count long ago. Meals are brought to you in intervals, but other than that, you’re left with nothing but your thoughts. So, you fill them with the happiness of remembering Paris. Remembering Nico.

Then, on the third day—or maybe the fourth—there’s a knock at the door. It opens to reveal Joy, his eyes filled with sorrow. He was always the softest of your siblings, the one whose heart was too gentle for the life you led.

“Did father send you?” you ask, sitting up on the bed, your voice hoarse from the silence.

He nods, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “He’s being nice by sending me, Shadow. He could have sent Punch, of all people,” he says softly, his voice shaky. “If you just tell us what happened in Paris—just tell us why, tell us anything—maybe we can still fix it. You’re his favorite, the best of us. I’m sure there’s a reason for what you did.”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him for a moment, the anxiety swirling in his gaze. His hope, his desperation to save you, makes the silence between you feel heavier.

“I blew up the warehouses,” you say simply, your voice betraying no emotion, just a blunt truth.

“What? You—You—” Joy stammers, his face a mask of disbelief. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Shadow, stop playing around. This isn’t a joke. This is serious.”

“I’m not playing around,” you reply, your lips curling into a small, bitter smile. “I pushed the button. I destroyed everything.”

His eyes widen, a flash of hurt and fear crossing his face. “Shadow—” he gasps. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Father’s going to have you killed for this!”

“I know,” you tell him, your voice almost detached as you stare out the window, at the trees swaying gently beyond the fenced view. The peacefulness of the scene contrasts so sharply with the chaos inside you. “I knew the risk. And I did it anyway. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Joy’s shoulders sag, and he drops to the edge of the bed beside you, his head falling onto your shoulder as he fights back the tears that are threatening to spill. “Why?” he whispers, his voice cracking. “Why would you do this? Why—why would you betray him like that?”

You’re quiet for a moment, feeling the weight of his tears against your skin. And then, you finally confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “I went there to kill Agent Heart. Nico Hischier.”

At the mention of his name, you smile faintly, the memories of your time in Paris with him rushing back. The moments of tenderness, of laughter, of something more than the life you were raised in.

“And then I realized I liked him more than I thought,” you admit, your smile softening as the memories flood you, each one more painful than the last. “I couldn’t kill him. Not after everything.”

Joy pulls back slightly, his tear-streaked face full of confusion. “You...you were supposed to destroy everything for us. For Father.”

“I did,” you say, a sad, resigned chuckle escaping your lips. “I destroyed everything...but for me. And for him. Not for father.”

Joy lets out a shaky breath, and for a long moment, he just sits there in silence, his head resting gently on your shoulder. The two of you stare out the window, watching the wind weave through the trees beyond the barred glass. It's a rare, quiet peace, almost enough to make you forget the reality of your situation. Almost.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "We don’t get to feel, Shadow,” he murmurs, his tone laced with resignation, the words weighed down by the acceptance of what’s to come, “You did the one thing we’re never supposed to do.”

"I know," you reply softly, your voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside you.

He turns his gaze to you, eyes searching, then asks, “Was he worth it?”

A gentle smile touches your lips. "He’s worth everything."

For the first time, Joy manages a small smile of his own. It’s tentative, edged with worry and glistening with unshed tears, but there’s something else there—a fragile happiness, a glimmer of pride in your defiance, however brief it may be.

He rises slowly, moving to the door, shoulders trembling as he tries to hold back his sobs. His fingers brush the doorknob, pausing there, as though wanting to say something more but unable to find the words.

“Goodbye, Shadow,” he says finally, his voice thick with emotion and a note of finality you’ve never heard from him before.

“Goodbye, Joy,” you reply, watching him walk away, knowing this would be the last time you’d ever see him.

"Nico, this is madness," Timo hisses, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You’re trying to save a mass murderer."

Nico watches his friend, feeling the bite of each word, but determined to keep his resolve. He’d turned to Timo because there was no one better—the agency’s top intelligence officer, the brain behind nearly all of Nico’s successful missions. If anyone could help him navigate the storm he’d thrown himself into, it was Timo. But from the way Timo was looking at him, it was clear he thought Nico had finally lost it.

“Well, it sounds bad when you put it like that,” Nico deflects, his voice steady but humorless.

“Because it is!” Timo snaps, his voice rising. “She’s one of their organization’s best operatives. She’s the Director’s most trusted weapon, Nico. And you’re actually risking your life—for her?”

The mention of your ‘Father,’ or rather, the Director, stirs something jagged in Nico’s chest. The name feels like a blow, a reminder of the darkness and manipulation woven around you like a cage. It’s in that moment he realizes how much of your life has been spent hidden away under fabricated pretenses, never living a life of your own. He wonders what you’d be like without those shadows—the girl you might have been, if you hadn’t been his 'Shadow.'

“She’s ended hundreds of lives,” Timo continues, each word sharp and unrelenting. "And those are just the ones we know about. She’s—”

“She’s going to die if I don’t try to save her,” Nico cuts in, his voice a low, deadly calm. There’s a finality in his tone that leaves no room for argument. “She’s as much a prisoner as she is a weapon. If anyone deserves a chance to walk away, it’s her. Please, Timo. Help me. One last time.”

The defiance in Nico’s voice seems to throw Timo off-balance. For a moment, his friend’s face shifts from frustration to a mixture of exhaustion and reluctant understanding. He rubs the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, weary sigh, the silence between them heavy with the weight of all they’ve seen and done.

"You’re out of your fucking mind," Timo mutters, glancing up, his gaze searching Nico’s face for a flicker of doubt. But Nico’s expression remains firm, his resolve unbreakable.

"Maybe," Nico replies, his voice softer now. “But I owe her that much.”

Timo studies him a beat longer, then nods slowly, resignation settling in his eyes. “Alright, Nico,” he says quietly. "One last time."

Nico exhales slowly, as if releasing the weight of a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. "You’re the best, Timo. Have I ever told you that?" He tries to lighten the mood, offering a half-hearted smile, but it’s weak—too feeble against the suffocating gravity of the situation.

Timo scoffs, his eyes rolling in a gesture of disbelief. "Tell me that again if we actually succeed. For all we know, she could be dead by now." His words are cold, matter-of-fact, and the harshness hits Nico harder than he wants to admit.

The smile falters from Nico’s face, his thoughts spiraling as he tries to come up with a plan—any plan—that might get him to you in time. There’s no certainty, no guarantee that he’ll be able to stop the clock that’s ticking against you, but Timo’s help, slim as it is, gives him the faintest flicker of hope.

"Then we make sure she isn’t," Nico mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Timo. His words come out like a vow, the resolve in his chest hardening like steel. It doesn’t matter what the odds are. He’s going to save you, no matter the cost.

Timo shakes his head, the urgency in his voice rising again. "We have to be realistic, Nico. There’s a very slim chance of succeeding. The Director...he's a goddamn monster. He built his empire on orphans—children trained to be killers. She was his favorite, his most loyal. Hell, he trained her himself. Not even his eldest got that kind of treatment. You can’t even begin to fathom what he’ll do when he finds out she betrayed him." Timo’s gaze drops for a moment, his words softening, as if the weight of what he’s about to say is more than even he can bear. "You could be walking straight into your death. Do you understand that?"

Nico hesitates, the enormity of Timo’s words sinking in. He thinks of his family—his mother, his father, his siblings. None of them had any idea what he actually did. He’d spent years keeping it that way, hiding the truth because normalcy was a shield, it was a part of the job.

To them, he was a diplomat, just a pretty face at international function, a son who sent postcards from cities all over the world, someone who led a quiet, steady life. But now that safety is slipping away, and the consequences of his decisions are looming large. If things go wrong, all they’ll remember is the smile he wore, the boy they thought they knew.

But then, like a whisper in the dark, his thoughts shift to you.

He can still see it—the way you’d looked at him in Paris. That brief glimmer of something hopeful in your eyes, a quiet moment before you’d taken the bomb from him and detonated your ‘Father’s’ empire. The way you’d trusted him to keep your betrayal a secret—and to let you go, without asking for anything in return. You hadn’t begged, hadn’t even looked back, and that made him want to fight for you even more. It had been your choice, your sacrifice, but now he was going to make sure it wasn’t in vain.

“She’s good, Timo,” Nico’s voice is steady, but the edge of desperation is unmistakable in the way his eyes narrow, the intensity of his gaze holding something deeper than resolve. It’s not just determination—it’s something much more raw. “She’s good. And she can be so much more if she can get out of this alive. I owe it to her to try.”

Timo exhales sharply, his face a mixture of reluctant admiration and palpable worry. His eyes flicker to the wall, then back to Nico. "I don’t get it, Nico. You’ve been in this business long enough to know people don’t change. Not easily, at least. Certainly not in her world. She’s one of them, Nico. She knew what she was doing, knew what would happen. People like her—those who betray their own—they don’t get out. They don’t walk away alive."

Nico’s jaw tightens, the tension in his body evident as he steps closer to Timo. His voice drops to a low, quiet certainty that cuts through the air like a blade. “I know what she is. But she’s not just one of them. I’ve seen who she is when no one’s watching, when there’s no role to play. She doesn’t deserve this life. Never did.”

Timo shakes his head slowly, disbelief in his eyes, but there’s a slight flicker of something like understanding. It’s not much, but it’s enough. A resigned sigh escapes him, and he rubs the back of his neck, considering the gravity of what Nico’s asking. “Alright. Fine. I’ll get the intel. But after that, you’re on your own. And if this goes south—if it all falls apart—well, I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

Nico’s lips curl up into a small smile, but the seriousness in his eyes never fades. He knows the risks. He knows what he’s walking into. But he can’t stop now. "So do I, Timo. So do I."

The days blur together during your isolation. The cold stone walls seem to echo every passing minute, but you’ve lost track of time. You don’t even know if it's been two days or a week since Joy visited.

And then, Hyacinth comes to see you.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips when you see him, your baby brother—far too young to be caught in this world, yet he’s already molded by it, even if he doesn’t yet realize the full weight of what it means. His sharp tongue and stubborn attitude are familiar, his quick wit often aimed at getting under your skin, but you know he’s all bark and no bite. Besides, you knew he had a soft spot for you—he always has. He likes you more than any of your other siblings, even if he’ll never admit it.

When you open your arms to him, he doesn’t hesitate, stepping into your embrace like it’s the only place he can find some peace. The hug lingers longer than it usually does—longer than it should, maybe—but you let it. You hold him tight, trying to etch the warmth of his presence into your mind, knowing the days ahead would make it impossible to hold onto this memory. And in this moment, as your arms wrap around him, you wish you could shield him from the darkness that’s closing in on both of you.

Eventually, the hug breaks, and you sit back on the bed, patting the spot beside you. But he doesn’t take it, opting instead to kneel on the floor and rest his head on your lap—just like when he was younger. Back then, when the weight of his training became too much, when the suffocating pressure of their expectations threatened to crush him, he’d seek comfort from you in the rare moments when he could drop his guard. You could never protect him from everything, but you gave him those moments of peace, moments when he could just be Hyacinth.

His voice breaks the silence, quiet and hesitant. “Father didn’t send me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

You arch an eyebrow. “So you came on your own?” You can’t stop the small trace of concern that seeps into your tone. “You could get in trouble, Hyacinth.”

He doesn’t seem to care about the risk. His eyes flicker briefly, and for a moment, you see a flash of fear, but it’s gone just as quickly. “Normally, I would,” he admits, “but your situation has him… occupied.” He sounds almost relieved as he says it, like he’s found an escape from the endless tension that normally surrounds their father.

You hum in response, running your fingers through his hair, offering him what little comfort you can. The silence between you is a kind of solace in itself. Words don’t always fit in these moments, but this is enough.

Then Hyacinth speaks again, his voice softer, the weight of what he’s carrying heavy in his words. “Joy told him what you did,” he murmurs into your lap. You feel the tension in his body, the subtle shake in his voice. “But he still doesn’t know why you did it—why you destroyed everything. Joy said you didn’t tell him anything.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, but you can feel his breath grow unsteady, like he’s trying to find the right words, struggling to understand why you made the choice you did. Why you’d destroyed everything that ‘Father’ had worked for, that you had helped him build.

Hyacinth sighs deeply, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “He was mad. Furious, really. I know he was, because he didn’t say anything. He just stood there. Didn’t scream, didn’t throw things, didn’t beat anyone up. Just…stood there. Brooding.”

You nod, your thoughts racing. You’re grateful for Joy’s silence—though you don’t understand why he covered for you. The way he’s acted is unexpected, and you can't quite figure out his motivations. What does he owe you? Why would he protect you after everything you've done? Maybe he’s just trying to keep himself safe, or maybe there’s something more to it. Maybe he was just trying to be a good brother for once.

“What about the others?” you ask, breaking the silence, your voice raw from all the unspoken words hanging between you.

“Punch and Lightning want you dead,” he says, his voice flat, almost detached. But you feel a tear from him fall onto your thigh, though you don’t mention it. “They’ve been pushing for it. It’s strange, though. Father hasn’t made a decision yet. I thought for sure he’d kill you the moment you landed.”

You can’t help the hollow chuckle that escapes you. “Perks of being the favorite, I guess.”

“Oh, so you admit it now?” Hyacinth pouts, his face still resting in your lap, his voice thick with emotion you can’t quite decipher.

“I’m gonna die anyway,” you shrug, trying to sound casual, though the words taste like ash in your mouth. “Might as well own up to things.”

A long silence stretches between you. Hyacinth doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers clutching the fabric of your clothes like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Finally, his voice breaks through, quieter, softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Don’t say that,” he whispers, his words thick with emotion. “I kind of need you here,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “Punch is mean, Joy cries a lot, and Lightning doesn’t talk to anyone—fighting for your death is the most I’ve heard him speak, ever.” His breath hitches as his shoulders shake, his voice cracking further. “You talk to me. Even when I’m being mean to you.”

A lump rises in your throat, choking you with a mixture of guilt and love. “You’re just a kid, Hyacinth.”

“I’m nineteen,” he protests, though it’s barely more than a bitter sigh. “I’m not a kid.”

“Just a baby,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper.

You gently lift his head from your lap, your hands trembling slightly as you meet his eyes, offering him a small, sad smile. You press a soft kiss to his forehead, hoping it might offer him some comfort, even if just for this moment. You want him to remember you this way—soft, human, real—before everything collapses into darkness.

“You should go now,” you say, your voice thick with the weight of finality. The air feels denser, the space between you somehow more oppressive. “Before someone realizes where you are.”

Hyacinth doesn’t argue, but the hesitation in his movements speaks volumes. He stands, his shoulders slumping as he walks toward the door, his footsteps heavier than you remember them. When he reaches the doorknob, he pauses, his back to you, and for a brief moment, you think he might not leave. He turns, looking back at you over his shoulder, his face drawn and haunted.

“Shadow?” His voice is small, fragile. “Why did you do it?”

You hold his gaze for a beat, your chest tightening as the words hover in the air between you. There’s so much you want to say, so much left unspoken. But all that remains is the truth you can’t hide, not from him, not now.

“I...met someone I really liked,” you say quietly, your voice breaking on the last word. It’s not enough, but it’s the only truth you can give him right now.

Hyacinth’s brows furrow, confusion clouding his face as he tries to make sense of it. But then, almost reluctantly, he nods, accepting the answer without question. He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t demand anything from you that you can’t give.

As he opens the door, about to step out, you call out to him one last time. His name feels heavy on your tongue, like it’s the last thing you’ll ever say to him.

“Hyacinth?” His eyes snap back to you, wide and shining with unspoken words, his face torn between confusion and a desperation he won’t show. “Be good. As good as you can be.”

The words feel like a final plea, a parting wish you can’t take back. You see the raw, quiet grief in his eyes as tears begin to pool there, but he blinks them away quickly, as if trying to hold onto something—anything—before it all slips away. His face flushes, an emotional storm threatening to break, but he says nothing, doesn’t allow the tears to fall.

With a half-smile, teetering on the edge of a laugh, he lifts his middle finger at you, his way of deflecting the moment, of pretending it’s still okay. Despite everything, despite the ache in your chest, you can’t help but chuckle.

The sound is too fragile, too soft, too final.

“Goodbye, Shadow,” he says, his voice barely audible, thick with the weight of everything he wants to say but can’t. His lips tremble, as if he might say more, but he doesn’t. He shuts the door quietly behind him, the soft click of it reverberating in the stillness, sealing the space between you.

“Nico, you’re gonna want to see this,” Timo says over the phone, his voice urgent.

Nico barely hears the rest of Timo’s words as he rushes to his car and hits the gas. He’s already in motion, speeding through Switzerland with a single thought in his head: finding you. His mind runs wild with possibilities. What if she’s already gone? What if they’ve moved her? He can’t bear the thought of you being tortured or worse, and the nagging doubt claws at him.

But he pushes it aside. If even you didn’t think you’d make it out of this alive, then he had to. Someone had to keep the belief alive.

He’s sure he’s broken every speeding law in Switzerland as he rushes to Timo’s apartment, his heart pounding, thoughts racing. The moment he arrives, he practically kicks the door down, desperation making him reckless.

“What’s going on?” Nico demands, striding into the room, his voice sharp with urgency.

Timo doesn’t look up immediately, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “I tracked down every known estate the organization’s used in the last ten years, and any recent whispers about ‘Shadow.’” His eyes finally meet Nico’s, flickering with the weight of what he’s found. “I couldn’t find anything recent about her specifically, but I did find this.”

Timo turns his laptop around, and Nico leans forward, his breath catching as he sees the screen. It’s a map, showing the coordinates of a mansion in the mountains—unassuming at first glance, but its isolated location tells him everything he needs to know. It’s exactly the kind of place someone like your ‘Father’ would use to hide someone away.

“It was bought a couple of years ago,” Timo says, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Officially as an investment property—it has records of regular maintenance and weekly cleanings. It’s been untouched for years, dormant…until now.”

Nico swallows hard, scanning the details. But then something catches his eye, and his pulse quickens. “Wait,” he says, pointing to another set of coordinates a few miles from the mansion. “These markers aren’t for her, are they?”

Timo’s face hardens, and he glances at the screen. “No,” he replies, pulling up a set of data—two names. “Codenames: Joy and Hyacinth. Two other operatives in the organization. They were sighted here within the last 48 hours, though they never stayed longer than an hour.”

Nico’s breath catches. “Her siblings.”

He feels a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He’d always known that your family was complicated—dark, but tight-knit—but seeing them tied to this place, at nearly the same time, complicates everything. Just what were they doing there?

Timo keeps talking, though Nico’s mind starts to race, his instincts pushing him toward action. “These aren’t just random sightings, Nico. Something’s happening there. It’s more than just an investment property; they were there for a reason. And considering what you’re after…” Timo’s voice trails off, the implications weighing heavy in the silence.

Nico clenches his fists, fighting the urge to move now, to storm in regardless of the risk. This could be his only chance to find you.

“Luckily for you,” Timo says, gesturing to the markers that signify Joy and Hyacinth’s recent locations, “They’ve already left.”

Nico nods, relief mingling with the rising tension in his chest.

Timo’s voice drops, serious and clear. “But you understand what this means, don’t you? If you go in, you could end up dealing with the most dangerous operatives, guards, killers. None of them will hesitate to stop you. You’ll have to be prepared for anything.”

Nico’s jaw sets, his resolve steeling. Prepared for anything has always been his life’s code. But now, it’s more than just preparation. It’s personal. It always has been. This isn’t only about saving you anymore. It’s about putting an end to the nightmare your ‘Father’s’ unleashed on you—and finishing what began that night when he kissed your hand and felt his world change.

“I’ll be ready,” Nico says, his voice cold with determination. His mind is already working through the steps. It doesn’t matter who stands in his way. Not this time. Not when it comes to you.

It’s day twelve—or maybe thirteen, or even fifteen—of your isolation. Time has a way of unraveling itself in this place, each hour turns into a blur of endless gray that stretches on, indistinguishable from the next. You can no longer keep track of when you last saw someone, when you last heard a human voice. The isolation has gnawed at you, eroded your sense of self. The quiet is oppressive, thick with memories you wish you could forget.

You think back to the orphanage, those empty eyes of the children who grew up beside you—silent witnesses to the way you learned to survive, to harden yourself against the cruelty of the world. The hunger, gnawing at your insides as you lay in the cold, too hungry to sleep, too exhausted to think. You remember the hunger, the endless feeling of it, made worse by the harsh words of the caretakers who told you that "bad kids don’t deserve good food." They didn’t care if you cried. They didn’t care if you starved.

The bruises still ache, even now, long after they've faded into your skin, replaced by the scars of training that you could never erase. The pain of a childhood that was never yours to keep. You try to push these memories away, but they come rushing back, uninvited, relentless in their demand to be remembered. Each one is a dark pulse that seems to beat inside you, too close, too real.

Your father’s training had been a blur of pain and broken limits. Days spent learning to resist poison, to fight without fear, to survive at any cost, even when it meant breaking yourself. His lessons were built on control, on making you the perfect shadow, the one who could kill without hesitation, without remorse. You remember those days more clearly than anything else—the constant pressure to be better, to be perfect. You remember the exhaustion, the cold, the unrelenting beatings that never seemed to stop, pushing you further and further away from everything human.

It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, or how many scars have healed. In moments like this, when the silence is so thick you can almost taste it, those old wounds reopen, each one a reminder of the girl you used to be. The girl who was never allowed to dream of anything else. The girl who was made to break, made to destroy everything she touched.

You close your eyes, trying to escape, but it’s impossible. The faces of those you’ve killed come to you in flashes, each one frozen in time—their eyes wide in shock, their bodies falling at your feet. You try to shut them out, but they linger, haunting you, replaying like a nightmare you can’t escape. You wonder if it’s too late for redemption, if the weight of their deaths will crush you under its unbearable pressure.

But then you remember Nico—his face, his touch, his laugh, the warmth of his hand reaching for yours in the dark. Those memories are fragile but they’re your only lifeline. You don’t know if he’s out there, if he even survived, but somehow, the thought of him gives you strength. For now, it’s enough to hold on to, a small anchor in a sea of shadows.

You tell yourself, over and over, that maybe, just maybe, he’s still out there, that he’s still fighting for you. But you know the truth. You’re beyond saving.

And yet, the thought of him lingers, just out of reach. The one person who might have made you feel like you were worth something, even if only for a fleeting moment.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, but it doesn’t stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. It’s all slipping away—the hope, the strength, the possibility of something better. You’re trapped, alone with the ghosts of your past, waiting for the inevitable.

The drive to the mountains was almost disarmingly peaceful. Nico had been braced for roadblocks, checkpoints, armed guards at every bend in the winding roads. Instead, the path was quiet, flanked only by rows of tall pine trees and the occasional rose bush peeking out from the underbrush. The deeper he went, the stranger it felt—like he’d wandered into a different world, a place pretending to be ordinary to hide something darker within.

By the time he reached the estate, he was on edge. The sprawling mansion rose up in front of him, a towering fortress nestled into the mountainside. Not a single soul was in sight, not even at the gates. Every window was dark, every corner silent. Even the entrance was wide open and unguarded. The rays of sun illuminating the estate in a pearly white splendor, seemed to mock him.

As he walked up the stone steps to the main door, unease pooled in his stomach, twisting tighter with each step. His senses screamed at him, warning him that it shouldn’t be this easy, that someone would leap out at any moment. But he reached the door unchallenged, his hand brushing the handle as he took a steadying breath.

Pushing the doors open, the sick feeling in his gut hit him in full force. There, standing just inside the grand foyer, was the last person he wanted to see.

Your ‘Father.’

"Ah," The man said smoothly, his voice rich and calm, a predator at ease in his own den. "You actually did come."

Nico clenched his fists, every muscle tensing. He forced himself to stay still, even as every instinct screamed to lash out, to wipe that smug smile off the man’s face. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice low but firm.

His smile widened slightly, as if amused by Nico’s urgency. "You have no idea what you’ve walked into, do you?” he replied, almost with pity. He stepped closer, hands clasped casually behind his back, eyes narrowing as he studied Nico with cold calculation. “I thought you were smarter than this. Perhaps the Swiss government has been too lax as of late.”

Nico’s jaw tightened. "If you’ve done anything to her—"

“Anything to her?” he interrupted, chuckling darkly. “You misunderstand, Mr. Hischier.” The man smirks. “It’s only you and I here, so let me be frank. She’s here because of you. You, with your ideals and reckless hope, leading her to believe she could be anything more than what she was raised to be. The weapon I made her into.”

His voice was unnervingly calm, but there was a venom in his words that made Nico’s skin crawl. “Do you honestly think she could leave without me knowing? That she could destroy my empire without me realizing the reasons behind it? That her siblings could lie for her without my knowledge?”

Nico’s eyes narrowed, but his fists clenched at his sides. He took a step forward, trying to quell the rising storm inside him. “What are you saying?”

The Director’s gaze flicked over him with unnerving amusement. “I have eyes and ears everywhere.” His voice was almost too smooth now, as if savoring the moment. “The minute she stepped foot into Paris, I knew.” He took a step toward Nico, his eyes never leaving him. “The minute she made contact with you, I knew.” Another step, his cold smile widening. “I knew about your little dates and rendezvous. I knew when she tried to slip poison into your wine. I knew the moment she pressed that button.”

The words hit Nico like a blow to the chest. His heart raced. "You knew all this time?”

Your ‘Father’s’ smile deepened, something almost predatory in it. “You’ve been playing her game all this time, Hischier. But she’s been playing mine. I know exactly why she hesitated to kill you.” He scoffs. “Turns out my best child was my weakest. But you were the one who kept her from finishing her mission. It didn’t have anything to do with her skills. Which is the only reason she’s not dead yet.”

Nico’s pulse hammered in his ears, disbelief warring with rage. “What are you planning?”

“Oh, nothing much," he replied, his voice silky with mock indifference. “Just…bringing her back to her original settings. Make her remember what happens when she disobeys. And for that to happen…I’m afraid I’ll need your head.”

Before Nico could react, a hand shot out, flicking open a sleek black knife with a practiced motion. His movements were blindingly fast, and before Nico could even fully process what was happening, the blade slashed through the air toward him with deadly precision.

Nico’s reflexes kicked in, his instincts honed from years of training and combat. He twisted to the side just in time, feeling the cool rush of air as the blade narrowly missed his chest. Your ‘Father’s’ speed was startling, faster than most of the men Nico had fought in his career, but Nico stayed calm. He had to.

He darted back, avoiding another strike aimed at his side. “You think you can just walk away with her, don’t you?” the older man taunts, his movements getting quicker.

Nico hissed through gritted teeth, his hands shifting into a defensive stance. He couldn't let his emotions cloud his judgment—he had to stay focused.

His opponent was relentless, his strikes coming faster, more furious with each passing moment. His body moved with the precision of a machine, the knife flashing in the dim light of the hallway, but Nico was no slouch. He danced around the attacks, his heart pounding as the adrenaline surged.

But the longer the fight went on, the clearer it became—your ‘Father’ wasn’t just fighting to defend his territory. He was trying to force Nico into a corner, push him into making a mistake. And Nico couldn’t afford to make one.

Another blade slash came at him, and Nico dove low, dodging under the attack, but a boot came down, aimed directly for his ribs. Nico barely managed to block it with his arm, the impact jarring his bones, but he gritted his teeth through the pain.

“You really think you can take her from me?” He sneered, his breath coming in sharp bursts, a twisted glee dancing in his eyes. “You’re already too late.”

Nico’s mind raced. There had to be a way to end this, to survive. If he didn’t get out of here alive, everything—everything he had fought for—would be lost. His thoughts flicked to you, to the last glimpse he had of you in Paris, and something inside him hardened.

No. He wouldn’t back down. Not this time. Not when it was this close.

The Director fought with the precision of a man who’d spent a lifetime learning how to eliminate any threat that came near him, who spent every waking hour trying to fortify his possessions. His movements were swift, calculated—each strike designed to cut deep, to leave Nico vulnerable, to make sure he couldn’t fight back. His knife was a blur, a flashing extension of his will to destroy.

But Nico was different. He wasn’t fighting to just survive. He was fighting for you, for the fragile hope he held onto despite all the evidence to the contrary. He was fighting for something he couldn’t let go of. He had everything to lose. And that made him stronger.

As your ‘Father’ lunged again, the blade aimed directly at his throat, Nico’s body reacted before his mind could fully catch up. He sidestepped, his foot sliding on the slick floor as he drove his elbow into the other man’s ribs with a satisfying crack. The man grunted, but didn’t flinch—he only shifted, twisting his body to try and regain his stance.

Nico pressed his advantage, knowing he couldn’t afford to wait for him to recover. His mind raced, working through each move as if it were a series of chess pieces falling into place.

‘Father’ swung the knife again, but this time Nico caught his wrist, twisting it just enough to send the blade skittering across the floor. In that split second, he drove his knee into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The man staggered back, eyes flashing with anger, but Nico was already on him, not giving him a chance to reset.

“You don’t own her.” Nico spat, his voice low, dangerous.

He sneered, lunging forward again, but this time Nico was ready. With a fluid motion, he caught his arm, locking it behind his back with a sharp twist. The man growled, trying to break free, but Nico tightened his grip, pushing him toward the stone wall.

“You should have let her go,” Nico muttered, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “She wasn’t yours to break.”

With one final, brutal motion, Nico slammed his face into the cold stone wall, knocking him unconscious. The man crumpled to the floor, the knife slipping from his hand with a dull thud. Nico took a deep breath, letting the silence settle around him as he stood over the fallen man. His heart was still pounding in his chest, the fight lingering in his muscles like fire, but he knew it was over—for now.

He didn’t have time to waste. He had to find you. Your ‘Father’ might have been down, but this fight wasn’t finished. Not yet. He would get to you. And you would get your revenge. No matter what.

When the door creaks open, you don’t immediately react. Another visit from one of your siblings, you assume—another cold, emotionless meeting. Joy and Hyacinth had already come, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in your chest. Maybe it's Punch next, here to deliver the final blow, as blunt and sharp as ever. At least with him, there's no pretending, no false hope. Just the end.

You sigh, slowly lifting your head to prepare for the inevitable. But what you see stops you cold, freezes you in place like a shock of ice.

Nico.

Your mind scrambles to make sense of the image before you, but everything about him is different from how you remember. His hair is a mess, his knuckles bruised and raw, and his usually crisp shirts and jackets are gone, replaced by something torn, wrinkled, and soaked with sweat and speckles of blood and dirt. The scent of him is raw, like he’s been through hell. His brows are furrowed, his gaze filled with an almost unbearable mix of worry and fear, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. It’s a familiar feeling, seeing him again, even if he’s different from how you remembered. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

You blink, trying to piece together what’s real and what isn’t. Your heart hammers painfully in your chest, and a wild, humorless laugh escapes you.

“Oh God…maybe I am going insane,” you mutter, running a shaky hand through your hair. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to shake off the vision, try to make it stop. “I’m even seeing him now…”

You turn away from him, pressing your face against the cold, hard wall, hoping the reality of this will fade. Hoping he’ll disappear with the rest of your fading dreams. But then you feel it—the bed dips beside you, a presence you know, a warmth you can’t deny. The mattress groans under his weight, and your chest tightens as you try to convince yourself that it’s just your mind playing cruel tricks.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion you’ve never heard from him before—fear, tenderness, desperation. It’s raw, and it makes your stomach twist. “God, what did they do to you?”

You scoff, not knowing if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself. You can barely glance at him, let alone believe he’s here. You squeeze your eyes shut, your heart aching in disbelief. “I’m fine,” you say, but your voice sounds hollow, like it’s coming from someone else. “I’m fine,” you repeat, as if saying it will make it true. But it doesn’t. It’s a lie.

You close your eyes, wishing for this to end. Wishing for him to go away, because if he’s here, then maybe this is real. And if it’s real, then you don’t know how to handle it. Your mind can’t bear the weight of hope anymore. It’s too much, too dangerous.

“Go away,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You aren’t real.”

But then, his hand—a warm, familiar touch—rests on your thigh. It’s gentle but grounding, the simple contact igniting something inside of you. You flinch at first, too afraid to believe, but his presence doesn’t waver.

“I’m real, Schatz,” he murmurs softly, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your pants in the same way he always used to, tender and comforting. “I’m right here.”

His words land like a blow to your chest, the weight of them forcing your breath to hitch. The touch, the warmth, the sound of his voice—it’s too much. It feels like a dream, too beautiful to be true, too terrifying to accept. But it’s not a dream. It’s him.

You turn to face him, your eyes filling with tears before you can stop them. “I’m dreaming,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, cracking with the emotion you’ve tried so hard to suppress. “You can’t be…you can’t be here…”

The words die on your lips as he leans forward, his face so close that you can feel the heat of his breath, the warmth of his presence enveloping you. “Y/N, look at me,” he says, his tone raw, filled with an urgency that pierces through the numbness you’ve become so familiar with. “Please?”

For a moment, you hesitate. Everything inside you screams to pull away, to protect yourself from the danger of believing in something that feels too good to be true. But your heart, still beating with something fragile and alive, pushes you to defy that instinct. Slowly, trembling, you turn your face to him.

You study him in disbelief. His face is streaked with blood, his clothes are torn, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and worry. He’s not the Nico you remember—clean-cut and confident—but there’s something more real about him now, something raw and vulnerable that makes your heart ache in ways you didn’t know you could still feel.

Hesitantly, you reach up, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his jaw. A tear slips down your cheek, and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing holding him together. His face is still, as if absorbing the simple act of contact, and it breaks something inside you, a crack that lets in all the feelings you’ve tried to block out for so long.

“I’m real,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, as if saying it too loudly might shatter everything. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t pull away. Your hand lingers on his face, feeling the warmth of him grounding you in a way you’ve never known. The cold distance that’s consumed you for so long begins to melt away, replaced by something far scarier—hope. The fear, the ache, the longing for this moment that you’d never dared to believe in—they all come crashing in at once. The walls you’ve built around yourself start to crumble, and you realize, for the first time in what feels like forever, that maybe you’re allowed to feel something other than pain.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, cracking from days of silence. "Why are you here? Why did you come?”

His arms instinctively pull you closer, his hand resting on the back of your neck like a lifeline. “I couldn’t leave you all alone,” he says, his voice fragile, almost afraid that saying too much might ruin this fragile moment between you. His breath shudders as he speaks, like he’s been holding onto this for too long. “I couldn’t.”

You pull back slightly, a small laugh escaping your lips, but it’s hollow, pained. “You should have,” you murmur, sitting up a little, needing to create some space, even if just for a moment. You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling the strength of him there, his arm tightening around you. “You were supposed to move on, Nico. Retire, live your life. You…”

His voice softens, a teasing edge slipping through, even though the emotion lingers in his eyes. “I what?” he asks, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips, though it’s full of something far deeper. “What would I have done?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you close your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat fill the silence between you. A strange tightness fills your chest as you let the words come, ones you’d never thought you’d say. “I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice full of an aching sincerity. “Gone to the beach, gotten married. Been happy, I guess.” The words are bitter, but they’re honest—because you know he deserves that. A life away from this. A life that wasn’t about shadows and blood and survival.

He smiles softly, but there’s something wistful about it, a flicker of sadness hiding behind the tenderness. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary, grounding you in a way words could never. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I was in Paris,” he says, his voice full of a warmth so deep it almost feels like a confession. Each word lands on you like a lifeline, pulling you closer to him, to something you thought you could never have.

You close your eyes, letting the memory of those days flood your senses—those stolen moments of peace where you let yourself believe in a life beyond the chaos. A life where you were just you, and Nico was more than just a fleeting thought, a dream that could never come true. “I thought those memories would be the last I’d have of you,” you whisper, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, desperate to keep him here, to stop the world from swallowing him up again. As if he might disappear if you blinked.

He gently lifts your chin, his fingers warm against your skin, and looks into your eyes with a steady gaze, one that holds all the promises he’s never been able to say. His eyes are soft, but full of a fire that makes your chest tighten. "I’m here, Y/N," he says, and the way he says your name—Y/N—like it’s the only thing that matters in this world, makes your heart shudder. "I’m not going anywhere."

You swallow, trying to steady the emotions swirling inside you, but they’re too much, too big. You have to ask, even if part of you is scared to hear the answer. “Do you still want me to run away with you?” The words barely escape your lips, a quiet whisper, as if saying them too loudly will make the fragile moment crumble. You don’t know if you can bear the weight of his answer if he says no.

Nico’s smile softens, and his eyes hold a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. “I’ve actually come to pick you up,” he says, as casually as if he’s picking you up for a dinner date, the absurdity of it making something light and hopeful rise within you. “I even have a car and everything.”

You laugh, a breathless sound, not out of humor but because for a moment, it feels so normal. It feels like the world outside these walls doesn’t exist. But then the gravity of the situation pulls you back, and the weight of what leaving would mean settles on your shoulders like an anchor.

You drop your gaze, and your voice drops to a whisper. “They’ll be coming for us, y’know?” The words taste like defeat as you speak them, but they’re the truth. “My siblings…father…they’ll never stop hunting us down.”

Nico’s hand tightens around yours, his touch grounding and unshakable. His voice is calm but steely, a quiet confidence behind every word. “Well, lucky for us, we’re even,” he says, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I have enemies of my own too. Let them try to hunt us down. We’ll keep each other safe.”

His words send a jolt through you, a spark of something you haven’t felt in so long—hope. The possibility of us. The thought that maybe, just maybe, this is how it’s supposed to be. You and him, against the world. Together. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself imagine the impossible, because in this moment, with him here, anything feels possible.

The weight of his words settles into your heart, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a burden. It feels like a promise.

The fear is still there, but with his words, something new sparks to life—hope, fragile and unfamiliar. You’ve lived so long with no future to speak of, yet now, with Nico beside you, it almost seems possible.

You meet his eyes, and something like a spark ignites between you. The bond between you is stronger than anything you’ve ever known. You squeeze his hand, feeling the steadiness of his strength, the unshakable confidence that you never knew you needed, but now, you can’t imagine living without.

“So,” you say, your lips curving into a smile, “Where do we go first?”

“How about Switzerland?” Nico’s playful gleam in his eyes matches the warmth you feel inside. “I make a pretty good tour guide, don’t you think?”

“Switzerland it is,” you reply, your voice thick with a quiet thrill. It’s not just a place—it’s a new beginning. You’re not just escaping, you’re stepping into something new, something alive, something yours. The word “home” hovers on the edge of your lips, the idea of it—of belonging—feeling both foreign and entirely right.

He stands and extends his arm to help you up, a gesture so simple, yet it sends a rush of warmth through you. Your legs feel weak from days of stillness, but as you wrap your hand around his arm, it’s like the weight of the world is suddenly lighter. You lean into him, and together, you make your way down the hallway, the air between you charged with anticipation, with the promise of everything that’s ahead.

As you step through the estate’s entryway, the remnants of a struggle greet you—shattered vases, dark bloodstains on the marble floor, and a knife, glinting just out of reach. The familiar insignia of your father’s authority catches your eye, and your heart stutters. You release Nico’s arm, bending down to pick it up, the blade heavy in your hands.

“Was he here?” you murmur, your voice thick with the weight of everything you’ve just left behind.

Nico’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening with a mix of anger and resolve. “He escaped,” he says, his voice steady. “But he won’t get far. Probably.”

You turn the blade over in your hands, the past catching up to you for a moment, its weight threatening to pull you back into the darkness. But as you feel the cool metal in your palm, something shifts inside you—this time, you let it slip from your fingers. It clatters to the floor, leaving the past behind.

Together, you walk out of the shadows, out of the dark estate and into the light, where the sun feels warmer than it ever has before, spreading across your skin like a gentle promise. The sky stretches wide above you, endless and inviting, and for the first time, you realize that you’re breathing freely—every inhale lighter, filling your lungs with the sweetness of something that feels almost like freedom.

You glance at Nico, who’s watching you with a soft, steady smile that makes the uncertainty seem smaller, as if this new path is yours to shape together. His hand is warm in yours, grounding you as you step forward, leaving behind the dark walls and shattered remains of a life that no longer belongs to you.

The future awaits. It’s yours now—an uncharted horizon that stretches as far as you’re willing to go. And for the first time, you can almost taste it, this fragile, breathtaking possibility of a world beyond fear and duty. You feel it in the quiet between your heartbeats, in the way Nico’s thumb brushes gently against your skin, grounding you in a reality that’s no longer filled with shadows but with a promise. A new beginning.

A maybe even a fresh start to a love story that, despite everything, seems like it’s only just begun.

READ PART ONE HERE

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harry-hollands · 8 months ago

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Summary: Tasked with eliminating the government spy Nico Hischier, you arrive in Paris prepared to do what you’ve always done: obey Father’s orders without question. Unexpectedly, you get closer to Nico and he shows you a glimpse of a life beyond the underworld. Torn between your present and the possibility of a future free from darkness, you make a choice that changes the course of your life.

Word Count: 15k Warnings: fluffy angst!! there's a swear word somewhere there and there's a scene that leads to something spicy but there isn't any actual smut!! also there are inaccurate descriptions of advanced technology and chemicals...don't come for me, i'm not a stem student and i don't actually know how that shit works

You first meet him at a gala somewhere in Germany. It’s the birthday of some socialite, celebrated in the only way these people seem to know how—a garish display of lavish opulence. The mansion is dripping in gold, with polished marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and an endless fountain of champagne that flows throughout the night. Around you, guests float about in grand clothes, laughter echoing through the hall. And, from the corner of your eye, in the dimly lit corners, you spot couples slipping away for moments of…private intimacy.

In a perfect world, you’d join the festivities—join in the dancing and drinking, maybe you’d even find someone who catches your eye, flirt for a while, let the champagne make you bold. But you aren’t here for any of that. No, your attendance tonight is strictly for work, and you’re eager to make a good impression. After all, ‘Father’ had chosen you personally for this assignment, this chance to prove yourself by approaching The Target.

The honor wasn’t lost on you. Out of all your ‘siblings,’ it was you he’d chosen—‘Father’s’ quiet, watchful shadow. You almost let a smile slip at the thought of them fuming, quietly seething that you had been singled out as his best. Still, you keep your gloating hidden deep inside. You keep your expression composed, calm, your mask perfectly in place. Just like what you were trained to do.

One by one, ‘Father’ takes you through the crowd, introducing you to guests scattered throughout the hall. There are socialites wrapped in silk and jewels, politicians with their fake and steely smiles; There are actors who prance around with perfectly practiced charm and singers who cast secretive glances at one another—everyone who matters, the pillars of high society, are all here.

You’re cordial, polite, doing exactly as you were trained: standing straight with your head high, giving a subtle smile, letting ‘Father’ do most of the talking while you speak only when directly addressed.

This is why you’re his favorite. You’re a shadow, a seamless extension of his will, your own desires tucked away beneath the polished surface.

Your gaze occasionally sweeps the room, catching every flicker of movement, every momentary lapse in composure. You’re waiting, watching, until finally, you see him: The Target. Standing across the room, just beyond ‘Father’s’ line of sight, and yet right within yours.

The cold and calculating Agent Heart. Real name: Nico Hischier. One of the top operatives the Swiss government had ever produced—usually, anyway. He’d unknowingly made a crucial mistake at his last job, leaving just enough of a trace to reveal the man behind the code name. And now, he would die by your hands.

It was almost a pity to end the life of someone so...well, so pretty, with that sharp jawline and those doe-like brown eyes. But a job was a job, and Nico Hischier had been a thorn in your client’s side for far too long. His audacious infiltration schemes and the false information he’d planted across organizations had finally backfired, landing him in the crosshairs of nearly every intelligence agency in Europe. The bounty on his head was astronomical. And very soon, you’d be securing a piece of it.

You quietly excuse yourself from the current group of guests as ‘Father’ continues talking, stepping away with a smooth, practiced grace that goes unnoticed amidst the swirl of laughter and clinking glasses. Moving through the crowd, you feel the thrill of anticipation quicken your heartbeat—not nerves, but the pure, cold excitement that only missions like this can give.

You’d studied him meticulously, learning everything from his birthplace to his weapon of choice to the peculiarity of his movements. By all accounts, he’s one of the deadliest targets you’ve ever been assigned. But here, under the shimmering lights and surrounded by Europe’s elite, he almost seems ordinary. Unsuspecting. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Carefully, you make your way to him with a calculated grace, cutting through the crowd with subtle purpose until you find yourself near the champagne tower where he stands, engaged in polite conversation but always surveying the room. In these few seconds, your mind runs through the best approaches. This first contact would be critical—too bold, and he’d suspect something; too subtle, and you’d be ignored.

As you near him, you make a choice. You pass close enough to him for a brief, delicate brush of your arm against his, subtle enough to seem accidental yet deliberate enough to catch his attention. The spark of contact makes him look down at you, his gaze as sharp as you expected. You meet his eyes, letting a faint smile tug at your lips, mysterious and inviting.

You let the moment linger just a second longer than usual before drifting away, casting a fleeting glance over your shoulder as you head towards a nearby balcony. A silent invitation, daring him to follow.

It works. Just moments later, you sense his presence behind you, following you closely. And when you step onto the quiet balcony overlooking the gardens, he’s there, closing the doors softly behind him. For a brief moment, you both stand in silence, the sounds of laughter and music now muffled by the thick glass. The night air is cool, and he takes a step forward, his posture casual but his eyes sharp, assessing.

“Didn’t think I’d see someone like you out here,” he says smoothly, his voice low and slightly amused.

You arch a brow, leaning against the stone bannister, feigning a casualness you don’t entirely feel. “And what is ‘someone like me,’ exactly?” you ask, letting a slight challenge slip into your tone.

He chuckles softly, his gaze trailing over you with an interest that’s as analytical as it is intrigued. “Someone who seems a bit out of place among all the gold and glitter.” He pauses, a smile touching his lips. “Though I suppose that’s part of the charm.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a smile of your own. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He hums, studying you with a spark of intrigue. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

You smirk, crossing your arms loosely in front of you. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He chuckles, mirroring your smirk with one of his own. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

You shrug lightly, keeping your gaze steady. “It’s not that important. We won’t be meeting after tonight, anyway,” you reply, your tone coy, almost daring.

He tilts his head, clearly amused, and leans in just a fraction closer. His hand rests on the bannister, his fingers nearly brushing against yours. “And what if I wanted to meet again?”

A playful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “I think I could make that happen.”

He opens his mouth, about to respond with some new flirtation, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice.

‘Father.’

“Ah,” he says, his tone measured, assessing, “My child, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

You turn, adopting a soft, slightly apologetic smile, and gesture toward Nico. “I found some lovely company tonight. I’m sorry for slipping away like that.”

‘Father’ shifts his gaze to Nico, then back to you, a look of subtle satisfaction passing over his features as he realizes you’ve made contact with the target. “I see.” He extends his hand to the spy. “Thank you for looking after my treasure.”

The air shifts as Nico straightens, his previously casual demeanor giving way to a guarded coolness. He accepts the handshake, meeting ‘Father’s’ gaze with a measured look. “It’s my pleasure,” he replies smoothly. “She’s been…lovely company.”

‘Father’ gives an approving smile that, even to you, seems convincing. “Well,” he says, glancing between the two of you, “I hate to cut this meeting short, but our chauffeur is here to take us back home.” His tone is warm, but there’s no mistaking the command in his words.

Nico’s eyes flick from you to ‘Father,’ assessing, before he nods. “Of course.” Turning back to you, he reaches for your gloved hand, lifting it with unexpected gentleness to his lips. “Thank you for your company tonight.”

You give him a warm smile, your heart skipping just slightly under the guise of composure. “It was no trouble at all.” Then, slipping your hand free, you take ‘Father’s’ arm, feeling Nico’s intense gaze burn into your back as you leave the balcony.

Once in the car, the silence is weighted, yet you can sense ‘Father’s’ satisfaction without needing to see his face. He finally speaks, his voice brimming with a rare touch of pride.

“My Shadow,” he says, almost tenderly, “To have made contact with a target even I did not see is nothing short of impressive. I knew you were the right choice for this assignment.” He leans back, a hint of a smile ghosting across his face as he watches the city lights flicker past the window.

A subtle warmth blooms in your chest, a swell of pride that you rarely allow yourself to feel. You’ve made ‘Father’ proud—exactly what you’ve been trained for, the purpose he’s molded you into. And tonight, you’ve once again proven yourself worthy of his trust.

You allow yourself a brief, quiet smile as you reply, “Thank you, Father.”

Suddenly, ‘Father’ turns to you, a faint glint of scrutiny in his eyes. “I must ask, however,” he says, his voice sharp and questioning, “Why did you allow him to kiss your hand goodbye? You don’t often permit targets to make contact with you.”

Caught off guard by his intensity, you pause, then offer a calm, practiced smile. “Oh,” you say, feeling the weight of his gaze, “I left him with a small gift, is all.”

‘Father’ raises a brow, his silence an unspoken command to elaborate.

With a slight, mischievous smile, you hold up your hands, drawing his attention to the delicate gloves still clinging to your skin. “I laced these with poison.”

For a second, ‘Father’ stares, his eyes widening as he processes your strategy, before he lets out a hearty, genuine laugh that seems to echo in the dim car. “Oh, my dear Shadow,” he says, mirth evident in every syllable, “This is why you are my greatest investment.”

He shakes his head, almost in awe, and pats your shoulder as if to say, well done. “Brilliantly done. Precise, discreet, and utterly poetic. I knew I was right to trust you with this.”

The pride in his tone washes over you, and you lower your eyes, feigning humility even as satisfaction hums beneath your skin.

Right now, in this moment, you’re more than just his tool—you’re his masterpiece, a testament to his power, and his most prized creation. The night around you darkens as the car glides down empty streets, but you feel only the steady glow of triumph.

You don’t see Nico Hischier for another five years.

After that night, he vanished as if he’d never existed, leaving no trace, no sign, not even a whisper in the underworld. Informants scrambled and came up empty-handed, unable to find the faintest clue of his survival. For all intents and purposes, Nico Hischier was dead and Agent Heart was wiped from the face of the earth—yet his memory lingered, nagging at the edges of your mind. A shame, really. He’d been charming, a master of his craft, and more than easy on the eyes with a lovely accent to match. But business was business, and you’d pocketed a handsome payday from his supposed demise.

Life moved on. You took new assignments, completed them, and then went on a shopping spree with the bounty you collected from each person’s demise.

And then, just as you’d almost forgotten him, a report surfaced: Nico Hischier, codename: Heart, was sighted in Prague.

The message left you cold, gripping the paper so tightly your knuckles turned white. Somehow, he’d managed to reemerge five years after you’d assumed him dead. It could only mean one of two things: either he’d somehow already developed an immunity to your poison, or he’d anticipated your move that night and carried an antidote. Either way, he’d outplayed you.

When ‘Father’ found out, his reaction was…uncharacteristic. You almost expected him to explode in fury, yet he remained unsettlingly calm, though you could feel the chill radiating off him. “Lay low,” he commanded, his voice edged with a steely calm. “Do nothing reckless. We will let him think he is safe.”

You nodded, as did the others. Defiance wasn’t an option—not against ‘Father.’ You were his creations, his most prized agents, trained to bend to his will, to serve as extensions of his power. But as reports trickled in of Nico’s movements—Italy, Spain, then Germany, and now, most recently, Paris—a restlessness began to simmer beneath the surface.

It was infuriating. This job should have been finished years ago, with your flawless record kept unblemished. Instead, Nico Hischier was hopping across Europe as if untouched, while your high-profile clients grew increasingly frantic, demanding answers.

What was his plan? He hadn’t been stirring up trouble, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was biding his time, collecting information, plotting something. Five years of his survival meant five years for him to watch, learn, and scheme. Who knew what kind of leverage he might hold now?

The insult burned, a taunting reminder of your one unfinished task. This was personal now.

With a calculated calm, you start packing, your room a messy whirl of preparation. You move quickly, gathering clothes and essentials, disguises folded neatly alongside your dark ensembles. The commercial airport would be a nightmare for weapons and the more, shall we say, experimental items you’d usually pack, so you strip down to the essentials—your laptop, and hard drives and USBs loaded with data on ‘Father’s’ warehouses, contacts, and safehouses in Paris. You weren’t about to leave anything to chance this time. You were going to get the job done.

“What do we have here?” Hyacinth drawls as he strolls into your room, that infuriating smirk playing across his lips. “Shadow, breaking Father’s orders? Never thought I’d live to see the day! Maybe the world really is coming to an end.”

His laugh grates against your nerves, adding fuel to the fire of your frustration. You clench your fists, willing yourself not to snap.

“Shut up, Hyacinth,” you snap, your tone ice-cold.

He lifts a brow, feigning shock. “Touchy, touchy. What’s the matter? Can’t handle the thought of being like the rest of us disappointments?”

Your glare sharpens. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Oh, maybe not,” he shrugs with feigned nonchalance, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise. “All I know is that Father’s perfect little lap dog has her first big failure and can’t handle it. Didn’t even get a scolding for it, either. Let it go, Shadow. Shit happens.”

“Not to me!” The words are out before you can stop them, the heat in your voice betraying the tight hold you’ve tried to keep on your emotions. “Shit isn’t supposed to happen to me. He should have been dead five years ago. Something is clearly wrong here, and I’m not about to wait around to see what it is.”

Hyacinth leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think by going after him, you’re just putting us all at risk? Maybe you’re the one digging our graves.”

You set your jaw. “I’m making sure it doesn’t come to that. Someone has to, and if that means going out there myself, so be it. I won’t let him compromise us.”

He snorts. “That superiority complex of yours is showing again. Newsflash, Shadow: you’re not any better than the rest of us. We can handle ourselves, you know.”

“Then do that.” You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. “I’m going to end this, for good this time.”

Hyacinth shakes his head, letting out a scoff as he gives you a mock salute before flipping you off on his way out. Once he’s gone, silence falls, leaving you alone with the simmering anger and resolve that’s been building inside you since that first sighting in Prague.

You turn back to your preparations, each item you pack a step closer to reclaiming your spotless record. If Nico Hischier thought he could walk back into your world without a consequence, he was in for a rude awakening. This time, you’d make sure he didn’t walk away—no matter what it took.

The first thing you do when you touch down in Paris is seek out a café where you can start tracking down the location of the warehouse without raising suspicion. You drag your suitcase through the bustling crowds, winding your way to a small café tucked in a quiet corner off a narrow street. It’s the kind of place tourists overlook but locals appreciate, which suits you just fine. Settling at a corner table, you pull out your laptop and hard drive, your eyes flicking discreetly around before focusing on the screen.

Phase one: gathering supplies and resources. It’s essential to be meticulous here, covering your tracks as you hack into the security systems guarding the warehouse. ‘Father’ couldn’t know, not until Nico was back under control, one way or another. Hyacinth was a wild card, as always. But you know your ‘brother’ well enough—he wouldn’t risk his neck tattling to ‘Father’ when it could mean he’d get burned for letting you slip through in the first place. No, the only way you’d get caught would be if you made a mistake. But you don’t make mistakes. Not often, at least.

Steeling yourself, you quickly hack into ‘Father’s’ network, bypassing the high-grade security systems with a practiced ease. You knew every firewall, every code embedded in his system—hell, you’d helped create a few. Within minutes, you’re inside, scanning inventory lists, security schedules, and surveillance layouts. The target warehouse isn’t far, just on the outskirts of the city, and you catch a hint of satisfaction at the minimal security—surely an oversight on ‘Father’s’ part. A clean entry and exit should be more than manageable if you stick to the plan. This was your element. It’s what they trained you for, why they called you Shadow: no one saw you coming, and no one would see you go.

Hours later, with a mental map of the warehouse in place, you check into your hotel—a high-end spot tucked away in the heart of the city. You present your fake ID and passport with the same confidence you’ve honed in every mission. The upscale surroundings are a deliberate choice. Tourists flood hotels like these, and with so many faces coming and going, no one would remember one more guest. Plus, you think, casting a glance around the pristine lobby, it’s a definite improvement over some of your previous hideouts.

Your room is a large suite with a view overlooking the Seine, but there’s no time to enjoy it. By nightfall, you’re ready. Dressed in sleek, dark clothing, a mask fitted snugly over your face, and your bag packed with the essentials, you slip silently into the shadows outside the hotel. Your path takes you through side streets and alleyways, every step calculated as you make your way toward the necessary location.

The warehouse looms ahead, tucked in an industrial sector where only the hum of distant traffic breaks the silence. You slip into the shadows along the building’s side, blending in as you’ve always done. You double-check your tools, each one a lifeline in your hand. There’s no room for error tonight. Not this time.

When you arrive, the warehouse looms ahead in the darkness. It’s surrounded by high fencing, security cameras rotating from their posts like watchful sentries. For most, this would be intimidating, but you’ve faced far worse. The thrill kicks in once more, sharpening your senses. You take a slow, steadying breath, then melt into the shadows, silent as smoke. This time, you’d finish the job you’d started years ago—no matter what it took.

The sunrise has always fascinated you. It’s a signal of beginnings, fresh starts—a promise of new opportunities. You find it poetic that it’s the first thing you see as you slip out of the warehouse, your mission complete and a cold, gleeful satisfaction filling you.

Breaking into the place had been more challenging than anticipated. The exterior’s casual security had lulled you into a false sense of ease, making you believe the rest would be a simple infiltration. But inside, the game shifted. Lasers crisscrossed the halls like webs, ready to alert ‘Father’ at the faintest touch. You’d navigated through them with a mix of agility and nerves of steel, carefully calculating each movement. Then, hacking into the security system to loop the cameras—well, that had demanded an even steadier hand.

Each door you encountered was a new puzzle, a metal barrier locked with outdated ciphers that even the finest digital decoders couldn’t solve alone. Finally, you resorted to an old cipher-decoder tucked away in your bag, the kind you’d almost forgotten about, to get you through. Each second felt stretched, every click and buzz echoing louder in the silent warehouse, but you refused to let it fluster you. You were trained for this—methodical, composed, and ruthless in your precision.

The challenges only fueled you. They reminded you of the spies you’d watched over the years, their sneaky maneuvers and meticulous planning. Spies and assassins weren’t all that different, you thought wryly. Both had to be intelligent, inventive, and constantly three steps ahead. You’d taken notes, refined your approach, and now, standing here at the brink of success, you see it paying off.

Once inside the warehouse’s main sector, you located everything you needed: small vials of acids and chemicals with potent effects, needles to inject them into precise targets, and, of course, your preferred daggers. You recognize the risk of bringing such conspicuous weapons; the daggers would leave a clear mark, something easily traced to you. But they were your final line of defense if all else failed. A contingency. You liked to be prepared for every possibility.

With your haul secured, you slipped out as silently as you’d come, setting everything back to how it was before you’d entered.

Back at the hotel, a wave of exhaustion hit you, the adrenaline finally draining. You collapsed onto the plush bed, relishing the soft linens and the contrast of comfort after the tense operation. As your eyes drifted shut, the golden light of dawn filtered through the window. In the back of your mind, a voice whispers that this time, things will fall into place. The sun feels like a premonition—a promise of victory.

When you wake up, it’s just about time for lunch, and the day outside is sunny, practically inviting you out to explore. After a quick shower, you slip into a simple outfit, throwing on a light cardigan, and head down to the lobby. You tell yourself it’s to grab a bite to eat while you figure out how to locate Nico—if he was even still in Paris. A grimace crosses your face at the possibility he’s already vanished, but a quick spark of determination flickers. You’re prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it takes.

Lost in thought, you walk briskly toward the lobby’s exit, but you’re jarred back to the present by an unexpected bump into someone. Instinctively, you’re ready to apologize—until you look up and see him. Nico, in the flesh, his expression caught halfway between surprise and something else. He’s as handsome as you remember, wearing a casual pair of jeans, a sleek knit sweater, and a trench coat that perfectly frames his sharp build. Jackpot.

His eyes first widen when they see you, a flash of recognition, but they don’t show any signs of him connecting you with a failed assassination plot, so that was working in your favor. Then he gives an amused smile.

For a split second, his eyes widen, a flicker of recognition lighting up his face. But he doesn’t show a trace of suspicion; if anything, he looks amused. It’s almost funny how little he realizes who you truly are or that you were ever tasked with ending his life.

“When you said you’d make our meeting happen again,” he says smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t think you’d keep me waiting for five years.”

You recover quickly, letting an amused smile play on your lips. “Good things take time,” you reply, matching his tone with ease.

“Well then, I guess it’s about time we do this properly." His smirk deepens as he extends a hand, offering a more formal greeting. "I’m Nico.”

“Y/N,” you say, your smile widening as you take his hand, giving it a light but confident shake.

He studies you for a moment, his gaze both amused and appraising. “So, Y/N,” he says, the casualness in his tone belied by the spark of curiosity in his eyes, “What brings you to Paris?”

“Oh, just a bit of business,” you reply, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “But I don’t mind having a little fun on the side.”

“Funny,” he replies, the amusement in his eyes intensifying. His gaze lingers, assessing, as if you’re a puzzle he’s suddenly intent on solving. “I could say the same thing.” There’s a spark of intrigue in his eyes, a quiet challenge, like he’s not quite sure what he’s getting into but is curious enough to find out. “How about we continue where we left off and get lunch? My treat.”

There’s a quiet thrill in how easily he’s letting his guard down. “I’d be glad to,” you say, your voice warm and laced with charm. You place your hand lightly in the one he’s offered as he leads you out of the hotel lobby, and a strange feeling of satisfaction blooms in your chest.

As you step out into the Parisian sunlight, you feel his gaze drift over you from time to time, like he’s trying to piece together the mystery that is you. In a way, it’s thrilling—the careful dance, the unspoken tension between you. For now, you’re both just two strangers, meeting by chance, sharing a meal in the city of lights. But beneath that veneer of normalcy, you know exactly who he is. And soon, he’ll find out exactly who you are, too.

The walk to the restaurant is mostly silent, save for the sounds of cabs and people on the street, though his hand remains firmly laced in yours, grounding you in a way that’s both strange and unexpectedly steady. You’re not sure if he’s doing it to ensure you don’t slip away—not that you would—or if it’s simply his way of staying connected, holding onto this chance encounter as long as possible.

He leads you to a cozy little bistro just a block away from the hotel. It’s the sort of place that’s swarming with locals, with warm wooden tables and waitstaff bustling through the crowd, balancing plates with practiced ease. You’re seated by a window, the afternoon light filtering through as the hum of Parisian life passes by outside. He lets go of your hand to pull out your chair, a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture, before taking a seat across from you. You’re handed menus, and after a quick glance, he orders a steak. You, in turn, order ratatouille—a choice that earns you a look of amused surprise.

“Ratatouille?” He raises an eyebrow, the grin on his face both intrigued and playful as the waiter collects your menus.

You can’t help but smirk back, rolling your eyes a bit as you explain. “I saw the movie last year and figured I should try the dish, see if it lives up to the hype.”

He laughs, the sound warm and relaxed, making him seem momentarily less like the man you’re here to kill. “So, you’re into those kinds of things? Movies?”

“Not really. Just curious.” You give a small shrug, keeping your tone light. “I figured that if I was gonna eat in Paris I might as well go for something classic.”

He nods, eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense but inviting. “I suppose you just don’t strike me as the type to follow a…classical path, so to speak.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “And what exactly do you think my path looks like, then?”

“Something more mysterious.” His smirk returns, laced with a deeper curiosity, as though he’s trying to peer through whatever mask you’ve chosen to wear today. “You’ve got this air about you...like you’re here, but not entirely. A bit like a cat. Sneaky, quick,” he says, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that feels both measuring and teasing. “Elusive.”

You laugh, letting out a genuine sound. “A cat? That’s a first.”

It is a first. People in your world were more likely to call you names like “Golden Girl,” “Father’s Shadow,” or “Lap Dog” when your so-called ‘siblings’ wanted to get under your skin.

“Well, you are hard to pin down, aren’t you?” He leans back, still watching you, and the playful energy from before shifts. “People like us—those who can walk in and out of rooms unnoticed—we tend to be running from something, or toward it. Which one is it for you?”

The question catches you off guard, the subtle implication making you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. You lean in, matching his intensity. “Maybe both. Or maybe I just like the thrill of new places and new faces.”

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as though filing the answer away with real interest. You notice the warmth in his curiosity, and for a brief moment, it almost makes you feel guilty, like he genuinely wants to know the truth about you.

“Besides,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips, “I’m the one who’s hard to pin down? You’re the one who’s been quite hard to find these past few years.”

The words slip out before you realize how they might sound, and for a brief second, you see his expression flicker from amused to alarmed. Most people wouldn’t catch it, but you do, and you pivot quickly.

“I just…” You let out a breath, recalibrating. “I thought you’d stay in Germany longer. I tried looking for you after the gala.” It’s the truth, in a way—you had tried to track him down, though for different reasons entirely. “But you were gone. Just…vanished.” The words carry a hint of something unintended, something softer. You sound almost sad, like a lover abandoned or a child denied a favorite toy.

His expression shifts, easing into something more open, though there’s a guarded look in his eyes you can’t quite place. “Oh,” he says simply. “Had some business to take care of.” Then, his lips curve into a smirk, casual and inviting. “If I’d known you were looking for me, I would’ve found you first.”

You return his smile, allowing the flirtation to flow easily between you. “Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to try too hard this time.”

“Lucky for me indeed.” His gaze sharpens with interest, as if he’s thinking of something more he’d like to say but chooses to leave it unspoken.

As the light shifts, bathing the restaurant in a soft glow, you realize just how naturally the conversation has fallen into place, how seamlessly you’ve slipped into the part you need to play. It’s dangerous, how easy it feels, how perfectly he responds to every cue. For a moment, you wonder if he’s doing the same—if he’s playing a role, hiding motives of his own behind that smooth smile. But the real danger, you know, is how much you welcome it—yearn for it—how a part of you longs for this illusion of normalcy.

You let yourself drift for a second, thinking about a quiet cottage somewhere in the mountains. You imagine waking up next to someone you love, sharing breakfast and laughter in the early morning light. You picture spending your days apart, coming home to one another at night, swapping stories about the small things, the safe things, the little moments of joy. In this little dream, you hold children of your own—kids who’d grow up safe, untouched by the world you’d grown up in.

You look across the table at Nico, studying his face, his easy demeanor. And for a brief, painful moment, you think that if things were different, if he truly was just a man sitting here with genuine interest, the two of you might have been a good match. But that world, that life, feels as distant as the sunlit street outside, just out of reach and fading as quickly as it appeared.

The food arrives, interrupting the charged silence, and you focus on your plate, cutting into the colorful layers of ratatouille. The flavors are rich and earthy, a surprising comfort, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the meal. The flavors are unexpectedly comforting, earthy and rich, a pleasure you can savor for once, without wondering if it’s laced with some new toxin or if a hidden blade will come flying at you as you take your next bite.

‘Father’ had a way of turning even meals into exercises in survival, leaving you perpetually on guard, reminding you, every time you sat down, that you belonged to him. The absurdity of it all isn’t lost on you—the idea of “family” twisted into something you’ve learned to navigate but never fully accept.

As you eat, Nico occasionally glances up, a hint of curiosity in his gaze, and you realize he’s studying you, reading you as if you’re some puzzle he’s intent on solving. His careful attention puts you on edge, yet you find yourself playing into it, letting him look, letting him think he has the upper hand. But under the surface, you’re calculating, assessing how best to keep him close. After all, you have a job to finish, and the more he thinks he’s reading you, the more you can quietly prepare.

“So,” you say, dabbing the corners of your mouth, casually probing, “How long have you been in Paris?”

“About two weeks now,” he replies, his voice a low hum.

That aligns with the information you received, so you press a bit further. “Work?” you ask, giving him a look of mild curiosity.

“Something like that.” His gaze drifts, thoughtful, as if his mind is somewhere else, somewhere you can’t follow. “Just needed to get away from everything for a while.”

You nod thoughtfully. You understood completely. The life you both lead and the secrecy, the horrors that come with it aren’t for the weak. There are times you’ve dreamed of disappearing yourself, slipping out from under ‘Father’s’ iron grip, but fear keeps you rooted. The thought of ‘Father’ discovering an unsanctioned trip would lead to more than just fury; it would likely spark consequences you can’t afford.

You glance at Nico, taking a sip of water to mask the tension creeping into your thoughts. This job has to go as planned—flawlessly. If it doesn’t, you know you’ll be dragged back to face ‘Father’s’ wrath, and Paris, Nico, all of it, would be nothing more than a dangerous, haunting memory.

“I get it,” you say finally, a hint of wistfulness creeping into your voice. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”

“Not even your dad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head. “No one knows.” A pause, then you add, “Well, except my brother. But he won’t tell.”

“You have siblings?”

“Three older ones, one younger,” you say with a small smile. “They’re annoying, but they’re mine.” It isn’t exactly a lie. There may be rivalry and threats and a constant competition for ‘Father’s’ approval, but there’s also a silent bond, a certain understanding that only comes from surviving the same relentless environment together. In some twisted way, you protect each other.

He chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “I’ve got two older ones. A brother and a sister.”

“Yeah?” you ask, leaning forward with genuine interest, surprising even yourself. “What are they like?”

“They’re fun,” he says, his eyes softening as he talks, affectionate in the way most families are with each other. “We’re close—we talk all the time, take trips to the beach or the lake. We play sports together, laugh about stupid things. Just…normal stuff.”

You can’t help the pang that tugs at you, the unfamiliar ache of what you’ve missed. “What about your parents?”

A smile spreads across his face, warm and fond. “My mom makes the best food. Seriously. She’s always trying new things, always spoiling us.” He laughs. “And my dad, well, he’s your classic dad. Quiet, but caring. You should’ve seen him when I graduated university, got all choked up—I’ve never seen him so emotional before.” He pauses, a nostalgic look in his eyes. “They used to drive my brother and me to a whole different town just so we could play hockey—never missed a game or a school event.”

You feel yourself drawn in, pulled by the mundane beauty of what he’s describing. The picture he paints is a world away from what you’ve known, yet there’s something so alluring, so...possible about it that it stirs something in you. A strange longing, a memory of a life that could never be, echoes faintly through your mind.

“What was that like?” you ask softly, not even sure he’ll answer, but he surprises you.

“Safe,” he says, looking right at you, as though he knows you need to hear it. “It felt safe. Like no matter what happened out there, there was always a place to come back to.”

The silence between you feels heavier now, carrying words unspoken, secrets untold. But for a fleeting moment, you let yourself imagine—just for a little while—what it might feel like to have that too.

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, both of you focused on your plates as the weight of his words lingers in the air.

“So,” he says after a while, setting down his knife with a thoughtful expression. “How long do I get to enjoy your company here in Paris?”

You meet his gaze, a slow, amused smile forming. “Well, that all depends on you, doesn’t it? How long are you here for?”

He leans back, his expression light but his eyes intent. “I’ll be around for the next couple of weeks,” he says, fingers tapping idly on the table. “Exploring, finding the hidden corners of the city.” There’s a pause, and then his smile shifts, turning almost playful. “You should come with me. Two tourists, no plans. Let’s explore together.”

“A bit eager, aren’t we?” you say, tilting your head with a raised brow.

He grins, leaning forward just a little. “What can I say? Don’t wanna lose sight of you again.”

There’s something layered in his words, a glint in his eyes that suggests he may be speaking more truth than he lets on, but you can’t quite pin down what it means. He’s either a very convincing actor or just naturally this mysterious, and you can’t decide which one makes him more dangerous.

You take the final bite of your meal, letting his invitation sink in as you weigh your options. A simple "no" would be easy. Safe. But something inside you is intrigued, drawn to the thrill of the unknown he represents—a thrill so rare for you it’s almost intoxicating.

Finally, you set down your fork and look up at him with a slight smirk. “All right,” you say, voice casual but steady. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

His face brightens, the guardedness dropping ever so slightly. “Perfect,” he says, looking genuinely pleased. “Let’s see where the city leads us.”

The city, or rather Nico, leads you through winding streets and narrow alleys, his arm still linked with yours, his steps unhurried as though he has all the time in the world. There’s an ease to his movements, his glances at you are light and almost boyish, as if you’re both just a pair of tourists enjoying a quiet afternoon. Yet, beneath it all, there’s a tension that winds between you—a silent ache that pulls tighter with every look and every laugh.

You pause by tiny cafés and quaint kiosks, sampling pastries and sipping espresso from delicate cups. At one stop, he takes your picture in front of a flowering tree, snapping a few from different angles until he gets the best shot. At another, he buys you a small trinket from a street vendor—an inexpensive little charm shaped like the Eiffel Tower. You murmur a thank you, clutching it in your hand, the warmth of the gesture somehow surprising.

Yet, in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the thought of the vial of poison and the small dagger nestled in your purse, waiting for the moment you’re supposed to make your move.

You imagine your life after he’s gone.

The assignments will continue, the wealth will accumulate. And then every so often, you’ll look on your shelves and see these small ornaments and think of your time walking the hidden streets of Montparnasse. You’ll look at your phone and see these pictures from Paris and they’ll remind you of him snapping the photos as he bent into different angles until he got the best shot. You’ll see the cheap hair clip in your dresser, tucked away in the back amidst other jewelry and accessories you have, and think of how he noticed you wanted it and got it without needing to ask.

Slowly, these mementos will gather dust, hidden in corners of your room, little souvenirs of the man who saw you. Nobody had ever seen just you.

It’s startling and strange, this feeling—this gentle awareness of being seen, of being considered. Until now, you were always someone else’s shadow, ‘Father’s’ instrument. You were trained to be invisible, an extension of his will and no more. But Nico isn’t like that. His gaze lingers, soft and genuine, as though he’s curious about what lies beneath the surface.

You shake off the thoughts and try to focus on the moment. There’s still time before you’re meant to make your move, time enough to let yourself enjoy the rest of the day. Just for now, you decide to let yourself exist in this quiet, stolen happiness.

Eventually, Nico leads you up a tower to a viewing deck where the city sprawls beneath you in an endless expanse of rooftops and streets. The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, a towering symbol of the city, so far away yet it feels within reach, as though you could stretch your hand out and touch it. The evening light casts long shadows, painting the Paris skyline in shades of amber and rose, the kind of beauty you’d only ever seen in your dreams.

"So," Nico murmurs as you approach the edge of the deck, his voice low, almost reverent. "What do you think?"

You glance at him, taking in the slight, an almost vulnerable expression that flickers over his face as he watches you, waiting for a response. The view, the quiet intimacy of the moment, all of it makes the silence heavier. And for a split second, you allow yourself to forget who you are, who he is—to forget the guilt that’s rising inside you. Right now, you’re just Y/N, a girl seeing Paris for the first time, with someone who—if things were different—might have become a part of your life in another way.

“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly, though your words feel too simple, too small for everything swirling inside you.

He studies you, his gaze lingering with a weight that makes your heart beat just a little faster. “I figured you’d appreciate it. It seemed…fitting.”

“Fitting?” you echo, glancing sideways, a faint smile on your lips.

He shrugs, his hands slipping into his pockets as he steps closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “For a girl who seems to belong everywhere and nowhere all at once.” He smirks, and there’s that gleam again, that sense he’s peering through the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. “You don’t stay still, do you?”

“No,” you say softly, the words falling from your lips with ease. “I travel a lot for work.” You pause, the silence thickening before you add, “The family business.”

He nods, his gaze steady, as if processing your words with more attention than you expected.

“My Father can be…strict about leaving, about staying in one place for too long,” you continue, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Says it can be dangerous. It’s his way of showing he cares.” You say it, but even to your own ears, it sounds hollow, like you’re trying to convince yourself of something you’ve never quite believed.

His expression shifts, an intensity in his eyes that almost feels like he’s seeing right through you. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you should tell him everything. Lay it all out in the open, be honest for once in your life, and admit the truth: I’m here to kill you. It feels almost tempting, the release of that burden, especially after the small kindnesses he’s shown you. But as you look at him, something inside you twists. The idea of telling him what you really came for feels like a betrayal, one that goes deeper than the job at hand.

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a quiet challenge. “You seem to be running too.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something solemn, almost haunted. “Maybe I am,” he admits, surprising you with the vulnerability in his tone. “But Paris feels…different. Nice.” He hesitates, glancing down at the city below before meeting your gaze. “It’s good to feel grounded, even if it's just for a little while.”

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, and something within you softens, cracking the thin armor you keep in place. In another life, you might have wanted this—the city, the warmth of his hand, the glint in his eyes. A life where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder or running from the darkness that’s haunted you since childhood.

“So you’ll stay, then?” you ask, the question falling from your lips before you can second-guess it.

Nico chuckles softly, but it’s a sound tinged with something sad, something fleeting. “Long enough, I hope,” he replies, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he’s already aware that time is running out for both of you.

You look back to the skyline, your gaze lingering on the Eiffel Tower glowing faintly in the dusk. You should be thinking about logistics, about his weaknesses, about how you’ll manage to complete this mission without the complications he’s bringing out in you. But instead, your attention is elsewhere, caught in the warmth of his proximity, in the fleeting tenderness of this moment. His hand brushes against yours, just the lightest graze of fingertips, and a strange pull stirs deep inside you.

The silence between you stretches out, heavy with the weight of things neither of you dares to speak. It’s fragile, this connection, and it feels like it could shatter with a single word, a single choice. But for now, neither of you makes it. Neither of you dares to break the fragile calm.

“In another life,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, as if mulling over the thought, “I think I would have played hockey.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Hockey?” You laugh softly, amused, but the intrigue lingers.

He glances at you, his expression wistful. “Yeah. My brother and I played growing up. It’s what he’s doing now—he plays professionally.” He turns back to the view, his gaze distant, as if lost in the memory. “I think I would’ve liked that too.”

You hum, your mind wandering to your own past—those moments you never allowed yourself to think about too deeply. “I don’t know what I would’ve been,” you admit.

His gaze sharpens, sensing the quiet weight behind your words. “No?” he asks, his voice soft but probing.

You shake your head, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest. “Father always told us not to dwell on impossibilities. Said it was a waste of time. So, I don’t.”

There’s a brief silence, a gap between you, as Nico processes your words. His eyes flicker to the horizon, but his attention never strays too far from you.

“Well,” he pressed, the question gentle yet insistent, “What did you enjoy as a kid? Surely there’s something—something you loved, even for just a moment?”

You close your eyes, the memories swarming, distant and fragmented. The orphanage, the cold walls of ‘Father’s’ estate, the endless missions, the calculated steps you were taught to take. They blur together in an unbroken chain, all leading you to the person you are now. But there’s little more than blood and monotonous days.

“I don’t know, actually.” Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as the weight of the realization settles over you. “I just…did what I was told to do.” It sounds hollow, even to you. A life spent living by someone else’s rules, devoid of anything truly yours.

“You can always start now,” he says quietly, turning to face you fully, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I mean, you came here on a whim, didn’t you? Surely, that counts for something. It was a choice, even if a small one.”

You chuckle, the sound escaping softer than you intended, and meet his gaze. “It might be too late for me,” you murmur, feeling the weight of your words settle between you. Part of you wonders if he can see past your deflection, to the fear simmering beneath it.

He shakes his head, a flicker of resolve crossing his face. “My dad used to tell me that people change as often as the wind changes directions.” His eyes meet yours, piercing yet gentle, holding a challenge you didn’t expect—or maybe a plea. “It’s never too late,” he says, his voice dropping, the sincerity clear. “Not even for you.”

You don’t get a chance to kill him that day—or the days that follow. Somehow, time keeps stretching between you, days folding into nights and back into days. You still carry your bag, its hidden arsenal of a dagger, poison, and an anesthetic always on hand if the right moment arises. But each day, that moment slips further out of reach.

In the days after that first encounter, you and Nico drift through Paris, claiming the city as if it’s yours alone. Together, you cover every iconic landmark—standing in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower as its lights sparkle above, wandering the vast halls of the Louvre, where he teases you about different statues and their poses, and insists that he point out and then mimic every half-smiling portrait you come across. He surprises you with his knowledge of art, the Renaissance, and even Latin, which he learned in school and continued through university. When you reveal you also know the language, it becomes a game, a shared secret as you converse exclusively in Latin for hours, drawing amused looks from strangers and fits of laughter between you two.

He takes you to hidden corners of the city he’s uncovered on his own—the quiet Canal St. Martin, where you dangle your feet over the edge, watching swans glide past as you sip wine together. You learn a lot about him from your day here as he regales you with stories of his childhood: mischievous pranks with his brother, run-ins with strict teachers, and wild nights from his university days. You don’t have many anecdotes to share, but you do tell him carefully curated pieces of a past filled with botany and gardening, though you omit the lessons in toxicology and the purpose behind knowing which plants to avoid—or harvest.

One afternoon, you wander through the ancient arches of the Musée de Cluny, and he spins a story of a different era, playfully declaring you both a lord and lady sneaking away from the prying eyes of nobility, relishing the thrill of being together in secret. For a fleeting moment, you feel swept away by the fantasy, nearly forgetting the truth as you and him find solace in making playful and risqué conversation in hidden corners of the museum, your faces getting dangerously close to one another’s.

He brings you to unassuming cafés, bustling markets, and winding streets that all seem to have stories of their own—each location now carrying traces of you and Nico, building memories you never planned to make. You rate the coffee and croissants with mock seriousness, shop for souvenirs and trinkets neither of you need, and get hopelessly lost trying to find your next destination, only to laugh when you end up exactly where you started.

And every day, the armaments in your bag grow heavier as you begin to wonder when, or even if, you’ll ever use them.

You find yourself unwinding in his presence, relaxing into the rhythm of the city beside him where even the smallest, most ordinary parts of Paris feel enchanted. His hand often brushes against yours as you walk, or he catches your gaze and holds it a beat too long, a subtle invitation hidden within each glance and touch.

Today, he brings you to the Wall of Love in Montmartre, where countless couples gather, drawn by the allure of seeing “I love you” written in over 250 languages. The blue tiles shimmer with red letters scattered across the wall, each phrase a declaration whispered across the world and etched here—a universal symbol of love and longing.

He pauses in front of the wall, his gaze soft as he reads a few of the phrases. As they often do these days, his fingers brush against yours, light and unhurried, as if savoring the contact. When he speaks, his voice is low, reverent, as though the moment demands a quiet respect.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, tracing one of the lines with his eyes. “So many ways to say the same thing. Even if people don’t understand each other, they understand…this.” He gestures to the wall, his hand grazing yours in a way that sends a shiver up your spine.

You look up, taking in the mosaic of languages and emotions woven together on the wall, words you may never fully understand yet somehow feel, even here, in the silence between you. You wonder if he’s trying to tell you something with his own actions, if he’s hinting at something deeper beneath his words. The moment feels suspended in time—a fragment of connection forever binding you to this place and each other.

For that brief, fragile moment, you’re just two people in Paris, a part of the world where love and connection persist against all odds. The weight of the dagger and vials in your bag fades, his presence anchoring you to the present. It’s enough—almost too much.

Yet, even as your heart flutters, there’s a part of you wound tight, like a coil ready to spring. You tell yourself it’s because you need to stay focused, that letting your guard down even slightly could cost you everything. But every time he meets your gaze, the edges of your resolve blur, replaced by something nameless and terrifyingly real.

“Have you ever felt that?” he asks, his tone almost tentative, as though he’s not used to letting anyone in. “A feeling you don’t even have to translate. It just…is.”

His question catches you off guard, slicing through whatever shield you’re still trying to keep intact. You look at him, unsure of what to say, and then, with a carefully neutral smile, you reply, “I wouldn’t know.”

He looks at you for a long moment, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “Maybe it’s not too late to find out,” he says softly, as though he’s suggesting something that has the power to change everything.

And for a moment, you wonder what could happen if you could let yourself feel, let yourself know what it means to be more than just a weapon. What would your life look like then?

The question lingers between you, silent and electric, and you feel it—your heart beating too fast, filled with a hope that you’d be able to stay in this moment just a little longer.

That night, he takes you to dinner at the hotel restaurant where you’re seated at a cozy, dimly lit corner. It’s the kind of place where the music is soft and the waitstaff almost invisible, giving you the sense that this moment belongs entirely to the two of you. You share a perfectly seared steak and a rich pasta dish, complemented by a bottle of red wine that he insists on pouring for you since there is apparently a ‘proper’ way to pour wine. The food is delicious, but the real highlight is the conversation—sharp, teasing banter that’s layered with the kind of teasing that’s come to define your time together.

“Superpowers are supposed to come with weaknesses,” he huffs, swirling his wine as he gives you a mock-serious look. “Yours, though? Too overpowered.”

You smirk, slicing off a piece of steak and savoring it slowly before answering. “Time control isn't as powerful as everyone makes it out to be,” you counter with a casual shrug. “I mean, have you seen the people who have these powers? Most of them are absolute idiots.”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re smart. Tactical. Absolutely stunning.” He leans in, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip. “You’re dangerous.”

His gaze holds you captive, his eyes twinkling with that strange mix of admiration and mystery that you’ve come to recognize. There’s a glimmer of something in his expression, something that suggests he sees you more clearly than you’d like—an unsettling thought, yet one you can’t seem to shake. You smile, hoping it masks the way his words make you feel, the faint warmth that they stir against your better judgment.

“If you only knew,” you reply lightly, reaching for your glass to steady yourself.

Before he can answer, his phone buzzes on the table, its screen lighting up with a notification. He glances down, and his expression shifts—serious, as though the world outside your bubble has come crashing in. He looks back at you, and there’s an almost apologetic look in his eyes.

“Work,” he says simply, pushing his chair back as he stands. “Give me a few minutes?”

You nod, watching as he steps away from the table, disappearing through a side door to take the call. As soon as he’s out of sight, the warmth and playfulness of the evening evaporates, leaving you in silence, alone with the untouched glasses and the low hum of the restaurant around you.

You glance down at his glass, still half-full, a perfect vessel for the vial of poison you carry in your bag. It’s as if the universe itself has laid this moment out for you, a seamless opportunity wrapped in the elegance of the night. The decision lies before you, chilling and familiar, and you reach into your bag, fingers brushing the cool glass of the vial.

Your heart races, your pulse pounding against the quiet that’s settled around you, and you feel the weight of the past few days hanging in the air. You tell yourself this is just another assignment, that you’re here to do a job—but you can’t shake the look in his eyes from moments before, the way he seemed to see you as something more than just a stranger passing through his life.

The guilt seeps deeper, harder to shake than ever. And it’s not just guilt now; it’s something more—a gnawing certainty that you’ll regret this moment forever if you follow through. You’ll live with the memory of Paris, with his laughter and the streets you wandered together, haunted by the lingering, unanswerable what-if.

But you also know what needs to be done, and you steel yourself, feeling the familiar resolve settle in, as cold and unyielding as the vial in your hand.

As you twist open the vial, preparing to pour the poison into his glass, your resolve falters. The weight in your hand suddenly feels unbearable. And then, almost involuntarily, you snap the vial shut and tuck it back into your purse, just as swiftly as you’d pulled it out.

Not tonight. You still have a little more time. There’s no need to ruin this evening; you’ll let yourself have this, one final night untouched by duty.

When he returns to the table, his expression is tinged with disappointment, and he slips back into his chair with a sigh. “Looks like we’ll have to cancel our trip to the gardens tomorrow morning,” he says, a faint apology in his voice. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

You nod, feeling an odd relief flood through you. “It must be important,” you say, the words coming out with a quiet, unexpected understanding.

He watches you for a moment, something warm in his gaze. “Yeah. But meet me in the lobby at 10 p.m.” He leans forward, that familiar spark lighting up his eyes. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

You smile, feeling the tension begin to loosen. “It’s a date, then.”

And in that moment, it feels like it really could be.

After dinner, with the warmth of the wine still buzzing in your veins, he offers you his arm for the short walk to the elevator. You’re both a little giddy, leaning into each other as you talk about small things—favorite flowers, favorite colors. Mundane details that you usually wouldn’t think twice about sharing, but now they feel oddly significant, like small secrets passed between you in the quiet of the evening.

Neither of you realize you’ve stepped off on the wrong floor—his floor—until you’re standing at the door to his room. You pause, staring at the unfamiliar numbers on the door, a surge of nerves rising in your chest. You could laugh it off, step back and blame it on the wine, let the moment slip away. But instead, you find yourself rooted in place, unwilling to pull back, unable to let go of him just yet.

When you look up, you find him already watching you, his gaze heavy, something unnamed flickering behind his eyes. The silence thickens, and the air between you crackles with a tension neither of you are willing to break. You’re close enough to see the way his eyes linger on you, as if he’s caught in a moment he doesn’t want to end.

Then, as if in silent agreement, he turns to face you fully, leaning down. And you, almost instinctively, rise onto your toes to meet him halfway. The kiss is tentative at first, soft and searching, but it quickly deepens, growing heated as his hands slide to your hips, pulling you against him. Your arms wind around his neck, and he holds you closer, the kiss turning into something heady and electric, filling you with a rush that’s terrifying in its familiarity.

It’s as if you’ve been here before, in another life where things were simpler, where there were no secrets and no deadly consequences. And in that moment, you can’t help but let yourself sink into it, feeling everything you’ve ever felt in the safety of his embrace.

By the time you finally break apart, your back is pressed against the wall beside his door, his hands framing your face as he stays close, his breath warm against your skin. You’re both breathing heavily, the quiet hum of the hallway the only sound around you, as if the world itself has faded to give you this stolen moment. His eyes flicker over your face, studying every detail as if trying to memorize it, and you feel an ache settle in your chest at how vulnerable he seems in this dim light.

He leans in again, his lips ghosting over yours, hesitant, as if he’s asking for permission that neither of you should be giving. His hands shift, sliding to the small of your back, pulling you against him once more, and you’re keenly aware of every point of contact, of the warmth radiating between you that seems to make time stand still. It’s almost too much, and yet, it’s not enough at all.

You close your eyes, your resolve blurring like mist, as he presses a trail of soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, each one more deliberate than the last. A shiver runs through you, and you clutch his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to this fleeting reality.

“Nico,” you whisper, barely audible, as if saying his name out loud might break whatever spell you’re under. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes darkened with something unspoken, something that feels just as dangerous as the feelings swirling within you.

Without another word, he turns and, still holding you close, reaches for the keycard. The door clicks open, and in a quiet invitation, he leads you inside, his hand never leaving yours. Inside, the room is dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over everything, lending it a dreamlike quality. You step in, and he closes the door softly behind you, a final barrier between you and the outside world.

For a brief moment, you stand in the center of the room, facing each other, as if testing the reality of this moment. His hand remains on yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin, and you feel the weight of all the words you haven’t said, all the truths you’ve hidden. But right now, they feel so far away, overshadowed by the nearness of him, by the quiet intensity that draws you closer still.

You’re both silent, the tension between you simmering just below the surface, until he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. It’s a simple gesture, but it sends a rush through you, and before you can overthink it, you find yourself leaning forward, closing the space between you once more.

The kiss quickly spirals into a whirlwind of sensations, a chaotic blend of tongues and breathy moans that echo softly in the dim light enveloping the room. His hands, warm and confident, glide down your waist, finding their way to your ass, fingers curling around it with a firm squeeze that sends a shiver coursing through you. As his lips trail from your mouth to the curve of your neck, the intoxicating way he devours you leaves you gasping for more.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, drawing him closer as if the distance between your bodies could somehow separate the energy pulsing between you. In one swift motion, he throws you onto the bed, the soft mattress cradling you as it folds under your weight.

For a brief moment, he breaks the kiss, his deep-set gaze searching yours with a mix of urgency and desire. As he peels off his shirt, the dim light casts a glow over his chest, revealing scars—stories etched into his skin—that tell tales of battles fought and survived. You reach out, letting your fingers wander over the uneven terrain of his torso, tracing the outlines of those marks as though they hold a significance only you can understand.

He captures your hand in his, planting a soft, lingering kiss on the inside of your wrist, the touch conveying a tenderness that starkly contrasts the fervor of the moment. It’s a gentle reminder of the man you’ve come to know, the complexities beneath the surface that lie just beyond the heat of desire.

As he positions himself above you, his arms forming a protective barrier on either side, the intimacy of the moment grows palpable. Every part of you ignites under his watchful gaze.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, his voice low and barely above a whisper.

Your heart races as you reach up, cupping his face with your palm, and you draw him down for a tender kiss, soft yet electric, filled with unspoken promises. “I want you,” you murmur against his lips, surrendering to the impulses that have plagued you since you’d reunited.

A spark ignites in his eyes, darkening with desire that mirrors your own. In that moment, the world outside fades away, and there’s only the two of you, lost in a dance of want and need and maybe something more, something unspoken.

Tomorrow you’d blame all this on the wine and the Paris atmosphere, but tonight? Tonight, he’s all yours.

By the time you wake, the room is drenched in the light of a quiet morning, and he’s already gone. You’d expected it, but the emptiness of the vast hotel room lingers, a reminder of the intimacy that filled it just hours ago. Your body aches, the dull soreness a vivid reminder that what happened last night was no dream. You run your fingers over the faint marks he left on your skin, each one like a silent promise, a testament to your night together that bled into the early hours of the morning.

You turn and find a neatly folded bathrobe on the chair beside the bed, a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a note. You unfold it, catching your breath as you read:

Thank you for last night. You were amazing, the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

A quiet laugh escapes you, and you shake your head. Of course, he’d thank you for something you both wanted, as if last night had been some favor you’d done for him. Your eyes skim the note, the faintest warmth creeping up your cheeks as you read the next line.

Stay as long as you want. Just remember to meet me at the lobby at 10 p.m. I have a surprise for you.

His signature trails off at the end, barely legible, a scrawl that feels both intimate and endearing. You find yourself tracing the curves and edges of his handwriting, as if somehow it can hold you here, hold you to him, even as reality waits for you on the other side of this door. You clutch the note to your chest, swallowing hard against the feeling building inside—a quiet, sinking ache that whispers of the inevitable.

For just a moment, you let yourself fall into the delusion that this could somehow become part of your life beyond this moment, this city, this tangled web of secrets you’re both keeping. But deep down, you know better. Whatever this was, however fleeting or real, it was doomed from the start.

The softness of his touch, the laughter that lingered through the night—all of it will eventually be filed away as just another memory, another ghost from another life.

You close your eyes, clutching the note just a little tighter, feeling the weight of all that’s left unsaid between you. He’d left marks on you, physical and otherwise, reminders that would remain long after you’d finally carried out your mission. You were meant to be unbreakable, and yet here you were, on the edge of something that threatened to pull you under completely.

And as the morning sunlight filters through the curtains, it hits you fully—you are utterly, royally, and completely fucked.

At 10 p.m. on the dot, you’re waiting in the lobby, the anticipation almost unbearable.

And then you see him, standing by the entrance, his silhouette softened by the warm glow of the lights. When he sees you, his face lights up, his smile tender as he steps closer, reaching out a hand to caress your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, and for a moment, the world narrows to the warmth of his touch.

"Hi," he murmurs, his gaze steady, warm. “How was your day?”

The gentleness in his voice and the easy way he looks at you tells you everything he can’t say outright—that he doesn’t regret a thing. There’s still a tension between you, but it’s softer now, more grounded, something that feels like it’s become part of the air you share.

“It was good,” you reply, lifting your hand to cover his, savoring the warmth that seeps from his skin to yours. “Thank you for the fruit.”

"Just wanted to make sure you were taken care of,” he laughs softly, the sound warm and familiar, “Come. I wanna show you something nice." His fingers slip between yours, his grip firm but unhurried as he pulls you towards the door.

You give him a playful smirk as you follow, feigning skepticism. “Something nicer than what we’ve seen already? You’re setting the bar awfully high.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “It’s my favorite spot around here,” he says, a note of something deeper lingering in his tone. "I wanted you to see it, too."

The streets of Paris are quieter at this hour, the hum of the city softened as the evening deepens. Hand in hand, you walk through winding alleys and past dimly lit cafés, his fingers laced with yours grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. The conversation is light, snippets of dreams and half-whispered thoughts, but you both feel the weight of the silence between words, the unspoken sense that this night means more than either of you dare to admit.

Eventually, he leads you to an inconspicuous building, old stone framed by wrought-iron accents, the kind of place you’d pass by without a second thought. He releases your hand for a moment to unlock a side door, glancing back at you with a mischievous grin.

“Are you bringing me somewhere I won’t be able to find my way out of?” you tease, the words playful but carrying the faintest edge, as if part of you is still wary, still on guard.

But he just laughs, a low, reassuring sound as he steps inside, gesturing for you to follow. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

He guides you up a narrow, winding staircase, the only sounds your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. With each floor, you feel a faint thrill building, your pulse quickening as the city outside draws farther and farther away, until finally, he opens a door and you step out onto the rooftop.

The view is breathtaking.

Paris stretches out before you, the city unfolding in all directions, a sea of lights glistening under the deep indigo sky. The Eiffel Tower shimmers in the distance, its glow a warm, steady pulse against the night. The Seine snakes through the city, its surface reflecting the light like a thread of silver weaving through shadows.

He comes up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and the silence that falls between you is comfortable, heavy with something unspoken. He doesn’t say anything, letting the view speak for itself, and you find yourself grateful for the quiet, for this moment that feels somehow suspended from everything else, a stolen piece of time that exists only for the two of you.

You glance at him, catching the way he’s watching the skyline with a reverence that tells you this city means something deeper to him, something that goes beyond words. When he finally turns to look at you, there’s an intensity in his gaze, a softness that makes you forget, for a split second, all the reasons you’re here.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, as if the quiet could somehow protect this fragile peace, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever spell holds you both here.

He nods, his gaze drifting out over the city before shifting back to you, his eyes unreadable. “It is,” he murmurs. Then he pauses, his gaze softening but sharpening all at once, layers of unspoken thought flickering there. “Some things are more beautiful when you see them for what they truly are.”

His words settle between you like a dare cloaked in careful phrasing, wrapped in a fragile honesty that you aren’t sure you’re ready to unfold.

You don’t answer him. A part of you is afraid of what he’s implying—what he’s already begun to see. So instead, you simply stand next to him, your shoulders brushing, as you take in the Paris skyline. The world below is a vast glittering sea of lights and lives, yet everything you care about in this moment is standing right beside you.

The silence between you feels heavier now. The night air is cool, a breeze brushing past, yet the weight of his words clings to you, pressing in. This moment feels more fragile than anything else so far, as if it could fracture at the slightest touch. The weight of the armaments resting in your purse suddenly feels unbearably heavy, its presence inescapable.

“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence, his voice lower, rougher, edged with a tension that matches your own. He turns to you fully, his eyes piercing in a way that’s almost challenging yet laced with something like hurt. “When are you gonna kill me?”

You freeze, his words cutting through the delicate peace, a shocking confirmation that he’s known, maybe all along. You snap your head toward him, eyes wide with disbelief, the weight of what you carry crashing over you.

His gaze is unrelenting, holding you to the spot, as if daring you to answer.

“You knew,” you say quietly, as if speaking louder might unravel you entirely.

"I've known since Germany," he admits. His gaze sharpens, but his voice is calm, almost careful. “You’re not going to deny it?”

You swallow, the weight of being caught pressing down on you, but nothing can dull the ache settling over your heart—the pain of knowing that somehow, you’ve brought him to this. Your hand drifts toward your purse, fingers grazing the cold metal of the dagger. You started this dance, and now you’re bound to finish it.

The familiar sound of the blade flicking open doesn’t startle him; he remains perfectly still, his expression calm, almost resigned, but there’s a flash of hurt beneath his steady gaze. He looks at you as if bracing himself for what you’ll do next, yet refusing to flinch, like he’s known this would come and decided to face it head-on.

“You should start moving,” you murmur, your voice barely steady as you raise the blade, the tip just inches from his chest. “I could kill you where you stand.”

His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, a mix of defiance and sorrow as he takes a step forward, so close now he could almost lean into the blade. “You could,” he says, voice steady. His hand reaches out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling it—and the blade—down to your side with a gentle but unyielding strength. “But I don’t think you will.”

Your grip on the dagger tightens, but his words unravel something in you. He studies you intently, his face inches from yours, his voice low. “You could have killed me at any time—probably should have. I gave you every opportunity to finish this. So why am I still breathing?”

The question slices through the silence between you, barbed with challenge but tinged with something else, something that sounds heartbreakingly like hope.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, unable to meet his eyes as the blade dangles uselessly from your grip. It’s close to the truth, but you know he’s not satisfied with it.

He steps closer, his hand still firm on your wrist. “I think you do, Y/N.” His voice softens when he says your name, like it’s something precious, something he’s been holding close all this time.

“I don’t,” you say, shaking your head, even as the words feel hollow. “I don’t.”

“You do. I know you do.” He leans in, lifting his other hand to cup your face, tilting it so you’re forced to look at him, his touch gentle against the raw tension hanging between you. “Tell me I wasn’t wrong about this. Please.” His eyes search yours, pleading, as if he’s hoping that whatever truth you have left to give will be enough to make sense of this chaos.

The weight of it all—the tension, the longing, the fear—crashes over you like a wave you can’t fight. The dagger slips from your hand, clattering uselessly to the ground as you sink to your knees, your shoulders trembling. “You aren’t wrong,” you murmur, unable to look up at him, unable to face the full force of what you’ve confessed.

Silence settles as he watches you, his expression softening, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel utterly exposed, stripped bare beneath the weight of his gaze. And, impossibly, he kneels down beside you, his hand brushing yours, wordlessly reassuring you that he’s still here.

“Then come with me,” he says quietly, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile trust that’s woven between you, “Run away with me and we can leave this all behind.”

You don’t miss the desperation in his voice, the way he’s so set on leaving the underworld, as if he already knows exactly how he’ll escape it.

Then it hits you like a wave crashing to the shore—he was always going to leave. One way or another, Paris was going to be his last stand, his final act before he vanished. For good.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” The words leave your mouth in a rush, sharp with the sting of your realization. Tears well up in your eyes as you lift them to meet his.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “These past few months have been my last mission for the government.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, cylindrical remote with a red button on top. “I infiltrated the warehouses from your father’s organization, taking what the government wanted me to and leaving behind…a present.” His gaze locks onto yours, filled with an intensity that cuts through the night. “Paris was my last stop.”

Your heart drops as the weight of his words sinks in. He’s going to destroy them all. Every warehouse from Prague to Italy to Paris, every asset, every last piece of ‘Father’s’ empire—all of it was going to blow to pieces at the push of a button. The very thing you’ve spent your entire life in service of, your family's empire, your future—all of it gone in the blink of an eye.

You should have been furious. Should have attacked him in that moment, fury and vengeance bubbling up inside you. Instead, something else surfaces. A soft laugh escapes you, one that’s equal parts incredulous and impressed. You smile at him, a genuine expression that seems to surprise even yourself.

“You outplayed me. All of us.”

He doesn’t respond at first, just looks at you with a mixture of regret and admiration. The tension between you has shifted. He knows what he’s done, what he’s about to do, and yet—there’s something about the way he leans into your touch when you reach for his face that makes you hesitate.

For a split second, you wonder if there’s still a chance for both of you. Or if everything you thought you knew was simply another game, one you didn’t even know you were losing.

“Ask me a question,” you say finally, your voice low and steady as your hand moves to gently tangle in his soft hair. “Anything. And I’ll answer it.”

He looks at you, a mix of amusement and confusion flickering across his face, before he nods, settling into the moment. “Is Y/N your real name?”

The question isn’t what you expected, but it’s also exactly what you needed. You smile, a tear slipping down your cheek that you quickly wipe away, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. He could have asked about anything—your work, sensitive details of ‘Father’s’ organization that only you were privy to, any of the secrets you’ve carried for years. Instead, he wanted to know about you.

It’s then that you realize the depth of what you’re willing to do for him. You make a choice. One that saves him. Even at the cost of yourself.

“It’s what they called me at the orphanage,” you tell him, your voice softening. You take his hand in yours, grounding yourself in the warmth of his touch. “The one I stayed in before father took me in. It’s who I was before I became father’s Shadow.”

He furrows his brows, looking at you with a quiet curiosity. “That’s what they call you, right? Shadow?”

You smile, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly. “I’m not as strong as Punch or as quick as Lightning,” you explain, your fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand. “But I’m sneaky. Agile. Unassuming to most people. No one ever sees me coming until the last second.” You inhale deeply, the weight of your next words pressing heavily on your chest. “But they call me Shadow because I was the most obedient. I did everything he asked of me, never questioned him, even when I knew something wasn’t right. I followed father everywhere. I was…his shadow.”

A look of concern crosses his face, the sadness in your voice not lost on him. He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, and there’s a softness in his eyes that makes the sting of your past feel like it might just be bearable. But the moment is fleeting. You know what’s coming next.

“Thank you for believing I can change,” you whisper, your heart heavy with the unspoken truth. Even when you thought there was no way out, when you saw no escape, he believed in you. He wanted to believe in you, wanted to have you leave this all behind with him. And that belief stirs something deep inside you.

You pull away from him gently, reaching into your purse. The soft rustle of fabric sounds loud in the silence of the room as you retrieve the remaining arsenals—a vial of poison and a syringe of anesthetic.

You take both of his hands in yours, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. The taste of regret and longing lingers on your lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you say quietly, your voice breaking ever so slightly. A second kiss follows, this time slower, lingering just a moment too long. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes soften, his trust in you so complete that he doesn’t notice the quick movement of your hand as you grab the syringe with the anesthetic. You press it into his arm with practiced precision, the needle sinking into his skin. His gaze remains on you for a moment longer, confusion flickering across his features as the drug takes hold.

He loses his grip on the remote, it falling from his hand as he slumps back, the weight of the anesthetic bringing him near unconsciousness. You don’t hesitate. You pick up the remote and sit beside him, watching as he fights the sleep that crawls steadily toward him, his breath shallow and labored.

“Y/N,” he chokes out, his voice thick with the confusion and panic of fading consciousness. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” you smile, though the fear in your eyes is undeniable, “I’ll take care of myself. So, you go out and live on. Be happy, okay? For me?”

“Don’t do this,” he slurs, his words starting to lose coherence. “We can leave together.”

You shake your head, tears welling up again, blurring your vision as they escape down your cheeks. “It’s too late for me.” You gently caress his face, fingers lingering on his skin, tracing every curve of his jaw and the line of his cheek. You commit the image of him to memory, knowing it will be the last time you ever see him like this. It was a shame this wasn’t the last thing you were going to see when this was all over, but at least you could remember it.

A small sob escapes you, but you continue, your voice barely a whisper. “Just so you know, I think I could have loved you more…liked you even more than I do now.” His hand reaches out to grab your wrist, trying to stop you, but you shake it off. The tenderness in his eyes breaks something inside you, but you don’t let it stop you. “I think…we could have had a very happy life together.”

“Y/N, don’t!” His voice is filled with desperation, but it’s too late. He tries to reach for the remote, but the drug has already taken hold of him, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. You stand quickly, turning your back to him as he weakly tries to move toward you.

Before he can reach you, you press the button. The room is filled with a sudden, deafening silence that only amplifies the heaviness in your chest. The sound of an explosion rips through the night air, just a ways off in the distance, a harsh reminder of the irreversible decision you’ve just made.

His eyes widen in realization. He’s awake long enough to understand what’s happened, the realization of your fate when you return back to ‘Father’ settling over him like a weight he can’t escape. His gaze flickers, searching your face as the truth sinks in.

Then, his eyelids flutter, the anesthetic pulling him under as the last traces of consciousness fade from his eyes. His body goes limp, his hand falling from his chest, and the last sound you hear from him is a quiet exhale before his eyes close.

You don’t know how exactly how long you sit there, staring at him, the weight of everything you’ve done crashing over you. But there’s no going back. You’ve made your choice.

You chose him.

PART TWO: OUT NOVEMBER 12, 8:00PM ET

176 notes · View notes

harry-hollands · 8 months ago

Text

good luck, babe / nico hischier

they said, "babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it," and i did.

/ or, the one where you and nico are unlucky in love.

word count: 23K pairing: nico hischier x fem!reader warnings: mild suggestive language, alcohol; some angst over mentions of ex-boyfriends, but mostly just tooth-rotting fluff.

i'm back!!! 👋 this is my entry for @wyattjohnston's the summer fic exchange 2k24, written for bre @fallinallincurls.

this is my first fic exchange, and my first time writing a reader insert, so i'm very nervous, but i hope you love this. sorry it's so long — i maaay have gotten a little carried away and written you an actual novel, but i had the best time writing this.

inspired by your spotify on repeat playlist (and the new gracie abrams album because it screams summertime to me, and i felt like it fit this vibe), a few of your favourite tropes, and a little nod to f1 if you squint.

xoxo, katie ❤️

he said he'd love me for all time, but that time was quite short

When it came to romance and finding true love, you were cursed.

Looking back now, maybe you shouldn't have ignored those email chains that threatened 50 years of bad luck and failed relationships if you didn't forward them to 10 other people. You knew they were likely all hoaxes, but you needed something to blame your bad luck on.

Whether it was the result of an email chain you broke or a century-old spell cast upon your family for generations to come, you were absolutely doomed when it came to love.

No amount of cupcakes or buttercream frosting would change your relationship status, but it definitely didn't hurt the heartache.

Using your index finger, you swiped some of the vanilla bourbon frosting off of the latest tray of cupcakes that had been placed in the center of the table, taking your time to suck the sweet frosting from your finger. You let the sugary icing sit on your tongue momentarily before scrunching your nose in thought.

Your best friend, Gianna Carvelli, sat across the small cafe table, wearing a nearly identical expression as she ate her cupcake.

"That one's a three," Gianna finally spoke, placing the half-eaten cupcake back onto the tray between you. "Way too plain."

"I was going to give it an eight," you shrugged, watching Gianna furiously scribble her tasting scores into her notebook.

"They're good," Gianna agreed, eyes still focused on the notebook as she continued to write. "But if we're paying this much money, I don't want a vanilla wedding cake."

At this point, you had tasted nearly a dozen different icing and cupcake flavor combinations, and the plain vanilla felt like a welcome break. But you understood where Gianna was coming from, so you didn't push.

She had been kind enough to ask you to join her today, sampling every cake this small Newark bakery offered. It was a quiet and unassuming storefront, but Gianna had insisted they had the best baked goods in all of New Jersey, and she wasn't going to get married unless they supplied the cake. The plan was that you and Gianna would pick the perfect cake, and they would prepare it in New Jersey and then send it to her wedding venue… in Italy.

Gianna was not a dramatic or difficult bride-to-be, so when she mentioned this as her only wedding dealbreaker, her fiance, Nate Bastian, quickly agreed. You were sure it was probably a shipping logistics nightmare, but when you arrived at the bakery today, the older woman behind the counter insisted they did this kind of thing all the time. Nate's NHL player salary helping to fund the wedding probably didn't hurt, either.

You weren't sure how Gianna had even found this place, but after biting into the first cupcake, you knew why she had to have this one.

"Sorry," Gianna squeaked, her phone loudly ringing from where it rested on the tabletop.

You both glanced down to see Nate's name lit up across the screen. You gave her a slight nod to let her know it was okay, moving on to bite into the next cupcake flavor while Gianna answered the phone.

You took a moment to catch your breath, letting all of the sugary desserts have a second to digest while you listened to Gianna catch Nate up on the most recent flavor rankings. His phone call signaled that you two had been here nearly all afternoon, as he always called whenever he was on his way home from the rink.

Although, you were pretty sure his hours must have been shorter this week as the season was now over. Gianna had said something about physio at the rink before the final media interviews and locker cleanouts taking place this week. The pair would stay behind for a few more weeks in Newark before heading to Nate's hometown in Canada, where they usually spent their summers.

This was the last thing on the wedding checklist, and then your best friend could relax stress-free (or as stress-free as a bride can manage) before the big affair in August at her great-grandparents' vineyard in Italy. You had been there to help through every step of the process, taking on the role of co-planner when Nate's hockey schedule had him on the road and unavailable to pick out napkin colors or choose which candle height to include in the table centerpieces.

Planning Nate and Gianna's Tuscan nuptials over the last six months had been a welcome distraction, though. It couldn't have come at a better time for you.

And weirdly, Gianna and Nate owed this wedding to you. You were the entire reason they were together, after all.

You were the reason a lot of people had finally found their happily ever after.

You weren't a matchmaker by trade, but everyone you had ever dated, no matter how seriously or how long, always went on to find the one immediately after you broke up. Like clockwork, they would be engaged or married within six months of your break-up.

You couldn't deny the pattern, dating all the way back to middle school. You had your first kiss with Johnny Murphy, only for him to tell Cora Garcia that he liked her the next day. They were now happily married with three children.

Gianna, your closest confidant and best friend, felt otherwise. She was the most superstitious person you knew. She refused to wear mismatched socks on Devils' game days because Nate had taken a dirty hit and was injured the last time she did. Yet somehow, she refused to believe your curse was real.

Even though the entire reason this wedding was happening was because of your curse.

You had bought a ticket to a charity speed dating event from a girl in your college art history class two years ago. You didn't know her very well, but she had mentioned she had an extra ticket and was too scared to go alone. You were single and thought it wouldn't hurt to go, so you had agreed.

When you came down with the flu the morning of, Gianna was nice enough to take the ticket so it wouldn't go to waste and your classmate wouldn't have to go by herself. Gianna had ended up being paired with Nate as the very first match of the night. When she came home a few hours later, she was practically glowing.

You knew she was going to marry him right away.

You also knew your curse was stronger than ever.

It became a running joke with your friends. After a few too many glasses of wine one night, you posted a sarcastic Instagram story about everyone you've ever dated finding their soulmate right after. Since then, your DMs were full of people you hadn't spoken to since high school begging for a date. Half of them were offering to be the ones to break the curse, and the other was hoping to cash in on finding their true love right after you.

The only real exception to the curse had been Liam.

You two had been together for almost a year, your longest relationship in recent memory. Everything felt perfect about Liam, and you were convinced the curse was finally lifted.

You felt like you two worked. Liam was going to be your happily ever after, and you would be the one dragging Gianna around the city to sample wedding cakes and pick out floral arrangements before you and Liam spent the rest of your lives together.

Until six months ago, when he abruptly dumped you the day after your birthday through a text message about how you wanted different things in life. Apparently, he never saw himself settling down to get married or have kids despite telling you that was what he had wanted every day for the last year.

He had been the one to bring it up in every conversation. You didn't think you had ever pressured him into thinking you wanted all that now, but he still panicked and ran. And he couldn't give you the decency of doing it face to face.

The thought of that text still made your stomach hurt.

Or maybe all of the lemon meringue cupcakes caught up to you.

You pulled out your phone to distract yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied from wandering down that dangerous rabbit hole as Gianna continued to chat animatedly with Nate. If there was one thing your best friend was good at, it was yapping. She'd probably be on the phone with Nate for a while, so you turned to Instagram to try and find a better distraction while you waited.

You posted a couple of photos from the day to your story before scrolling through the posts on your homepage. The Instagram algorithm must have picked up on all of your wedding and honeymoon searches for Monaco that you had done with Gianna when helping her plan her European getaway. Your entire Explore page was filled with photos and reels of the city, including highlights of last year's Formula 1 race through the streets of Monaco. You scrolled through the posts, stopping to like the occasional photo.

Maybe you'd stop in Monaco on your way to Gianna's wedding and find a wealthy bachelor to make the whole trip worth it.

Wouldn't that be the best revenge—living happily ever after?

With a Monte Carlo love affair on your mind, you were probably six months deep in Charles Leclerc's Instagram feed when Gianna finally hung up the phone, placing it back onto the table as she turned her attention toward you.

"Sorry," she rushed out. "Nate's just finished with locker clear out and is heading uptown to his final suit fitting. Wait, what are you doing?" she asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow arched in curiosity as she watched you focus all your attention on your phone screen.

"Finding my next boyfriend," you answered, pausing briefly only to double-tap a photo of the F1 driver cuddling a puppy. "Do you think the curse will still apply if I date a celebrity?"

"There is no curse."

"I think I could be okay with inevitably having my heartbroken if I at least get to jetset around the world in the meantime," you continued, ignoring her reply. "Get to be a multi-millionaire for a moment, you know?"

"You're ridiculous," Gianna groaned, rolling her eyes.

"Why do you say that?" you faked confusion, locking your phone and placing it facedown on the table.

"You're not cursed," Gianna deadpanned.

"Then how do you explain—"

"Enough with all of this melodramatic curse shit," she warned, shaking her head as she spoke. Her voice was firm, but you knew her well enough to know she wasn't actually upset with you. "I don't want to hear about the curse anymore. You're as bad as Nico."

"Oh, God," you groaned, slumping in your seat in defeat.

You had met Nico Hischier, Nate's captain, a few times at team events and parties Gianna had brought you to. He was always friendly and seemed to go out of his way to say hi whenever you were out together. You had assumed all was well between you, but did this mean Nico was ranting about you to Gianna, too?

"Nico barely knows me, and he thinks I'm cursed, too? I really am hopeless," you whined.

"No," Gianna laughed, reaching for the final cupcake you two had left to taste—a raspberry and champagne flavor combination. "He's convinced he's cursed, not you."

"Actually?" you leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as you anxiously waited for Gianna to swallow her bite of cake. You scowled as she took her time, purposely making you wait.

Nico being cursed was news to you. Was he suffering from the same affliction or something else entirely? You figured it was probably hockey-related, especially since the Devils' season had ended on a disappointing note.

"Apparently, he's just as unlucky in love," Gianna finally answered. "Nate told him to start selling dates on Facebook Marketplace or something. Advertise that meeting your soulmate only takes one date with him."

"Wait—"

"No," Gianna abruptly shook her head before you could finish your thought. "I don't like where this is going. You are not selling yourself on Facebook."

"If we're both cursed," you continued anyway, "wouldn't that mean it would cancel each other out, and when we broke up, we'd both find our real person?"

Gianna took her last bite of the cupcake, glaring at you as she chewed. She let your words process for a moment, taking her time to finish the cupcake and write down her final score for the flavor.

"I mean, hypothetically, yes," Gianna reluctantly agreed. But when she watched your face light up, she quickly shook her head to shut you down. "If the curse was real. Which it's not."

You rolled your eyes to dismiss her, sliding the torn piece of notebook paper Gianna had lent you for your cupcake scores across the table. She grabbed the paper, holding it up next to her notes, eyes skimming back and forth as she compared your favorites.

When she seemed distracted enough, you leaned forward with a sweet smile. "Can you set us up?" you asked.

"No. Absolutely not," Gianna replied without even looking up from the scorecards.

"What?" you gasped. You reached across the table to place your hand over the notebook Gianna was preoccupied with, forcing her to look back up at you. "Why?"

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise as if she wasn't sure if your question was serious.

"Nico's one of Nate's best friends. I won't let you use him for your insane conspiracy theory. That's embarrassing."

As Gianna watched your face fall, confirming you were actually serious in your suggestion, she let out a small sigh before continuing.

"You're not going to pretend to date Nate's captain, who you didn't know was cursed five minutes ago, because you're now convinced he's the solution to your dating woes."

Okay, so it did sound a bit crazy when you heard it out loud.

"I love you way too much to ever let you do that," Gianna reiterated. She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before batting it out of the way so she could focus on the notebook again. "Now, help me pick a final flavor, please."

With the brief moment of insanity passing, you let out a light laugh. At least you were embarrassing yourself in front of Gianna, not Nate or Nico. As blunt as she was being, your best friend had your best interests in mind and was doing you a favor.

After eating a lifetime's worth of cake that afternoon, only to land on double chocolate as the winning flavor, you had opted to walk back to your apartment rather than carpool with Gianna. She had insisted she didn't mind dropping you off, but you knew she was heading in the opposite direction to meet Nate at the tailor for his suit fitting.

Walking also offered you some time to mull over everything Gianna had said.

She had warned you at the very beginning that Liam seemed to have commitment issues. She had nothing against him; she was just looking out for you and wanted to ensure you weren't hurt.

Naturally, you had ignored her and let yourself fall head over heels for Liam by your third date.

And like any best friend would, she was still by your side, supporting you and your relationship every step of the way, even if it meant having to bite her tongue occasionally—something Gianna had always found incredibly difficult.

She was no-nonsense and always called it like it was. Realistically, you should have listened to her more often. Maybe you'd end up with better luck. It certainly felt like it couldn't get any worse.

If you told yourself enough times that this entire curse was made up and all in your head, you'd start to believe it. You probably were melodramatic about everything, but you'd never openly admit that to Gianna. After what you had gone through over the last year and a half, it more than warranted a little dramatics.

You thought you had found the one, and just as quickly, it ended without any real reason as to what had gone wrong. If the two of you fought all the time or someone had cheated, it would have made it hurt less that it was over. At least then, you could pinpoint why Liam didn't want to be together anymore. Instead, you had yet to find answers despite constantly mulling over every tiny detail for the last six months.

Arriving at your apartment building, you made a slight detour to the mailroom to check for a package you had been waiting for. You had ordered a couple of dress options for the weddings you had coming up that summer, including Gianna's.

It felt like everyone you knew was getting married this summer.

And once upon a time, you thought you might have been, too.

Not that Liam had ever proposed. Or bought a ring. Or even hinted at anything related to a proposal.

In fact, when you unwrapped a small jewelry box on your birthday last year, you thought that was the moment. Only to discover Liam had bought you an anklet, not an engagement ring.

That was worse than getting nothing at all.

But a small part of you always thought it felt right, and he was about to ask at any moment. It was probably because he talked about wedding plans constantly. You two had practically planned your wedding day—with only your closest family and friends at a beautiful garden estate outside Paris, France.

But that had been nearly six months ago, and he had texted you the following day to say it was over. According to your standard curse timeline, he should have already moved on to find his soulmate and be engaged.

He had yet to even post a girl on Instagram, something you checked frequently, so you figured the chances he was secretly engaged or married felt slim to none. Always the exception, Liam seemed to be the first ex that didn't fall into the standard timeline. Part of you hoped that meant you were supposed to get back together after all.

Your cousin, Clara, lived in the same apartment building as Liam in Brooklyn. She had been the one to introduce you two initially. You had asked a few times right after the break-up if she ever saw him anymore—and she always said no. You eventually felt awkward and stopped asking.

Clara had been your best friend growing up, practically sisters. Naturally, as you got older and life got in the way, you started to drift a bit, but when you and Liam broke up, she had been a shoulder to cry on throughout the entire thing.

She supported you the best she could, but she was also a flight attendant with a demanding work schedule that required her to spend extended stretches in Europe, so you had admittedly not seen her very much in the last few months. She had called out of the blue a few weeks ago, mentioning she had met someone new, but you were on the subway at the time, and the connection was spotty at best. You'd have to make a mental note to call her back soon.

No packages were waiting in your mail slot; only a small stack of envelopes from the mail you had failed to collect throughout the week. You shuffled through the stack to see if there was anything of interest. They were mostly junk mail, except for one obnoxious blue envelope with your name scribbled across it in loopy silver handwriting.

You tore into the envelope, fishing out the card inside, only for your heart to stop. You nearly dropped the card as your brain finally registered what you were looking at.

It was a wedding invitation.

A wedding invitation to Liam's wedding.

A wedding invitation to Liam's wedding to Clara.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

Of course, it was in Paris, too. At Chateau de Villette—the exact wedding venue you had picked. The city you had always dreamed of visiting.

You glanced around the mailroom to check if someone was hiding with a camera. This had to be a prank. There was no way Liam was getting married. Or that Clara would date your ex-boyfriend without ever telling you. Had you somehow missed every sign along the way?

The more you flipped the invitation over in your hand, the more real it became.

Because somehow, six months after he had abruptly dumped you through a text message about how he never saw himself settling down to get married or have kids, he was suddenly ready to do just that. But it was with Clara.

Clara, who was the closest thing to a sister that you had and had been the shoulder you cried on through the break-up. Clara, who had continued to call and check in on you every day throughout those six months, always conveniently leaving out that she was helping Liam through the break-up, too.

This wasn't all in your head.

You were cursed.

i cry a lot, but i am so productive

All of your progress over the last six months in getting over Liam had been completely destroyed.

You probably would have never opened it if you knew what awaited you inside that envelope. Or, at the very least, you would have taken a few seconds to savor what life was like before you found out about Liam and Clara.

Now, you were right back to square one, heartbreak as fresh as the day he had first left.

After a week of sulking on your couch, surviving off of delivery food and a bag of chocolate chips you had found in your cupboard, you decided it was time to get some fresh air. Well, Gianna had decided for you when she had shown up unannounced, cleaned up your takeout container graveyard, and shoved you into the shower.

A bit of tough love was what your best friend was always good for. She let you rant and cry, then put you back together like she had done six months ago.

You were starting to feel a bit lighter, almost like your usual self again, after an afternoon of Gianna helping you back onto your feet. She had dinner plans that night with Nate that she offered for you to join, but you insisted that she go and you'd be fine. Your big plan for the evening was to venture to the grocery store and pick up something to cook for yourself for dinner.

It wasn't a lofty goal, but considering that even opening your fridge to look for ingredients felt like too much to bear yesterday, you needed to start challenging yourself if you were ever going to move on.

As luck would have it, it started raining when you were about a block from the store. So there you were, soaking wet from your walk, shivering and miserable as the supermarket blasted their air conditioning. You could vaguely feel your teeth chattering from the cold air, your once warm hoodie dripping raindrops onto the floor of whatever aisle you were standing in.

Whenever you thought you had no tears left, something would click, and you'd be sniffling again. Right now, staring at breakfast cereal, you were about to cry over the stupid leprechaun on the box of Lucky Charms. You didn't even like Lucky Charms, but Liam sometimes ate it, and you remember always seeing a box of them on top of his fridge.

You weren't sure how long you had been standing here at this point. Your eyes glazed over as you stared blankly at the shelf of boxes before you. When you finally blinked, the sounds of footsteps and voices of other shoppers floating around the aisles came back into focus. Realizing you probably looked crazy, you hastily grabbed the first cereal box at eye level and shoved it into your basket.

You should have planned something more cohesively meal-wise. Your basket was a catch-all of snacks at the moment, plus a bottle of wine you had grabbed when you first entered the store. The box you had grabbed turned out to be Rice Crispies. If you picked up a bag of marshmallows, you could be eating Rice Crispie squares for dinner tonight.

You spun around to leave, desperate to get out of this aisle before anyone else noticed how you had been crying over kid's cereal. Except as you abruptly turned, with your head down and eyes fixed on the speckled tile floor below you, you slammed directly into another body. You were so focused on your escape that you didn't notice anyone standing that close to you until you heard their basket tumble to the ground.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," you stammered, bending down to frantically help pick up the items that had scattered everywhere. A box of Cheerios you assumed the older woman had been holding when you bumped into her had burst on impact and was now everywhere.

"You really need to watch where you're going," the woman snapped, making no motion to help you. She scowled down at you, watching you pick up her things. "Kids these days are too focused on their phones to pay attention to the world around them."

You wanted to snap back that you weren't even on your phone. It had been safely tucked in your pocket, but you bit your tongue.

"I know, I'm really sorry," you repeated. You grabbed the final pack of cookies that had fallen to the floor and placed it into the basket the woman expectantly held toward you.

You thought she would at least thank you or acknowledge your apologies, but instead, she scoffed. "Next time, watch where you're going."

You flinched at her words, unsure what about this interaction warranted this much anger. It had been an accident, and you had apologized; you weren't sure what else to do. But she showed no signs of letting you get away, continuing to lecture you as if you didn't already feel like shit. You wanted nothing more than for the floor to cave in and swallow you up.

"I know," you sighed. You pulled the sleeves of your wet hoodie over your hands, trying to shrink yourself away. "Again, it was an accident, and I'm—"

The sound of your name being called cut you off.

You glanced to your left in the direction it had come from just as Nico appeared at your side. He was easily recognizable as, despite it being the off-season now, he was wearing a pair of New Jersey Devils shorts and a matching hoodie. His shaggy brown hair was tucked under a black beanie, which you assumed he probably was given free from the team as well.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," he said, shooting you a quick wink before he turned to face the older woman. He gave her a big smile, perfectly carved dimples on each cheek on display as he turned on the charm.

"Sorry, this is my fault," he explained to the woman, putting a hand on your back to pull you into his side as he spoke. "We're running late for dinner with my parents, so I asked her to rush."

He effortlessly reached behind him to grab a new box of Cheerios from off the shelf. As he placed it into her basket to replace the one now scattered across the floor, you could see the woman visibly melting under his attention.

"It's okay," she smiled at Nico, "accidents happen."

You scowled at this interaction but continued to bite your tongue. As annoying as this sudden switch was, it would hopefully mean she was done lecturing you, and you could finally escape while she was distracted, drooling over Nico.

When the woman looked back at you, you forced out the fakest smile you could muster. "Accidents happen," you agreed, giving her a grin that was all teeth.

She gave you a short nod to acknowledge your comment before thanking Nico and turning to leave. As she moved past you, her basket hit your arm, no doubt an intentional final dig at you.

"Thank you," you sighed, turning to face Nico.

"No problem," he laughed. He was still smiling, his big brown eyes filled with amusement. "As fun as that was to watch, it didn't look like she would let you leave until you had paid for all her groceries as punishment or something."

"That would be just my luck."

You stepped to the side as a man with a cart came down the aisle to pass between you. You cringed at the sound of the wheels crunching over the rogue Cheerios on the ground.

"Well, thanks for rescuing me," you said once the man had passed. "I don't want to make you late for dinner with your parents."

"Oh, uh, there's no dinner," he chuckled, scratching nervously at the stubble on his jaw. "I was just on the phone with my mom, so it was the first thing that came to mind. I'm not a great liar, so I panicked a little."

You smiled at the admission, watching as he adjusted the beanie on his head. You hadn't spent enough time with Nico to notice if he was usually someone to nervously fidget, but you were a bit caught off guard by his sudden demeanor. You had always seen him in a team setting as their brave and confident captain.

And he had surely been bold and charming when rescuing you moments before.

"You seemed like a natural to me," you assured him. You hoped he picked up on the sarcasm to see if it would ease some of his sudden nerves.

"I don't know if that's a good thing," he chuckled quietly.

Nico looked down at the shopping basket in your hand, his lips curling up into a smirk as he surveyed the cereal, assortment of chocolates, and wine you were holding.

"Date tonight?" he asked.

"Nah, more like a pity party," you answered with a small laugh. Nico raised his eyebrows at your answer, unsure he understood what you meant. "Just sulking over a break-up," you clarified.

"Oh shit," he muttered, feeling guilty over his joke. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was—"

You paused. How did you tell Nico the break-up was six months ago, but you were still moping?

According to Gianna, he'd probably know your pain if you told him you had already grieved the relationship and were now mourning all over again because he was once again getting married, and you were completely alone.

Instead, you settled for, "It's a long story."

He looked you over briefly, his expression unreadable as he stayed quiet. "Did you walk here?" he eventually asked.

"Yeah, I only live a few blocks away." You shivered as another wave of cold air hit your still-wet sweater. You glanced down at your outfit, realizing you were still soaked from the rainstorm outside. It was probably why he was asking, but it still made you self-conscious about how this must make you look to him. "In my defense, it wasn't raining when I left."

He laughed, shaking his head as his eyes raked over you. "Do you want a ride back?" he asked, scratching at his neck again as he brought his gaze up to meet yours. "It's still pouring outside, so you probably shouldn't be walking."

"Yeah," you nodded, "that would be great."

"I need to grab a couple more things, but I'll meet you out front?"

Waiting for Nico at the front entrance, you couldn't resist picking up one of the fresh bouquets of flowers they kept at the check-out counters. You balanced your paper bag of groceries on your hip, flowers held firmly in your other hand, as you watched the rain steadily fall through the glass entrance doors.

Nico was holding a small bag when he joined you. His eyes immediately fell to the flowers in your hand.

"What's on the menu tonight?" you asked before he could comment about the flowers. You figured you already had looked like enough of a sob story to him so far today; the last thing you were going to do was admit that these flowers were a last-ditch attempt to turn your day around.

"Honestly, just trying to use up the leftovers in my apartment before I leave so I don't come back in the Fall to something growing in my fridge," he answered. "I'm heading back to Switzerland on Monday."

"Ah, we're both cooking gourmet tonight," you teased, earning an eye roll from Nico.

He held the door open as you exited the store before urging you to wait there for a moment while he got his car. You watched him pull the hood of his sweater up before jogging off into the rain where his car was parked. When he pulled up to the curb, he reached across the passenger seat to open the door, allowing you to quickly dash from the store to his car.

He had the heat on in the car, and the seat warmer was waiting for you. Despite it being late spring in New Jersey, it had been cold and rainy all week, the type of chill you could feel in your bones. But his car was warm, and you were thankful for the offer. There was no way you could walk home in this weather; you would have been stuck wandering the store's aisles until the rain let up if Nico hadn't shown up.

"Do you want to come to mine for dinner?" Nico asked as you buckled your seatbelt.

He wasn't sure what prompted him to invite you, but the words were already out there.

Most of his teammates had begun to head home for the summer, and those still around were booked with family or girlfriends they had neglected all season. He didn't have anyone else to hang out with, and anytime you tagged along with Nate and Gianna to a Devils event, he enjoyed your company. You fit in easily with the team dynamic, so he thought you two were allowed to be friendly despite not knowing each other that well.

"I've got plenty of food," he continued when you didn't answer right away, "and I don't love the idea of you going home to have cereal and wine for dinner."

"That's actually a classic break-up meal, thank you very much," you countered, trying to ignore the blush you could feel growing hot on your cheeks.

As if sensing your unease, Nico's reassuring smile only grew. "I always preferred strawberry ice cream, but that's just me."

You mulled over the offer, chewing on your bottom lip as you thought. While you appreciated the invitation, being caught in your current state was embarrassing. You didn't want to burden Nico with having to hang out with you because he was pitying you. You could go home and be fine. But he also seemed genuine in his offer.

It was as though he wanted to ensure you were taking care of yourself tonight, not just because he felt bad for you.

"Do you have strawberry ice cream at your apartment?" you asked.

His smile grew as if your question confirmed he had won you over. You were momentarily distracted by how adorable his dimples looked as he smiled, so you almost didn't hear his response.

"Always."

"Then yes," you answered.

You weren't quite sure why you were so quick to agree when, moments before, all you had been fixated on was going home. But your cheap grocery store wine and Netflix rom coms would still be waiting for you when you returned. It wouldn't hurt to hang out with Nico for a few hours.

You hoped it wouldn't be awkward. You had never spent time one-on-one with Nico before, but there was something oddly comforting about him. Gianna only ever had nice things to say about him, and it was obvious from every team event you had been to how much the guys adored and respected Nico as their captain.

He was a natural leader. You were simply following his lead.

As Nico let you into his apartment, you kicked off your wet shoes before following him into the kitchen. You put your bag of groceries down on the island counter before asking Nico for a vase for the flowers. You weren't looking for anything fancy; they just needed to be in some water so they wouldn't dry out before you could bring them home.

"What are the flowers for?" he asked. The question had been nagging at him since he had noticed you holding them at the store.

"I thought they might cheer me up a bit," you replied, keeping your answer as light and vague as possible. "Doesn't everyone like coming home to fresh flowers?"

"Never thought about it like that, honestly," he said. Nico's apartment was clean and looked relatively well-kept but very much like a bachelor's apartment. There was no sign of fresh flowers, throw pillows, or any decoration to make the home feel more loved and lived in. "I thought flowers were more of a birthday or anniversary thing."

"And that's where you'd be wrong," you laughed, rolling your eyes at his typical response. "Sure, birthday flowers are nice, but it's the just because flowers that make someone fall in love with you."

"Just because?" he repeated, confusion evident on his face.

"Flowers you bought just because you wanted to. Not because they asked for them or you felt obligated to give them. You did it to surprise them and do something meaningful."

"Oh," he nodded. "I'll try to remember that."

You searched his face for a sign of sarcasm, not sure if he was taking you seriously. And why would he? He had found you looking like a drowned rat in the junk food aisle of his local grocery store. You weren't exactly the poster child for relationship advice right now.

He had a shy smile on his face as he turned toward the kitchen cabinets, rummaging through the one above the sink. He made a small noise, almost a grunt of victory, before he turned around with a jar in his hands. It was obviously an old pasta sauce or pickle jar that had been cleaned out and removed of its label. It wasn't a traditional flower vase, but it was probably the closest you would find in a bachelor hockey player's apartment.

"That'll work," you smiled, taking the jar from him.

You placed the flowers inside before carrying them to the sink and filling them with water. It was a bit unsteady since the flowers were too tall for the jar. You placed it on the counter beside the fridge, delicately leaning the flowers against the side of the refrigerator for support so the whole thing wouldn't topple over.

"Ice cream is in the freezer," Nico offered, pulling off the black beanie he had been wearing and raking his hands through his staticky hair.

Satisfied that the flowers weren't going anywhere, you turned your attention toward the fridge. You paused as you grabbed the handle, distracted by the cards stuck all over the stainless steel fridge. Your eyes scanned over the colorful array of cardstock, all containing different combinations of names and addresses in loopy calligraphy.

"I don't mean to alarm you," you spoke carefully, "but I think someone's given your address out."

You slipped one of the cards out from the magnet that held it up so you could inspect it further, reading the details on the invitation. You didn't recognize the names, so they weren't teammates. And it was in New York, so it didn't seem like a friend from home.

"You've been sent an invitation to every wedding in the tri-state area this summer," you joked.

Nico laughed, a loud, boisterous laugh that you couldn't help but smile at the sound of. It was infectious. He joined you at the fridge, looking over your shoulder to see which card you were holding.

"Ah, Paige," he muttered, reading the names on the invite. "She lives across the hall."

"And this one?" you asked, pointing to a bold red invitation that stood out from the rest of the bunch. The June date and the couple's name were written in elegant gold ink that sparkled under the overhead lights.

"That's Sunny," he answered. "My sister's best friend."

"Oh, so they're not from the curse, then," you blurted out. As soon as you realized what you had done, you clapped your hand over your mouth, mortified by what you had said.

Nico's face went beet red. "You know about that?"

"Gianna told me," you answered, carefully replacing the invitation to its original spot on Nico's fridge door. "But only because I have the same problem. She mentioned it more in passing when I was complaining. She said I sounded just like you."

"Most of them are from the curse," he said, stepping closer behind you to point to another invitation. "Ex-girlfriend from high school, one-night stand, Tinder date," he rattled off, pointing to each invitation as he went.

You followed his finger as he moved through them all. You thought of the handful of cards of your own stacked on your kitchen counter with the rest of your junk mail. You declined most of the invitations you received these days. Liam thought it was weird to attend a wedding with you for someone you had known romantically before him.

The irony that he still thought of inviting you to his wedding was not lost on you.

"Oh, this one's good," he laughed, pulling one of the smaller cards off the fridge. "Marissa. Dated her for a week before her cat climbed the tree outside my apartment. She's now marrying the firefighter who came to rescue it."

"Seriously?" you gawked, trying not to laugh too hard at his apparent misfortune. "I thought they only did that in movies."

"Just my luck," Nico shrugged, putting the card back on the fridge.

Once it was back in place, he opened the freezer, handing you the small pint of strawberry ice cream he kept in case of emergencies. Sweet treat in hand, you went to sit at one of the bar stools tucked under the kitchen island. You pried the lid off the top while Nico brought a few of the Tupperware containers of leftovers over to the counter for plating.

"You may be even more cursed than me," you told him, watching as he arranged a plate of what looked to be leftover pasta.

Gianna constantly complained that the only meal Nate ever seemed to eat during the season was pasta. She was Italian, and yet his carb-heavy diet was too much chicken and pasta even for her. Nico was apparently part of that hockey player stereotype, too. You tried to hide your grin by taking another spoonful of ice cream.

"So I take it you don't have a fridge covered in invitations?" he asked.

"No, there haven't been too many this year." You shrugged as he slid the smaller of the two plates across the island to you. "I usually decline most of them, so I think I stopped getting invited. Do you actually go to all these weddings?"

"Some of them," he replied. "They're usually not too bad. Sometimes, a bridesmaid or something will hear I'm coming, and suddenly, I'm the most popular guy at the wedding. Everyone wants to try their luck."

"Oh, you poor thing," you mocked. "Beautiful bridesmaids throwing themselves at you to be the next one to sleep with you."

"You're laughing, but it's not all it's cracked up to be," he muttered. You watched the crimson blush creeping up his neck as he kept his eyes focused on the Tupperware containers he was replacing the lids on. "I feel a bit like a zoo exhibit sometimes."

You knew exactly what he meant. Every time someone offered to be the one to break the curse or asked you out, hoping to cash in on your misfortune, they never stopped to consider what that did to you. It was emotionally draining to always feel like you were fighting a losing battle.

You could tell from Nico's body language that this whole thing had taken a toll on him over time. The novelty and excitement eventually wears off. And then suddenly, you're facing a summer of weddings for people you had once deeply cared for, who had moved on and found the happiness you were looking for in someone else.

After putting the containers back into the fridge, he carried his plate around the island to take the seat next to you. Scooping up another mouthful of the strawberry ice cream, you suddenly had an idea.

"I can come with you," you offered. It was a bold suggestion, and you were a bit too fragile to be able to watch Nico outright reject you, so you kept your eyes focused on the ice cream as you spoke. "If you're there with someone else, it might spare you from being hunted for sport at these things."

"Actually?"

You nodded, bravely turning on the stool so you could face him. "I come with you to yours, and you come with me to mine."

His brows knit together as if he were thinking through the proposal. "But I'm already going to Nate and Gianna's wedding."

"My, uh, my ex-boyfriend sent me an invitation," you admitted. "He's getting married six months after we broke up."

"Right on schedule," Nico agreed, the corners of his mouth turning downward.

"Hence the pity party," you nervously laughed, gesturing to the pint of ice cream.

Nico was quiet for a moment too long. You regretted opening your mouth now. You were about to ramble on about how you were only kidding and didn't mean it when Nico finally spoke up again. "Would that count as a date?"

"I mean, I guess?" you tried to downplay your answer, nervously playing with the spoon in your hands. "You don't have to be introducing me as a girlfriend or anything. We can go as friends."

"If I introduced you as my girlfriend, wouldn't that cancel out the bad luck?" You could practically see the gears turning in Nico's head. "We'd both be cursed and then have to find the one after the summer is over."

You choked on your breath for a moment, coughing to try and compose yourself. This was exactly what you had suggested to Gianna last week, and she had shut you down. You felt oddly vindicated that Nico's mind immediately went to the same idea.

"Shit, sorry, that sounded crazy," he rushed out. "I didn't mean—"

"No, I know exactly what you mean," you cut him off. "It is crazy. But at this point, I'm willing to try anything."

i just need a little lovin', i just need a little air

You had never been so hungover in your entire life.

Unsurprisingly, Nico was an incredible wedding date. He was charming and the life of the party, lighting up nearly every room he walked into. This made showing up to complete strangers' weddings a lot easier. Selfishly, it felt nice not to be alone for an evening, even if you weren't really together.

But Nico could drink like a fish and wake up completely fine the following day.

You were not as lucky.

Last night, you had joined Nico at your third wedding of the summer. Celebrating Marissa and Griffin, Nico's girlfriend of a week and the firefighter who had swept her (and her cat) right out from under him, who were married at a lavish affair at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan.

You had lost track of how many glasses of champagne you had by the time the dancefloor opened. When Marissa insisted that everyone join her for shots, you couldn't exactly say no to the bride.

You didn't remember much else from the wedding, but you knew you at least had fun. And you had two weeks to recover before you had to do this all over again at your next wedding.

Gary and Indigo were getting married at a rustic old barn outside of Princeton, New Jersey. Hopefully, it would be a much tamer party—if your hangover had ended by then.

Was it a consequence of last night's choices or the idea of going to the wedding of the guy you had gone on exactly three dates with before he abruptly left you for the barista you had befriended at your favorite cafe? That was the worst part of the curse for you. Not only were your former dates and past loves finding their soulmates, but it almost felt like you were the one directly introducing them every time.

Not that Gary and you would have worked out in the long run. You had nothing in common, and he was actually pretty boring to talk to, but Indigo remained a friend because you refused to let the curse take your favorite coffee place from you, too.

Nico was in disbelief when you told him about that upcoming wedding.

"You thought your soulmate was a guy named Gary?" he had snorted. "Come on."

After your chance run-in with Nico at the grocery store last month, you half-expected him to be joking when he agreed to your offer to accompany him to all his weddings. But he texted you a complete list of dates and locations the next day. Consulting the invitation graveyard growing on your kitchen counter, you sent back a list of all the weddings you had been invited to.

The next thing you knew, Nico was booking plane tickets and hotels, and you were digging through the back of your closet to find an acceptable dress. The offer to pretend to be together for the summer was in full effect, and you two had RSVPed as a couple to a total of eight weddings over the next few months.

There had been more, but with Nico spending most of his summer in Switzerland and you in New Jersey with limited vacation time from work, you were a bit restricted. You had to make some compromises and decline a few invitations, but you had circled the two most significant events on your calendar.

June was the busiest month in the schedule, but all of the weddings were in New Jersey or New York, so Nico was flying back every other weekend to meet you. In July, you were meeting him in London for a weekend. Then, the season ended with Clara and Liam's wedding in Paris, followed by Gianna and Nate's wedding in Tuscany.

The first wedding had been fine. The bride was a mutual friend of yours and Nico's, and apparently, also one of his past one-night stands. You knew a few people there, so it wasn't too awkward, but Nico was a bit low-energy.

He was fresh from a red-eye flight from Prague, having just lost to Czechia in the gold medal game of the World Championship. You had no idea how or why he still came to the wedding, but he put on a charming smile and seemed pretty convincing every time he said he was fine.

The following weekend, you joined Nico at his neighbor's wedding in Jersey City, where he was in a much better mood. And that brought you to this weekend, where you faced your first doubleheader, having gone to your former blind date Rory's wedding to Brett on Friday night and then immediately to Marissa and Griffin's wedding the next day.

You needed water.

Finally pulling yourself off the couch you vaguely remember passing out on last night, you dragged yourself into the kitchen to find some sort of sustenance. Resting on the kitchen counter was a bottle of Gatorade and two capsules of Ibuprofen on top of a post-it note stuck to the granite.

Had to run for an early flight, but I hope the hangover isn't too bad. Text me when you're alive, please. See you in 2 weeks. Nico

You laughed that he had signed his name as if anyone else was breaking into your apartment and leaving hangover care packages. You quickly swallowed the painkillers before downing half the bottle of Gatorade in a few gulps.

You didn't know if Nico's mention of an early flight meant he left last night after the Uber dropped you off or if he had stayed over. You had a really fuzzy memory of an equally drunk Nico helping you get your shoes off after you stumbled through the front door. You couldn't recall anything he had said to you, as he sometimes mixed up his English and Swiss German when drinking. You could remember how you had spent the entire Uber ride from the city with your head half out the window, trying to focus on your breathing as the whole world seemed to be spinning.

A second blanket was neatly folded on the armchair next to your couch, and you didn't recall it being there before. Maybe Nico had slept there to make sure you were okay? Everything was still such a blur.

You had lost sight of Nico after the third tequila shot, having been adopted by Marissa and her friends as an honorary bridesmaid for the night.

Your stomach turned just thinking of the drinks from the night before.

Dropping the half-empty bottle of Gatorade back onto the counter, you sprinted toward the bathroom with a hand firmly clamped over your mouth.

Luckily, you made it just in time.

You remembered finding yourself in the bathroom the night before, bonding with the bridesmaids as you all helped to hold up the massive tulle skirt of Marissa's ballgown wedding dress while she used the toilet.

There was something oddly heartwarming about the bond drunk girls formed in the bathroom. No matter how well you knew each other to start, it was an unwritten rule for those few minutes that you were best friends, whether you'd ever see each other again or not. You didn't trust anyone who didn't love a drunken bathroom best friend.

So, while you awkwardly maneuvered in the tiny stall, Marissa giggled as she introduced you to one of her bridesmaids as Nico's girlfriend.

"Wait, like the Nico you dated before Griffin?" Her bridesmaid, Tianna, had gasped.

"Yep," Marissa hiccuped in confirmation as you watched Tianna's jaw drop.

But Marissa sighed, letting her drunken thoughts continue to spill out. "I felt so bad when I broke up with him. He was a really nice guy, but Griffin was just…"

"The one?" you finished for her as her voice trailed off. Knowing Nico's dating history, you were pretty confident about where this story went.

"Yeah," Marissa nodded, smiling to herself as she thought of her new husband.

"It's okay," Tianna added, giving you a subtle wink. "It all worked out for the best, didn't it?"

"I hope it works out for you two," Marissa continued as the three of you tried to collect her dress and shuffle out of the bathroom stall. "I mean, Nico is incredible. And so are you! You both deserve someone like each other."

You laughed before politely thanking her. "He's a good guy. I hope it works out, too."

You felt odd lying, but technically, it wasn't a lie. You did hope it worked out—you didn't need to specify what it was to Marissa. She didn't need to know you were anxiously awaiting your inevitable break-up so you could meet the one, just like she had done after Nico.

"Do you think he's it?" Tianna asked as she helped to fluff Marissa's dress back into shape.

"Have you seen the two of them together?" Marissa giggled. "Of course he's it!"

You kept your mouth shut as Tianna continued to adjust Marissa's dress. You leaned against the counter's edge, watching the bride wash her hands in the reflection. You weren't quite sure how to react to this conversation. You guessed it was reassuring that the two of you were putting on a convincing show.

"How do you know when they are?" Tianna asked, grabbing your attention again. "Like, when do you know someone is actually the one?"

You took that moment to pull your favorite chapstick from your purse, hoping to buy yourself some time as you applied it in the mirror. Maybe Tianna was drunk enough to forget her train of thought if you didn't answer immediately. You were at a loss for what to say anyway.

You had never found the one. Quite the opposite, really.

"You just know. It's almost as if the feeling of coming home was another person. It's hard to explain in words," Marissa answered for you. "You just have to trust your gut, and you'll know."

Something about the whole thing made you feel uneasy. Guilty, almost?

It was hard to listen to your gut when all it was doing was screaming about tequila.

Oh, God.

Even thinking of tequila made you want to—

You heaved into the toilet once more, spitting up what little alcohol was left inside of you.

Three weddings down.

Only five more to go.

i was brave when i kissed you in london

When you had initially offered to be Nico's wedding date for the summer, all of the invitations stuck to his fridge had listed venues throughout New York City and New Jersey. You had never imagined so much international travel would be involved, and you'd find yourself using up your remaining year's allotment of vacation days from work to attend a stranger's wedding in England.

Yet here you were, shoving your life into a carry-on suitcase and taking a red-eye flight from Newark to London for the weekend to see Nico's sister's best friend get married.

Nico had insisted he book and pay for your flight, upgrading your seat to business class so you could at least attempt to get some sleep on the transatlantic flight. He said it was the least he could do to make the journey more comfortable, considering you would only be in England for 72 hours. You were flying home overnight on Sunday to be back at work in New Jersey on Monday morning.

You were exhausted just thinking about it.

You wished it wasn't so rushed, but you had used up all your vacation time for Gianna's wedding in August. It would be worth it, though, as you were spending two weeks in Italy with her before the wedding. You would be there to help make sure everything was set up and ready to go—and maybe throw her a surprise bachelorette party, too.

The moment your plane landed, you were jumping in an Uber to try to hit all of the major tourist landmarks before you were set to meet Nico at your apartment that night. Nico was also only in London for the weekend, having to head back to Bern on Sunday for his regularly scheduled off-season workouts.

Nico's sister had insisted you stay at the couple's apartment for the night rather than pay for a hotel. The bride and groom were already at their hotel with the rest of the wedding party for the weekend, but their rambunctious American Water Spaniel, named Bear, was at their apartment and needed a dog sitter.

You weren't going to be picky or risk making a bad first impression with Nico's friends and family, so you had agreed to stay at this complete stranger's apartment for the night. Nico even let you take the bigger bedroom, insisting it made more sense for you to have the ensuite bathroom to get ready in the next morning.

After so many celebrations of exes and one-time romantic flings that were leaving a lot more of an emotional toll than either you or Nico were ever going to openly admit, this weekend's wedding felt like a welcome break. It was a fun, low-stakes party that you could both enjoy.

His sister's best friend, Sunny, was getting married at a church in London, but it seemed the entire population of Switzerland had traveled into town for the grand event. Nico had mentioned he had known Sunny his entire life, having grown up in the same Swiss village. She had moved to London with her fiance, Colin, about a year ago, but they had been planning this wedding for years. When you saw the size of the church (and the wedding party), you quickly understood why this wedding had taken so long to put together.

Not a detail had gone unnoticed, and no expense had been spared.

Nico's older brother, Luca, dramatically rolled his eyes as the three of you exited your taxi to arrive at the venue. You were willing to bet the budget they must have spent on flowers to decorate the church entrance probably cost more than your salary for the entire year. It looked beautiful, but it felt a bit over the top. Luca had warned you that Sunny could be a bit much but didn't explain how or why.

You now understood what he meant.

You watched Nico adjust his tie as the three of you headed toward the front door of the church. Stopping just shy of the line of guests queuing to get inside, you lightly shooed his hands away to fix the crooked tie. Once satisfied with how it was sitting, you smoothed your hands over the lapels of his suit jacket, smiling in satisfaction.

"Does it look alright?" Nico asked, voice low so only you could hear him.

He looked more than alright.

This suit had to have been custom-tailored the way it fit him so perfectly. Your eyes bulged out of your head like some sort of cartoon character when you first saw him all dressed up today. The black dress pants clung to his muscular thighs, accentuating the strength and definition playing hockey gave him.

You had seen Nico in a suit plenty of times before at Devils games. But this sleek all-black outfit, in contrast to the rough shadow of stubble he had grown out over the last few weeks, was absolutely doing it for you.

Something about Nico had your stomach in knots today. He always looked good, but you physically couldn't keep your eyes off him. It was almost like you were suddenly seeing him in a different light.

When Luca caught you staring, very obviously checking his little brother out, he shot you a wink over Nico's shoulder.

"You look great," you managed to squeak out. "At least one of the top 3 best dressed Hischiers here today."

He laughed at your comment before lacing his hand with yours and walking toward the entrance. The sound of his laughter made you feel lightheaded, holding on tightly to his hand to try and keep yourself steady. If he noticed how hard you were squeezing his hand, he made no motion to acknowledge it.

As you approached, one of the flower girls greeted you, handing you a single red rose with the wedding program. You smiled at the young girl to thank her before tucking the program into the small purse you had brought with you.

"This is a bit much," Luca muttered from next to Nico, but you heard him loud and clear. You raised your eyebrows in surprise, hoping he'd elaborate. He shrugged when he noticed you looking at him expectantly. "It feels like they're overcompensating."

You didn't know Sunny or Colin well enough to say if Luca was right, but by the way Nico involuntarily snorted at his comment and immediately tried to cover it up with a cough, you could put the clues together.

The three of you mingled at the top of the aisle, waiting for the crowd to thin out before you went to find a place to sit. As you waited, guests occasionally stopped and said hello to Nico and Luca, chatting animatedly in Swiss German. You had no idea what they were saying, but you assumed they were either family or friends from back home.

They would all exchange a few words in Swiss German while you politely nodded and smiled. They would eventually reach a point in the conversation where you heard Nico say your name, and they'd usually grab you for a tight hug, as you assumed he was introducing you.

"You probably shouldn't say that too loud," Luca chuckled as the latest group of visitors left—an older woman who had pinched Nico's dimpled cheek when she first said hello.

"Fuck off," Nico grumbled, but that only piqued your interest more. You couldn't understand what they were saying, but the fact that Luca had switched back to English to caution Nico meant he wanted you to understand the warning, too.

"What shouldn't you say?" you asked, your brow furrowed as you looked between Nico and Luca.

"He—" Nico shot Luca a look that immediately shut him up. "Nothing," Luca waved off.

You were having none of that.

"Well, someone better start translating," you warned. You turned to Nico with an accusatory glare, poking a finger into his chest for emphasis. "What are you saying about me when you know I can't understand?"

"Nothing! I'm introducing you!" he raised his hands in defense.

You turned toward Luca for confirmation, knowing he'd have no problem ratting his little brother out. The wicked grin on his face confirmed your suspicion. "As his girlfriend," Luca smirked.

His answer left you confused. You had been introducing each other as boyfriend and girlfriend at all the weddings you had attended—this wasn't new.

In fact, Nico called you his girlfriend when you were first introduced to Luca last night. Had Nico told him your deal? Did his family know this was all fake?

"I told Sunny I was bringing a girlfriend," Nico defended himself, rolling his eyes.

"And she was okay with that?" Luca asked.

"She's getting married, so I think she's fine."

Luca opened his mouth to say something more, but Nico abruptly turned toward you, physically stepping in between you and Luca so you couldn't see him anymore.

"Shall we go find a seat?" he smiled, but his tone was sharp, and you knew it wasn't a suggestion.

He extended his elbow for you to link your arm through as he guided you down the aisle to find a row that still had room for you to sit. With your arm looped through Nico's, you grabbed his bicep and squeezed it to get his attention.

"Why wouldn't the bride be okay with you bringing a girlfriend?" you harshly whispered.

"Don't worry about it," came his immediate answer.

You recognized this weird avoidance from Nico. It was the same way he got when he recalled the details of his exes when you were reviewing wedding invitations with him. You didn't like how tight that thought made your chest feel.

"This is another wedding from the curse, isn't it?" you asked, half-hoping he would deny your suspicion and put your mind back at ease.

Instead, he ignored your question as you shuffled into the pew behind him. He politely smiled at the older man you two sat next to before you pinched his arm to force him to look at you. You stared at him expectantly, and he let out an annoyed sigh.

"Maybe."

"I can't believe you," you gawked, trying to keep your voice low. "Your sister's best friend? You're a dog, Nico."

He scoffed, shoving your hand away. "We hooked up a few times, but we were teenagers. It wasn't serious."

"Wasn't serious for you, or wasn't serious for her?" you challenged. Nico opened his mouth to say something before closing it a moment later, rethinking his words. "I can't believe you," you gaped.

"Why are you getting jealous?" He winked as he said it.

You tried to ignore the somersault your stomach did at the playful spark in his brown eyes. You rolled your eyes, but the snarky comeback died on your tongue as the organ music started and the wedding party began their procession.

That night, you learned that the Hischier family loved shots. You had witnessed this firsthand with Nico at your previous weddings, but his siblings were even worse. Whenever you tried to sneak away, Nina or Luca would find you and pull you back in.

Needless to say, you were feeling no pain by the end of the night. Nico, who was in just as messy of a state, offered to call a car to take you two home when he found you hiding at a reception table. You thanked him profusely before excusing yourself to use the bathroom as he let you know he'd be waiting for you out front.

When you came out of the stall, Sunny was at the bathroom counter. She was leaning over the sink in her white strapless mini dress, which she had changed into for the reception. It was one of three different dresses Sunny had worn throughout the day, but it looked every bit as expensive as the previous two. She was reapplying her lip gloss in the mirror, her eyes briefly glancing over to look at you in the reflection.

"You look beautiful," you said, smiling at her in the mirror as you washed your hands.

You had yet to be properly introduced to Sunny, but it was an unwritten rule that if you saw another girl in the bathroom, you always complimented each other. It was all part of being a girl's girl.

She gave you a brief smile before putting the cap back on her lip gloss. She turned to face you, her hip leaning against the counter as she crossed her arms over her chest.

You could feel her eyes raking over you as if she were studying you or trying to place who you were. You quickly felt uneasy under her gaze as her expression seemed to change into an emotion your intoxicated brain didn't recognize.

"You're Nico's new girlfriend, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes narrowed as she said his name.

"Yep," you chuckled, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood.

You introduced yourself by name, but she didn't seem interested. She rolled her eyes as you spoke. It wasn't a playful eye roll either, as if to tell you she already knew who you were, and it was silly to introduce yourself. This felt mean. Everything about this interaction felt malicious—and calculated.

"How long has this," she waved her hand at you for emphasis, "been a thing?"

"Uh—" You froze. Surprisingly, no one had asked how long you and Nico had been together every time you had introduced yourselves. It wasn't a detail you had thought to work out in your fake story. You tried to keep your answer vague, hoping it wouldn't contradict whatever Nico may have said when he told Sunny you were coming to the wedding. "A couple months."

She made a bit of a surprised noise at your answer, sending a bolt of panic through your body. But she didn't call you out on the timeline. Instead, she returned to the mirror to continue touching up her makeup. Sunny didn't bother to look at you as she continued to speak.

"That's a pretty short time to be parading around his ex-girlfriend's wedding already." There was a brief pause before she turned her focus back to you in the mirror, a taunting smile on her face. "Did he tell you that? Before you got here, did he tell you about us?"

You didn't have an answer. Technically, no, Nico hadn't said anything until Luca outed him. He hadn't lied; everything he told you about Sunny was true. He just left out some details.

You also hadn't asked.

Most importantly, he wasn't your boyfriend and didn't owe you his dating history.

Nor would it have made any sort of difference. Nico had asked you to come to this wedding with him because he wanted someone, wanted you, to be here with him.

"I doubt it," she answered for you. "He's never been honest a day in his life."

She aggressively threw the lip gloss tube into the makeup bag on the counter. You flinched at the sound, hoping Sunny hadn't noticed that her little speech was having any sort of effect on you.

Sunny was clearly drunk and ranting. Hearing her ramble off such awful things about Nico was a bit jarring. He was probably the only person you had ever met that everyone always seemed to love. You couldn't recall a single negative thing anyone had ever mentioned about him before. He had his flaws; he was only human, but it didn't feel like he deserved this.

This was supposed to be Sunny's big day. She was now married in the most lavish wedding you had ever witnessed, yet she was venting about a past fling in the bathroom instead. Maybe Luca was on to something when he said the extravagance of the day was really Sunny and Colin overcompensating.

"Look, you seem like a nice girl," Sunny continued. Her mean-girl facade cracked for a moment as she sighed. "Do yourself a favor and spare yourself the heartache. I've been where you are, and it's not worth it."

"Sorry?" you stuttered, unsure you were hearing her right.

"It's not worth it," she repeated. "He'll wine and dine you, he'll be great in bed, and then one day he'll be gone, and he'll gaslight you into thinking you made the whole thing up in your head."

You awkwardly laughed, at a loss for how else to reply. If you and Nico actually were together, a clearly scorned ex-whatever would be the last person you would be taking relationship advice from.

"I'm trying to be nice and offer you advice here," she snapped when you didn't reply. "He's probably pulling all the same moves on you that he once used on me. I know exactly how it ends."

"I appreciate it," you finally spoke up, offering her a small smile to try and ease the tension. "I've got my head on straight, though. I know what I'm doing."

"Right," Sunny scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Good luck, babe."

Sunny's mocking laughter was ringing in your ears as you excused yourself from the bathroom. You hoped Nico wouldn't see the unease on your face as you headed toward the exit where he had promised you he'd be waiting.

But all that melted away when you saw him leaning against one of the large pillars outside the front entrance. He had a vase of flowers in his hands, and as you approached, he held them out toward you with a goofy, dimpled grin.

"These are for you," he smiled even wider, sending a whole new wave of butterflies into flight in your stomach.

You took the flowers, immediately recognizing the square crystal vase as one of the centerpieces from the reception tables. "Did you steal these?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

Nico waved you off, placing his arm around your shoulder to lead you toward the waiting car. "It doesn't matter how I got them; I got them for you."

Tucked into Nico's side, you used the chill of the night air as an excuse to cuddle up closer to him. His hand rubbed absentmindedly up and down your bicep to keep you warm as you descended the front steps of the venue.

In the backseat of the Uber, you made no attempt to move away, resting your head on his shoulder as he continued to hold you close. Letting your eyes fall shut, all you could focus on was the woodsy smell of his cologne and how large and overwhelming his warm hand felt against your cool skin.

It probably wasn't what Sunny meant with her rant, but all you took away was that she was confirming your drunken suspicion that Nico was great in bed.

Back at Sunny and Colin's apartment, you placed your stolen wedding favor on the coffee table where the couple would find it tomorrow. The flowers were a sweet gesture from Nico, but there was no way they were going to fit into your carry-on luggage and make it back to New Jersey in one piece.

When you joined him in the kitchen, Nico offered you a glass of water. You took the glass from his outstretched hand and placed it on the counter to free your hands so you could finally take your shoes off. You moaned as you stepped out of your heels, relishing the feeling of your aching feet now resting flat on the floor.

Nico choked on his water at the sound, coughing as you looked up at him.

"You good?" you asked, unable to hide your giggle.

He didn't say anything; he just nodded his head in response.

You waited for a moment to see if he would speak up, but he stayed silent. You maintained eye contact, watching him as he raked his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face, only to fall right back across his forehead when he moved his hand away.

You shrugged at his silence, reaching for the glass of water Nico had poured for you. "Your family's nice," you offered, tapping your nails against the cup as you waited for Nico to say something.

"Yeah," he agreed. His one-word answer made you roll your eyes, something Nico missed as he turned his back to you to shrug off his suit jacket and place it on the kitchen counter. "Luca loved you."

"Does that mean I get to date your brother when this is done?" you asked, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

You didn't miss how Nico's shoulders tensed underneath his white dress shirt at your joke.

"No."

"I think that's up to him," you continued to taunt, "not you."

"No," he repeated, roughly pulling on his tie until it came loose and tossing it onto the counter as well. "Not going to happen."

"Why are you getting jealous?" you teased, mocking his reply earlier at the church.

But Nico didn't laugh. When he turned back around to face you, he looked serious. Nico didn't say anything, but his body language screamed yes. He was jealous simply at the mention of the joke.

That took the wind right out of the conversation.

Maybe he wasn't necessarily jealous of you; perhaps it was the idea of losing out to his older brother in competition. Siblings tended to be competitive like that. There was no reason for him to be feeling this way about you. You barely knew each other, and you weren't together.

You weighed your options for a moment. Tonight had been fun, but it wasn't serious. You could make the first move, kiss Nico, and get whatever tension was brewing between you all day out of your system. It was low-stakes and no strings attached.

"I'm going to head to bed," he eventually said, "I'll see you in the morning." He placed his empty cup in the kitchen sink before walking past you toward the hallway to the bedrooms.

When would you ever have this opportunity again?

So, without putting much thought into it or allowing yourself the opportunity to psych yourself out of it, you spun around to grab Nico's wrist to pull him back toward you. As he stumbled back into you, you leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

It was short and innocent, so quick that you almost thought maybe you had imagined it, but then Nico was leaning down and kissing you again, harder this time. You had been thinking about this since first seeing him that morning. You wanted to savor the moment.

He pulled away ever so slightly, looking down at you to check in and gauge how you were feeling. Your hands came up to rest on either side of his neck, thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw. You could feel his racing heartbeat, letting you know he had also been waiting for this moment.

He leaned down to close the gap again, this time with the hunger of a man starved. With one hand resting on his jaw and the other clutching onto the front of his shirt, you desperately pulled him in as close to you as possible.

Your fingers came up to intertwine in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a low groan from him. You took the opportunity to slip your tongue past his lips, and his hands slid to the small of your back, pressing you harder into him.

So caught up in everything a first kiss should be, you didn't even notice the world around you. All that existed to you was the delicious scratch of Nico's beard against your chin and the sensation of his fingertips skimming dangerously low across your back, holding you flush against his chest. Every part of your skin that he touched felt like it was perfectly on fire.

You stumbled over your feet as Nico began to walk you backward until you hit the kitchen counter. He brought his hand up to rest on the back of your neck, dipping your head back as he deepened the kiss. He didn't break the kiss as he grabbed you by the waist and effortlessly hoisted you up to sit on the counter so you were now eye-level with him.

You parted your legs so he could step between them, his hands squeezing at your hips, before he hastily pulled you forward until you were completely pressed against him again.

You eventually pulled away to catch your breath, resting your forehead against Nico's. You stayed like that for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall rapidly as he tried to catch his own breath. He made no motion to pull away, brushing his nose against yours delicately as your fingers toyed with the thin gold chain around his neck.

You shivered as his hands ghosted up the outside of your thighs, pushing your dress up with them until the silk fabric bunched up at your waist. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning as his fingers continued to trace patterns along your inner thigh.

As you let your head fall back with a sigh, Nico took that as his invitation to leave a trail of kisses along your jawline until he reached your neck. He licked a stripe over your pulse point before gently biting down on the skin as your eyes rolled back. You were complete putty under his touch.

You opened your legs wider, offering him better access as his fingers continued to inch their way up your thigh. You felt him smile into the kiss on your neck as you whimpered his name.

His hands were moving agonizingly slow as if he was enjoying torturing you. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his fingers finally hook under the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. Before Nico could actually touch you, the distinct sound of glass shattering had the two of you jumping apart.

You both turned toward the source of the noise, finding Sunny's oversized dog, Bear, standing by the coffee table. His wagging tail was at the perfect height to have knocked the crystal vase you had set on the table clean off onto the hardwood floor. Nico cursed as he jumped into action, stepping over the broken glass in the living room to pick up Bear and place him on the couch before he stepped on anything.

You pushed yourself to the edge of the counter, adjusting your dress so you could stand up when Nico stopped you. "Don't move. There's broken glass everywhere, Schatz," he warned. "Let me clean this up before you hurt yourself."

You nodded wordlessly, watching Nico disappear down the hallway momentarily before returning with a broom. You couldn't help but smile as you listened to him say something to Bear in Swiss German, earning a bark from the dog in confirmation. Pressing your fingers to your swollen lips as you watched Nico sweep up the mess on the floor, you felt dizzy.

The German pet name was new. It was something he had called you in passing at a few of the weddings but never in private when you didn't have an audience. You didn't quite know what to make of it or what any of this meant, but it had slipped off his tongue so naturally.

And he had kissed you like that.

You were sure that was the kind of kiss you would think about for the rest of your life.

Sunny's words weighed heavily in the back of your mind, though. She had warned you that it wasn't worth it.

You needed to remind yourself that it wasn't.

When the summer was over, the curse would be lifted, and you could go on and find your soulmate. Someone who would hopefully send sparks and butterflies coursing through your veins from just a kiss, like Nico had managed to do.

This interruption was probably for the best.

You were getting dangerously close to crossing a line you couldn't return from. You two still had two weddings to go, including Liam's, which was the main reason you were even in this situation. You couldn't throw it all away now because you were drunk and horny. You needed to be smarter than that—you were smarter than that.

So when Nico extended his hand to help you climb down from the counter once the mess had been cleaned, you politely thanked him before making your way down the hall to the guest bedroom. Once alone, you let out the breath you hadn't realized you had been holding.

Resting your back against the closed door, you could still feel Nico's hands all over you. It was taking everything in you not to double back down the hallway to Nico's room, desperate to pick up where you had left off.

You locked the bedroom door with shaky hands, trying to quiet the temptation.

Tomorrow was a new day, and you'd both move on. You were adults, and things like this happened all the time.

Everything was going to be fine.

hope you find somewhere safe for your baggage

After London, something about your relationship with Nico shifted.

You didn't know how to describe it or what exactly it was, but it felt like you were suddenly wading into uncharted territory.

You had kissed Nico. He had kissed you back.

He was also the one who escalated it beyond the innocent peck you had started it with. Then, the next morning, he didn't say anything, and you were too nervous to be the one to bring it up, so you acted like nothing had happened.

That had been a month ago, and too much time had passed to bring it up now.

There had been a four-week break in your wedding schedule, and you had yet to see Nico in person since the morning after in Sunny's kitchen. He had texted you nearly every day throughout those four weeks, though. Sometimes it was a quick text to check in or a photo of the dog someone brought to his off-season workout session. Occasionally, he'd ask how you felt about Liam's upcoming wedding, ensuring you were still on for your trip to Paris.

It was a new routine that you didn't even notice starting. Nor did you remember what life was like a few months ago without these daily check-ins from Nico.

You had told him you were feeling fine, but during the entire flight from Newark to Paris, you thought you were going to be sick with anxiety. The fear of facing your ex-boyfriend and the cousin he had left you for was now a reality. When your plane finally touched down, you had a very real moment where you contemplated bolting.

Scanning the board of connecting flights and looking for the best place to escape, your eyes landed on Monaco. There was a flight leaving almost every hour to Nice. A 90-minute flight and then a quick 20-minute train ride, and you'd be in Monte Carlo. Maybe you'd find a billionaire who would let you live on his yacht forever, and you'd never have to face the consequences of your actions ever again.

You could ignore everything going wrong and run away from your problems permanently.

You weren't sure if you could do this, something you had confessed to Nico the moment he met you at the baggage claim. He was wearing gray sweatpants, a Team Switzerland hoodie, and a backward Yankees hat—a signature travel outfit. He smiled as he watched you come down the escalator. He looked cozy, ready to cuddle up and keep you warm. Nico was a boyfriend straight out of a Hallmark movie, but even that couldn't calm down your frayed nerves.

As you got closer, his dimpled smile faltered when he saw the distress on your face. He could tell you were spiraling the second he laid eyes on you.

You were so freaked out over having to see Liam again and maybe a little anxious about facing Nico after what had happened in Sunny's kitchen that you were on the verge of hyperventilating. He placed a firm hand on both of your shoulders to bring you back to Earth.

"Schatz," he spoke slowly, trying to get you to focus on him despite the crowd continuing to fuss around you. "What's going on?"

For some reason, having him ask how you were doing was all you needed to fall apart. Your eyes immediately welled up with tears as you frantically shook your head. "I can't do this," you cried out. "I don't want to do this."

Without uttering another word, Nico pulled you into a hug. As he cradled the back of your head against his chest and soothingly rubbed his hand up and down your back, you rambled out every doubt and insecurity that you had been mulling over throughout the flight.

You had traveled this far, and you both realistically knew you couldn't back out now. But he patiently listened to your rant about not being ready to go before he placed a kiss on the top of your head, grabbed your bags, and told you to follow him.

"It's going to be fine," he had promised as you made your way to the taxi stand. "This is nothing coffee and a pastry can't fix."

His words were firm, and you felt you had no choice but to believe him. So you carried on as usual, pretending to ignore the very obvious elephant that had existed between you and Nico since that night in London, which you both were going to continue to not talk about.

Nico could tell you were uneasy about it all. So he tried his best to fix it. He wanted to try and find a way to make this trip feel a little less heavy, to help you enjoy the time with him in Paris before you had to face the reality of watching your ex-boyfriend walk down the aisle of the wedding you had planned.

Nico had strategically planned a busy day to keep your mind occupied. Too much downtime left the possibility of your mind wandering and you sulking, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. So he took you sightseeing across the city, hitting as many tourist traps as possible to compensate for your two's limited time.

You really only had one day to go sightseeing before Clara and Liam's wedding on Saturday afternoon. Then, you were flying to meet Gianna in Italy Sunday night while Nico returned to Switzerland.

It could be just the air of romance that Paris, the City of Love, has, but everything about the day felt overwhelmingly lovey-dovey. He was probably doing it because he had seen you fall apart in the airport that morning. Still, Nico held your hand tightly as you weaved through crowds, held every door open, and pulled out your chair for you at every cafe you stopped in along the way.

For a fleeting moment, with his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he stood behind you, you could forget about the real reason you were in France, distracted by Nico whispering dirty jokes about every painting into your ear—much to the dismay of the other guest on your guided tour of the Louvre. In that second of normalcy, you were two lovers friends on the vacation of a lifetime.

With your day winding down, you two returned to your hotel to see if your room was finally ready to check in. For some reason, Nico was suddenly in a hurry, as if he now had somewhere he needed to be.

He'd checked his watch about a dozen times throughout the brief elevator ride up to the sixth floor of this lavish Paris hotel. He rechecked the time as he fumbled with the key card for your room, cursing under his breath when the automatic lock didn't immediately recognize the card.

The key eventually scanned, and he pushed the door open so quickly, it slammed against the wall behind it. You flinched at the noise, worried about a noise complaint from the nearly silent floor. Nico pulled your suitcases into the room before wrapping his hand around your wrist and blindly pulling you through the dark hotel room toward the balcony door.

"Come on," he urged, dissatisfied with the speed you were following him.

With the sun finally tucked away behind the horizon and Nico refusing to turn a lamp or a light switch on in his haste, he fumbled with the lock on the balcony door in the dark of the hotel room. Standing behind him, you reached over his shoulder toward the light switch on the wall that you assumed would bring some sort of light into this pitch-black room. But as your hand reached for the switch, you were scolded with a quick but efficient "No!"

Your arm froze mid-reach, an annoyed sigh falling from your lips.

"You can be mad at me in a second," Nico remarked, acknowledging the intent behind your groans, "but I promise this will be worth it."

As if on cue, the lock finally clicked, and he pushed open the double doors to the balcony, revealing a small stone terrace. He reached back to grab your hand again, pulling you out onto the terrace. All that greeted you was two small lounge chairs and a wrought iron cafe table.

You weren't sure what about this was supposed to be so worth it unless the hotel had lied about the listing photos. But Nico was beaming, antsy with joy as if he were a little kid on Christmas morning. You followed Nico's gaze up toward the skyline, hoping that might help clue you in on what you were supposed to be so thrilled about.

You tried to match Nico's level of enthusiasm, not wanting to crush his spirit and risk starting a fight when you felt your dynamic was already awkward, but it was a bit underwhelming if you were being honest. This balcony offered an unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower, but it was dark, and there were no lights on at the tower, making it nearly impossible to see. Plus, you had already been there this morning when the sun was still up and taken more than enough photos.

This was just a worse view of a landmark you had already visited.

Furrowing your brows, unsure what you were supposed to find so exciting about this, you glanced over at Nico. There was a massive grin on his face as he looked back at you, that smug smile letting you know he was very proud of himself.

Maybe it'd be a better view in the morning when the sun came up.

"Nico," you said carefully, "we were just at the Eiffel Tower."

"Just wait," he pleaded, looking down at the watch on his wrist one more time as he bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet. "It should be any second… now."

You looked up as the Eiffel Tower came to life, the iconic French landmark lit up in golden sparkling lights. Your jaw dropped at the sight, mesmerized as the lights continued to flicker and twinkle across the tower.

It was breathtaking. You couldn't bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the view, only blindly reaching out to grab Nico's bicep beside you and give it a dramatic squeeze to show your appreciation.

It was beautiful, but his eyes stayed firmly on you.

This was far from Nico's first trip to Paris. Growing up only a short train ride away in Switzerland, he had already done all of the touristy things France had to offer. And he enjoyed it all, but it was nothing compared to experiencing the joy of traveling through your eyes for the first time. All he wanted to do was watch how excited you were finally visiting the places you had only ever dreamed of.

"I hope this makes everything else feel a bit more worth it," he finally spoke, keeping his voice low so he didn't disturb the moment. The twinkling view wasn't much, but it was all he could think to come up with on such a limited schedule.

"It's perfect," you answered without hesitation. You briefly pulled your eyes away from the tower to glance at Nico, giving his arm another squeeze. "This whole thing is… perfect. Remind me how you're single again?"

You didn't notice Nico wince as you said it.

The twinkling light show eventually ended a few minutes later, but Nico assured you they did it at the top of every hour so you could see it again. As you eventually made your way off the terrace and back into your hotel room, you flicked on the lamp closest to the balcony door. The grand hotel room Nico had insisted you stumble blindly through finally came to life under the glow of the warm light.

As the room came into focus, you stuttered to a stop. Nico crashed into your back at the unexpected standstill, his hands coming up to grab your waist and steady you before you could tip over. He made no motion to move, holding you firmly against him as his eyes scanned the room, too.

The spacious room looked every bit as luxurious as the lobby and the balcony view had implied. It was decorated with expensive art on the walls and antique furniture that felt authentically Parisian. You knew it must have come at an outrageous price, especially given how last minute Nico had booked it. Right in the middle of the extravagant suite was a bed piled high with decorative throw pillows that looked like they were all hand-sewn.

The only problem was that it was the only bed.

The rest of the room had an antique wooden desk, a massive wardrobe, and a matching set of bedside tables. Despite having more than enough space for one, there wasn't a second bed or even a pullout sofa anywhere in sight.

In the middle of the bed was an ice bucket filled with what looked to be a bottle of champagne next to a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. Ruby-red rose petals outlined the alcohol and sweet treats, laid out perfectly like a heart across the white duvet.

"Oh," came Nico's voice as you stared at the single bed—that couldn't have been larger than a Queen size at best. "I get it now."

"You get what now?" you challenged, brow arched as you glanced over your shoulder to eye him skeptically.

"La lune de miel," he answered as if that was supposed to be evident to you.

You tried to ignore the rush of heat that went right between your legs at his basic use of French. Despite the reprieve of the air-conditioned hotel room, you must have still been flushed from the summer heatwave outside.

"The receptionist kept saying it, but I didn't know what it meant," he explained.

You took a few cautious steps out of Nico's grasp, picking up one of the rose petals off the bed. You were pleasantly surprised to discover it was a real flower petal. This hotel clearly spared no expense for the surprise welcome gift. It was then you noticed a small white card on the tray of chocolate desserts. Your eyes scanned over the handwritten 'Félicitations' note on the front as you listened to Nico's voice continue to drone on in the background.

"I knew it was something about a moon," Nico continued, "but I thought maybe she meant, like, it was only available for one night or whatever. It was the only room they had available, so I said yes," he rambled, a scarlet blush creeping up his neck as he refused to look at you.

"Nico," you managed to get out between giggles as you let the rose petals fall back onto the perfectly made bed. You watched him breathe a visible sigh of relief as he heard your sweet laugh, confirming you weren't upset. "Are we in the honeymoon suite?"

He wandered over to the ice bucket delicately balanced at the foot of the bed. He pulled the chilled bottle of champagne out of the bucket, smirking as he read over the expensive label. "I think we are, Mrs. Hischier."

It didn't take long for the two of you to finish the complimentary champagne. With the inevitable jetlag beginning to set in, the alcohol was hitting harder than expected. You had made yourself comfortable, your back against the headboard and your feet resting in Nico's lap as he lay across the foot of the bed. He absentmindedly massaged your ankles as you talked, catching up on all you had missed in the weeks since Sunny's wedding.

"How long were you and Liam together?" Nico eventually asked, unable to help himself from prying.

He had been wondering since he had found you broken-hearted in the grocery store. Still, you had been tight-lipped about any actual details about your most recent ex.

"About a year," you admitted, eyes focused on his hands as they soothed the aches in your ankle from all the walking you had done that day. He removed one hand to grab his champagne glass from where it was resting on the floor beside the bed, finishing off the final few sips in the glass. "It wasn't that long, but we moved pretty fast, so it felt serious. To me, at least. I thought he was the one because he told me he was."

Nico frowned as he listened. He hated hearing how dejected your voice sounded as you recalled the end of your relationship with Liam.

"Then he dumped me in a text message, and now he's marrying my cousin."

Nico choked on his mouthful of champagne, his eyes practically bulging out of his head as he stared at you in disbelief. Coughing to catch his breath, he placed the empty glass on the floor before propping himself up on his elbows to get a better look at you.

"Your cousin?" he repeated in disbelief. "Fuck that. Why are we going to this wedding?"

"Because it's my cousin," you emphasized. "I wanted to skip it, but my mom called me and politely told me it wasn't optional. Something about Clara and I practically being sisters growing up, and it would mean a lot to her if I were here or whatever."

Nico couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. When you had asked him to accompany you to your ex-boyfriend's wedding, as sad as you were about the whole ordeal, he had assumed that meant you had ended on good terms or were at least still friends in some way. He wasn't expecting him to have left you for your cousin.

"And then Liam texted me saying he's glad we can be mature about this," you laughed. "So now I look like the bad guy if I don't go."

Nico was at a loss for words, shaking his head in disbelief as he tried to process everything you had said. "That's insane," was all he managed to come up with.

"That's really rich coming from the guy who slept with his sister's best friend."

You felt him tense up despite trying to force out a small laugh and pretend your words didn't bother him. You instantly regretted your attempt at a joke. Maybe you weren't supposed to mention Sunny or anything related to that night in London.

"I didn't just sleep with her," he eventually said. "You're making it sound worse than it was."

You contemplated telling him about your run-in with Sunny in the bathroom that night. You could tell him how you weren't the one making it sound bad; Sunny was doing enough of that all on her own. Apparently, there were a lot of things about that night in London that you two needed to talk about.

But that felt too messy. As much as you loved a little gossip, these were real people with real feelings involved here.

Nico let out a sigh, collapsing back onto the bed and staring blankly up at the ceiling. It would be easier to be honest with you if he didn't have to look directly at you or feel you judge him for his past mistakes. Nico wanted to be honest, though. He figured whatever you were imagining had happened was worse than the truth. He didn't want you to think that poorly of him. Not just for the sake of clearing his name—Nico cared what you thought of him.

"We dated for a bit when we were teenagers," he clarified. "But we broke up right after I got drafted. Everything felt crazy and so far out of my control—I thought I was doing the right thing by not dragging her into the circus my life was becoming. There was so much distance, and I was solely focused on hockey. I wasn't going to be a very good boyfriend."

"That makes sense," you whispered. You watched as Nico chewed on his bottom lip, brown eyes still focused on anything other than you. "It sucks, but I get it. You thought you were doing the right thing."

Nico let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "She didn't see it that way. Kept saying it was a cop-out to tell her I loved her and that's why I was leaving her."

You weren't sure why, but the admission that Nico had been in love with her made your chest hurt.

Suddenly, Sunny's bathroom rant made a lot more sense. You'd probably feel the same way if it had been you. Not that she'd ever understand, but you knew Nico was just trying to do the right thing, as awful as it was. He willingly accepted the role of the villain in that story, all to spare her from the worse fate of what their relationship surely would have spiraled into.

You wanted to reach out and grab his hand and give him a reassuring squeeze as you told him it was okay and he did the right thing. As long ago as it was, it was apparent he still felt guilt over the failed relationship.

Instead, you kept your hands firmly placed in your lap, picking at a loose string on the hem of your t-shirt.

"She's probably over it by now," you lied, deciding to keep the memory of Sunny's bitter rant to yourself. "She's off on her honeymoon while you're stuck here about to go to my ex's wedding."

"Lucky us," he mumbled.

"That's the curse, Neeks," you shrugged, removing your feet from his lap. You brought your knees to your chest, allowing Nico to sit up.

"Gianna hates it whenever I say that," he said, rolling his eyes as he mentally recalled all the times she would groan and scold him about being dramatic. "But what else could there be?"

"I get it," you sighed, letting your head fall back against the headboard as you shut your eyes. Without looking at Nico, you felt more confident in voicing your thoughts. It was suddenly less scary to be vulnerable and open up to someone. The complimentary champagne definitely helped, too. "She rolls her eyes whenever I say something, always quick to tell me there can't possibly be a curse. But I think it's easier to blame something else than accept that it's me that no one can seem to love long-term."

"Schatz, I—" he sighed as if struggling to find the words he wanted to say.

You couldn't stop yourself from yawning, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth. "I think we need sleep," you mumbled between another series of yawns.

"Yeah," Nico agreed. "Probably a good call."

He hesitated for a moment, watching you slip under the covers before he reached to grab one of the pillows off the bed.

"Where are you going?" you asked, brow furrowed in confusion as he picked up the decorative throw blanket draped across the end of the bed.

"To sleep?" he answered, head cocked to the side in confusion—as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

"Where? On the floor?" you waved your hand for emphasis, in case he hadn't realized this honeymoon suite only had one bed.

"No, there's a couple chairs on the balcony, I could—"

"You can sleep in the bed, Nico," you mumbled into the pillow, eyes already closed.

You heard him sigh before you felt the mattress dip, letting you know he had climbed into bed.

"Schatz," you heard him whisper just before you could pass out, "please don't ever think it's you."

The following morning, you woke up initially feeling well rested—ready to face whatever this day would throw at you. It took a moment for your still-asleep brain to catch up and recognize where you were.

You didn't remember falling asleep this close, but with the air conditioning cranked as high as it could go, you had gravitated toward Nico for warmth in the middle of the night. And he had graciously let you cuddle into his side, limbs intertwined as he snored softly into the pillow beside you. Your head was tucked into the crook of his neck, one of your legs thrown over his hips. Nico's firm hand on the back of your thigh kept you close.

You knew you shouldn't, but he was still fast asleep, so you stayed like that for a moment, fighting to silence that tiny voice in the back of your head that wanted to snuggle in deeper. He was so close you could easily lean over to kiss him. You could pick up right where you had been abruptly stopped in London.

Instead, you remained frozen, hoping he wouldn't wake up and that you could stay like this a little bit longer. You were enjoying the feeling of his fingers resting on the bare skin of your thigh, left exposed by your sleep shorts, far too much to move right away.

You tried to ignore the way your entire body tingled as his fingers subconsciously twitched in his sleep, his grip tightening against your thigh. Deep down, you knew this wasn't a good idea. You adored Nico, but you were just friends. You weren't supposed to be anything more than that.

You two were together for a reason: to break up and find other people. You weren't supposed to actually be together. With your combined terrible luck with love, this would never actually work out.

Nico didn't stir when you finally slipped out of his grip, quietly replacing your previous spot with one of the overwhelming number of pillows stacked on the bed. By the time you emerged from the bathroom, now dressed and ready for the day, Nico was awake, propped up against the wall of pillows as he scrolled on his phone.

He quickly suggested the two of you head out for coffee, desperate for caffeine to wake you up. You had stayed up far too late the night before, finishing the complimentary champagne as you talked into the wee hours of the morning. It felt like you had talked about anything and everything.

And then, in the morning light, you once again pretended nothing happened.

It was almost like you were settling into some sort of routine. As frustrating as it was, everything about Nico also felt oddly comforting.

Like how he let your fingers anxiously fidget with the beaded bracelets on his wrist while he held your hand, seated in the final row in case you needed to make a quick exit. As you watched Clara walk down the aisle to meet Liam, with Nico's hand laced with yours, it felt significantly less devastating than you had thought. It still stung to listen to Liam recite his vows, to hear the man you had thought you would spend forever with promise everything he had once said to you to someone else.

Any time that jealous green monster began to grow, and your chest would feel tight with envy, Nico would give your hand a slight squeeze as if he knew.

It had never felt like anyone really understood you like this before. Nico had been through all the same heartbreaks. He was also navigating the disappointment and frustration of constantly feeling like you were coming up short. Yet, here he was to back you up and support you through what should have been the most emotionally devastating day of your life.

He just got it.

He got you.

crucial evidence i didn't imagine the whole thing

You were spending the two weeks before Gianna and Nate's wedding at a Tuscan villa on the coast that had the most breathtaking ocean view from the garden terrace. You had said goodbye to Nico and flown from Paris to meet Gianna the day after Liam's lackluster wedding. The rest of her small wedding party was there too, helping to sort out all the loose ends before Nate and his groomsmen arrived in a few days.

You hadn't heard much from Nico over the last week. The summer was winding down, and he had some media commitments in Bern he was required to be at, so his check-ins had been a bit more infrequent. You knew he was switching back into captain mode, trying to focus on the pressure of the upcoming seasons for the Devils, so you didn't want to push or come across as needy.

As much as you looked forward to a text or missed call to see how you were doing, Nico didn't realistically owe you anything.

The rest of the bridesmaids had ventured into town to get groceries and supplies for the final bachelorette night, leaving you and Gianna to get everything else set up. With all of your errands out of the way, you were sitting in the back garden and enjoying the late afternoon sun while you waited for the rest of the group to return.

This was the first time you two had had time to talk since you had last seen her for a brief catch-up after the first wedding. When you told her that Nico had agreed to try and break the curse with you, she had cackled over the phone. She checked in after each wedding, but she and Nate had returned to Canada for the off-season in June, so you had not seen her in person since then.

After all the overthinking and mixed emotions the last month had brought you, it was refreshing to just exist with your best friend again.

Gianna briefly excused herself as the doorbell rang, scurrying off to collect whatever wedding delivery had arrived. While you waited, you slipped your phone out of your pocket, frowning at the screen when you found no new notifications. You opened up iMessage, scrolling through until you found the thread with Nico to make sure you hadn't accidentally missed a message. But there was nothing there waiting for you.

When Gianna returned, she was holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers. The colorful arrangement was so big you could barely see her behind them. She stopped before you, practically shoving the flowers directly into your face.

"Wow," you laughed, watching her rise onto her tiptoes to peek over the top of the flower arrangement. "Nate's really outdone himself."

"They're for you," she said, shoving the flowers into your hands.

You cautiously took the bouquet from her, unsure what to make of the surprise delivery. Had she ordered flowers for all of the bridesmaids?

"Read the card," she whined. "I want to know who they're from."

With hands you didn't notice were shaking, you picked up the small card that was resting between the twine woven around the base of the bouquet. You glanced at Gianna's wicked grin before rereading the simple note. You had a sneaking suspicion that she knew who the flowers were from before you even opened the card.

Just because. ♥️ Nico

Nervously chewing on your bottom lip, you wordlessly handed the card to Gianna to let her read it for herself.

"Shut the fuck up," she shrieked. She looked back at you from the card a few times as if trying to determine if what she was looking at was real. When she decided this romantic bouquet was actually from Nico, she couldn't figure out why you weren't freaking out. "This is the cutest thing I've ever seen."

She dropped into the seat next to you, handing the card back to you. You placed the bouquet of flowers on the garden table, but you kept the card in your hands. You reread the small note a few more times, trying to wrap your head around it all.

"So," Gianna practically sang, "how's it going with Nico then?"

"Good," you answered vaguely.

"Good," Gianna repeated, but her face looked skeptical. "Curse is lifted?"

"Well, I haven't received any more wedding invites," you rolled your eyes, putting the card down to rest in your lap. "So it hasn't gotten worse, at least."

You could tell from how Gianna's knee was bouncing restlessly that it was taking all her self-control to hold back her interrogation. Nico had sent you just because flowers. She had no idea your relationship was at that point.

You didn't even know your relationship was at that point.

You hadn't heard from him much since Paris. Yes, you knew he was busy, but it didn't make you obsessively check your phone any less. And now he was sending you flowers?

Not just any flowers, either. Nico was sending you flowers just because.

You had told him these were the kinds of flowers and gestures that would make someone fall in love with you. All those months ago, in his kitchen, before all of this began, he had said he would try to remember that.

Did he remember, or was this an unlucky coincidence?

"Come on, I'm dying here," Gianna whined, shaking your knee to try and get you to focus. "Let's cut to the chase. Are you and Nico in love yet?"

You snorted, ignoring Gianna's frown at your response. "That's never going to happen."

You could see how this might confuse Gianna or send a different message. Nico was playing his part well as the doting summer boyfriend. But it was all pretend.

As fake as this all was, you had a sinking feeling that this would only end with you getting hurt—no matter the outcome.

"But the two of you would be perfect for each other," Gianna insisted. "I would die if you and Nico got together."

"What?" you turned to face your best friend, completely disbelieving at her sudden change in opinion. "You're the one who said no when I asked you to set us up!"

"You were asking me to set you up because of your stupid curse," she rolled her eyes as if that were supposed to be obvious to you. "If you had told me you thought he was cute or something, I would have made it happen."

"I can't believe you," you muttered, looking down at Nico's note again.

"You've got to be in it for the right reasons," Gianna explained. "Maybe that's why it's never worked out before. You've been so focused on the possibility of a curse that you never fully commit yourself to anything just to try and dull the heartache when it's over."

"Is that such a bad thing?" you asked, looking up at Gianna, "Trying to protect myself?"

"No, I never said that," she answered carefully. She let out a small sigh before reaching out to gently squeeze your leg. "But if you have one foot out the door the entire time, how do you expect anyone to feel comfortable enough to stay?"

"Oh."

Gianna's words knocked the air out of your lungs. You couldn't argue with her. You had always been so focused on self-preservation, preparing yourself for when everything inevitably ended, that you never stopped to consider that was part of the problem.

You had leaned too far into the idea of a curse and had accidentally made it a reality.

"But I think Nico wants to stay," Gianna laughed softly, glancing at the oversized flower bouquet on the table.

"I kissed him," you blurted out.

"When?! At Liam's wedding?" she gasped, squeezing your hand so hard you were surprised she hadn't broken a bone. "Oh my God, we need more wine."

Before she could fully stand up, you grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the spot next to you. You didn't need glasses of wine or anything else to make it a bigger deal than it already was. It didn't mean anything. The flowers didn't mean anything, either.

"No, it was the wedding before Liam's," you told her. "In London."

Gianna's jaw dropped. If she was upset you hadn't told her sooner, she was focused more on discovering every detail.

"What happened? What did he say?" she demanded.

"He kissed me back."

Gianna raised her eyebrows in anticipation, waiting for more.

"That was it," you shrugged. "We were interrupted before it could go any further."

"Did you want it to go further?" she asked.

"Gianna," you warned.

"What? I just told you I'm Team Nico," she defended, holding her hands up in surrender. "So, what happened after?"

"I already told you nothing happened." Your best friend narrowed her eyes at you, not buying your story. "We never talked about it again."

"Have you said anything?" she asked.

"No. I mean, we were drunk. It was probably just…" You trailed off, shrugging.

"Maybe he hasn't said anything because he thinks you regret it," she reasoned. "He's a good guy. He probably doesn't want to embarrass you."

You gnawed on your lip as you contemplated Gianna's answers. "How do I know for sure?" you asked.

She smiled, nodding her head toward the table. "I think the flowers are a pretty sure sign."

"No, they're—"

The glare Gianna sent you shut you up immediately. "Babe," she warned, "don't even try that."

You sighed, looking down as you traced your fingers over the heart at the end of the note.

You always thought you liked getting flowers, but you had never really received them without having to ask. These just because flowers were something you had always dreamed of but had only ever witnessed other people getting. And yet here was someone sending you flowers because he was thinking of you.

Someone willing to and wanting to do what you deserve.

"We've become friends through this whole thing," you admitted. "It makes it complicated."

"You're friends?" Gianna repeated skeptically.

You nodded your head in confirmation. "We've spent so much time together over the last few months. It was bound to happen."

"You like him," Gianna deadpanned. "And the sooner you admit that to yourself, the sooner you can tell Nico that."

"I don't know," you admitted. "I'm not saying I don't like him. I just don't know how I'm supposed to feel right now."

Truthfully, you didn't know how you felt. Two weeks ago, you were crying on an airplane about your ex-boyfriend and then seething with jealousy when you watched him marry someone else. If you had feelings for Nico, you wouldn't still have been thinking of Liam, right?

It had been so long since you had felt this way or had feelings toward someone in a healthy relationship that you almost didn't remember what it felt like. When the fairytale feeling from all these weddings wore off, you would be able to think more clearly.

"Do I get to tell you 'I told you so' when you finally realize it?" Gianna teased, pulling you from your thoughts.

You rolled your eyes, putting the card on the table next to the flowers so you would stop obsessively looking at it. "I'll talk to him after the wedding," you said.

"Why wait?" Gianna asked, dramatically shaking your knee to emphasize her point. "Call him now!"

"No, I'd rather do it in person," you shook your head. "And it's your big day. I don't want to ruin anything or make it awkward."

"Can I be blunt?"

You dramatically rolled your eyes at her question. "Have you ever felt the need to ask before?"

She ignored your sarcastic response. That was how you knew Gianna was serious about this.

"Don't worry about ruining my day, stealing our thunder, or whatever other excuse is rattling around in your head right now," she said. "The only person you're ruining this for is yourself."

"I'll think about it," you agreed with a sigh. You knew you wouldn't say anything at the wedding, but if you agreed, it could hold Gianna over for now.

You probably weren't going to say anything, at least.

You would wait until these weddings were over and you were back in New Jersey and see how you felt then. You wouldn't rush it. You didn't even know if Nico felt the same way, and there was no point in stressing over it until then.

Gianna grabbed her coffee mug from the table, where it was resting next to Nico's flowers. Settling back into her seat, she brought the cup to her lips as the two of you stared in silence at the bouquet. She did her best to try to hide her giggle behind the rim of her cup, but the attempt was futile.

"What are you laughing about now?" you asked, watching her skeptically out of the corner of your eye.

"I'm just thinking about how cute we'll look in our matching WAG jackets next season."

you're standing face to face with "i told you so"

Watching Nate and Gianna tearfully exchange their vows, it hit you.

Gianna's elaborate planning had paid off, and their sunset ceremony at a breathtaking winery in the Tuscan countryside was the epitome of romance. You were overjoyed for your best friend and honored to stand beside her as her maid of honor. Yet as you watched Nate wipe another tear away, you felt that familiar green monster pressing on your chest.

You were jealous.

You had felt this way in Paris, too. At the time, you had thought you were seething with jealousy over Liam finding his forever with someone else. Now, you realize it wasn't the person you longed for; it was the love.

When you thought of Liam and Clara's wedding, there was no more sadness or heartache. All that remained was pure, green envy. And not over Liam—envy for the happily ever after.

You wanted to shout from the rooftops and celebrate your love in front of everyone you knew.

You wanted this, all of this.

With Nico.

You felt dizzy at the revelation.

You had thought you liked him, but this felt like something entirely different. This felt like the person you wanted with you forever.

You wanted the person you didn't have to beg to love you back—the one who showed up no matter what, who loved you in the way you needed to be shown love.

The one who loved you just because.

You could feel the back of your neck sweating, your heart racing at the realization. It was such an adrenaline rush you thought you might pass out.

When the ceremony was over, you rushed through the crowd of guests to find Nico. You didn't know what you would do; you just knew you needed to see him. When you found him in the crowd, he was chatting with a few of his teammates. He was wearing that same black suit you had swooned over in London, but, as most guests had done in the heat, he had shed the suit jacket and rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up.

He looked deep in conversation, and you didn't want to interrupt. As if he felt your eyes on him, he looked up to find you across the courtyard. The corner of his mouth curved into a smile when he saw you. He excused himself from the conversation, making his way over to you with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes.

"Hi," you whispered when he finally reached you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you in for a hug, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he greeted you. "You okay?" he whispered as he pulled away slightly to look down at you.

"Yeah," you smiled, nodding your head for emphasis. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, tracing along his silk tie. "Never better," you promised.

His smile grew even wider, showing off his dimples that never failed to make your stomach flip. You relaxed in his arms; the dull flutter of the butterflies in your chest felt oddly comforting. Everything about this felt precisely that—comfortable.

He smiled like he knew what your coy answer really meant.

Did he know? Did you just hope he knew, or did you blurt it out and tell him?

Before you could say anything more, another bridesmaid pulled you from his arms. She muttered something about being late before you were whisked away for photos with the rest of the wedding party.

While the guests were sent to a cocktail hour before the reception began, the photographer wanted to take advantage of the golden hour sun before it set too low in the sky. As the photos wrapped up, you noticed Nico lingering near the courtyard gate, waiting for you to finish. The second the photographer said you could go, you made a beeline toward him.

If Gianna or Nate had commented about the two of you, it went unnoticed as the rest of the wedding party passed the two of you. So wrapped up in each other, you barely registered the rest of the group passing by to make the short walk from the courtyard to the vineyard where the reception would be.

"We should probably get to the reception," you said as you noticed you were the only two left.

"We can be late," he shrugged, eyes still firmly on you. A playful smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he wound his hands around your waist again, pulling you into him. "We'll make a grand entrance."

As much as you wanted to stay there wrapped up with Nico, you had spent six months planning all the details of Gianna and Nate's reception. You didn't want to miss their big entrance or first dance—or see Nate embarrass himself with the thank you speech you had overheard him practicing last night.

It was a quick walk to the reception. Still, it involved an uneven cobblestone path you had been nervous about twisting an ankle on before the ceremony when you weren't in a rush.

"I can't walk very fast in these shoes," you told Nico, earning a small laugh from him. "If we don't leave now, we might miss the party entirely."

He seemed unphased by your excuse as he clasped his hands behind your back. "That's fine. I'll carry you."

"I can walk," you insisted, giving him a slight shove as you rolled your eyes. You could only imagine the comments from Gianna and Nate that would be waiting for the two of you when you finally arrived. The last thing you wanted to do was add fuel to the fire by showing up literally in Nico's arms.

He laughed at your protest but let you step back anyway, lacing his hand with yours. You held on to his hand tightly to help you balance as you navigated the uneven stones.

He offered to carry you a few more times throughout the walk. He was worried you were going to fall or break an ankle and couldn't understand why you wouldn't take off your shoes or let him carry you the rest of the way.

"Please," Nico begged again, grabbing your elbow to steady you as the stone you stepped on wobbled, "let me just—"

His plea was cut off by the stone slipping out of its spot on the path, sending you off balance and tumbling into Nico's chest. He caught you easily, hands coming to your waist to steady you as your hands landed on his broad chest. You could feel his heartbeat racing through the thin material of his shirt, refusing to look up at him. If you looked up, standing this close, his hands held firmly on your hips, you were going to kiss him.

And it felt like he was thinking the same thing, his grip on your waist tightening.

Looking down at you with his doe eyes, the distant noise of the wedding waiting for you two seemed to fade away. Nico's pupils were so blown out that his dark eyes practically looked black in the fading evening sunlight. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, dampening the flushed pink skin. He never looked away, making no motion to break the intense eye contact.

How were you expected to not fall for him when he looked at you like that?

You could easily drop your hands from where they rested on his chest and walk away. He wouldn't stop you if you tried. But you remained rooted where you stood, fingers slowly curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him ever so closer.

"Nico," you whispered, eyes focused on your hands as they held onto him.

"Yeah, Schatz?"

There was that nickname again when no one else was around. Were you really about to do this? Once you opened your mouth, there was no turning back.

You briefly closed your eyes, trying to muster up all the courage you could before backing down.

"I love you."

Your confession was met with silence.

Opening your eyes, you reluctantly looked up at Nico. He was still smiling down at you, but now you were second-guessing everything. Had you been misinterpreting his kindness for romance? Maybe all of these smiles you had thought meant he felt the same way were actually him pitying you.

You took a step backward to separate yourself from Nico. He let his hands fall as he watched you take a few more wobbly steps backward to distance yourself.

"I'm in love with you," you repeated, letting out a shaky breath. "And not just in some phony way to break this dumb curse. I'm actually head over heels, can't-think-straight kind of in love. Like, if we were in high school, I'd probably be drawing your name with hearts all over my notebooks, daydreaming in class."

Nico opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand to stop him.

"I need to finish this," you pleaded. "Before I lose my nerve or you break my heart, I need to get this all out, okay?"

He nodded his head, letting you continue.

"As incredible as this summer has been, I love the boring stuff, too. Grocery shopping, folding laundry, watching crappy reality TV shows when we're hungover the next morning that you pretend to hate but somehow know the names of all the cast members."

The corner of Nico's mouth twitched up into a smile briefly at the mention of your morning-after routine you had fallen into over the last few weddings. As fun as the actual weddings were, the in-between moments where it was just the two of you were always the ones that mattered the most. Even if you made him watch the most insufferable dating shows while he nursed a hangover.

"I want it all," you continued, nervously wringing your hands together. You took a deep breath, looking directly into his eyes. "I'm in love with you, and I don't want this to end after tonight."

You tucked your hair behind your ears and adjusted the thin straps of your dress—anything to keep your hands occupied as you anxiously waited for him to say something.

When he remained silent, you could feel your confidence crumbling.

"That's the whole speech," you whispered. You were hoping Nico was just politely waiting for you to finish and not staying quiet as a gentle way to reject you. But the longer he didn't say anything, the more you began to panic. "You can talk now."

"Schatz, I'm not going to break your heart," he finally spoke up. He shook his head slightly, that stupid smirk still on his face. "I love you, too."

"What?" Your fidgeting hands immediately stilled as you stared at Nico in disbelief. "Actually?"

"Has it not been obvious?" he asked.

"I—" you paused.

You were at a loss for words. You were so focused on telling Nico how you felt that you hadn't really considered what would come after that.

"I didn't think I was being subtle," he laughed softly, scratching at the back of his neck as he blushed at the confession. "I knew I was in love with you in London. I wanted to tell you in Paris. Honestly, I thought the flowers said it for me."

"Just because," you whispered.

"You told me that was how to make someone fall in love with you," he shrugged. "I was already so far gone. I needed to know you were, too."

Nico had listened.

He was trying to tell you exactly how he felt about you, in the way you had told him to.

You couldn't bear the distance between you two for a moment longer. Kicking off your heels to steady yourself on your feet, you rushed toward him. Nico effortlessly caught you, lifting you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist. You crashed your lips down onto his, feeling him smile into the kiss.

As you pulled apart, Nico leaned up to steal one last quick kiss that made your entire body buzz.

"Why couldn't you have told me sooner?" you asked, brushing the tousled strands of hair that had fallen forward off his forehead. "I've been freaking out since Sunny's wedding."

"My sister told me I couldn't tell you I loved you at someone else's wedding. So I was just trying to find the right time," he smiled.

Feeling your face flush with embarrassment at the subtle jab, you buried your face into Nico's neck in hopes he wouldn't notice. He pressed a kiss to your temple as his hand came up to cradle the back of your head against him.

"You beat me to it, Schatz," he whispered, lips still pressed to the side of your head.

"Sorry," you smiled, biting your lip as you felt Nico press another soft kiss to your hair. "You can tell me again, and we'll pretend it's the first time."

"I love you," he said right away.

You straightened up a bit, still held firmly in Nico's arms so you could look down at him. The look on his face, that love and adoration you had thought you saw when he spotted you in the crowd after the ceremony, was still there.

You leaned down to kiss him again, your hands resting on either side of his jaw as you deepened the kiss. When you finally broke away, you used your thumb to wipe the traces of your lip gloss that had transferred to Nico's bottom lip.

"Okay, now we're really going to be late for this reception," you giggled.

Nico gave your waist a light squeeze before gently placing you back down. He watched you grab your discarded heels, opting to hold them rather than try to navigate the rest of this treacherous path with them on.

"Ready to go make our grand entrance as a real couple?" he asked, holding out his hand once you were ready and lacing your fingers with his own.

"How will they even know it's real now?"

He lifted your intertwined hands to his mouth, brushing his lips against your knuckles. "Oh, trust me," he laughed, "they'll know."

You leaned up to steal one last kiss before squeezing his hand for confirmation.

"Okay, let's do this," you nodded. "I'm ready for the I told you so's."

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