mia @dreamer-reader-lover - Tumblr Blog

𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 // 𝐍𝐇𝟏𝟑

Summary: “So, is your aunt actually dead? Or did you come up with lies every time?” – or the one where Nico is weirdly infatuated with his neighbor and his solution is to buy flowers from her every week.

Pairing: Nico Hischier x afab! reader with she/her pronouns

Word count: 16k

Warnings: No real warnings for this one. It's mostly cute. There's mentions of loneliness, hinting at depression almost, and also an argument between reader and her sister ★

A/N: One singular request for it and I will post a smutty little part two to this that I've already written. Please come tell me what you think ◡̈

The first time Nico saw you was the day he moved into his new apartment.

It had only taken him close to a decade, but he finally had a place in Jersey that wasn’t just somewhere his stuff happened to live. He’d bought a home. A penthouse, no less—top floor of a redbrick building that was probably an old factory in a past life. The real estate agent had talked a lot about its historic charm, but Nico had stopped listening somewhere between exposed piping and original hardwood floors.

All he’d really wanted was space. And big windows. Now he had both.

More closet space for clothes he didn’t own. A dining table large enough to host dinner parties he would absolutely never throw. A balcony perfect for long, reflective evenings he would definitely spend… inside. Just your classic, upscale bachelor pad.

He’d spent the morning directing the movers like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and the afternoon correcting everything Timo had unpacked like a man who absolutely did not.

By the time Timo finally left, Nico felt like he could sit down and breathe for the first time all day.

His kitchen was sleek—high-gloss black cabinets and brick accent walls, the kind of place that made you feel like you should know how to cook something impressive. He did not. One of the dining chairs wobbled when he sat down, which he chose to blame entirely on Timo, who had assembled them, and not at all on his own lack of supervision.

Through the massive windows, the apartment overlooked a courtyard—four tall buildings forming a quiet square around a patch of green. It felt almost hidden, like a secret garden for people who paid too much in maintenance fees. That had been a selling point. Nico preferred it to the constant noise of the street his old place faced.

Most of the windows across the courtyard were dark or shuttered. It was getting late, he figured. All except for one lonely window.

Directly opposite his apartment, in a unit that mirrored his almost exactly, a kitchen glowed softly. Same layout, same angles—just more lived-in. The cabinets were white instead of black. Lace curtains framed the windows. Potted plants lined the sill like they’d been there long enough to grow stuck.

And on the table, a single white candle burned in a holder, steady and bright. For a second, Nico’s brain went straight to fire hazard. Then you sat down.

Hood up, like you were hiding from the world—or just the evening. A mug cupped between your hands, something warm curling up in faint wisps. You settled easily at the kitchen table. Like you’d done it a hundred times before, and like you might do it a hundred more.

Nico looked away almost immediately, suddenly very interested in unpacking a box of kitchen utensils he didn’t remember owning. When the fuck had he bought a garlic press? He told himself not to stare. He folded laundry. He stacked plates. He tightened the screws on the chair Timo had “definitely assembled correctly, bro, trust me.”

But every now and then, he glanced back across the courtyard. You were still there.

Sometimes you smiled faintly at something on your phone. Other times, you scribbled in a notebook, pausing like you were deciding whether the thought was worth keeping or if you should erase it. And sometimes you just sat there, your gaze weirdly empty. Watching the candle. Letting the wax drip over your fingers as if you had nowhere else to be.

By midnight, Nico was brushing his teeth, half-asleep on his feet. He glanced over one last time, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. You were still there. Your head dipped slightly, like sleep was catching up to you in slow motion. But you didn’t leave the table. He couldn’t understand how you weren’t bored out of your mind yet, having sat still for hours at this point.

Nico turned off the lights in his apartment, the darkness folding in around him. And when he finally fell asleep, it was with a distinct, slightly ridiculous certainty that he would be dreaming of a girl that looked a little too much like his new neighbor.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Nico didn’t mean for it to become a habit. It just happened.

At first, it was accidental—passing glances while he heated something in the microwave or waited for his coffee to brew. But somewhere along the way, it turned into something else. A predictable routine. Slightly embarrassing, if he ever admitted it out loud.

Whenever he was home, he would look your way. He even started to notice things about you.

Like how your curtains changed with the seasons. In October, they’d been replaced with ones patterned with tiny pumpkins—subtle, but unmistakable if you were, for example, someone who apparently spent a concerning amount of time looking into a stranger’s kitchen. And then in December, the curtains were red, of course.

Or how every Saturday night, without fail, your apartment filled with people. Four girls, always the same ones. Nico had seen them enough times entering the building that he could almost recognize their voices echoing up from the courtyard.

And then, the rest of the week—there was nothing. Just you in your window. A candle always flickering while you simply sat there. Sometimes you cooked; other times he’d see delivery drivers outside the front door. Sometimes he could sense you were listening to music by the way you mouthed along or bobbed your head to a beat. But mostly you were quiet.

Maybe that was by choice. Maybe you like it that way. Nico told himself that had to be it. Plenty of people liked being alone. But for some reason, he wasn’t entirely convinced you were one of them.

You never looked his way. Or—at least—he’d never caught you doing it.

Not once. Not even accidentally. Which felt statistically unlikely, considering he was a full-grown man basically haunting the space the minimal time he spent at home. He liked his new apartment—he really did. But he was not one of those people who enjoyed being alone.

Over Christmas, you disappeared entirely. Nico noticed on the second day. By the third, he’d caught himself checking your dark windows out of pure reflex. By the fourth, he stopped pretending it didn’t bother him.

He stayed in Jersey.

There wasn’t enough time to make it back to Switzerland between games, and his parents hadn’t managed to come over this year. It wasn’t new. It didn’t even feel particularly sad anymore. It was just the way things worked when you had to move across the Atlantic to live out your dreams.

He’d celebrate with some of the guys from the team, eat too much, laugh a little too loudly, and then spend an hour or two on FaceTime with his family, trying to ignore the time difference and the way calls always ended a little too soon.

Still, the apartment felt bigger without you across from him. Colder, somehow. Maybe he just needed to decorate his place more. Bring in some of that warmth that you seemed to have at your place.

As snow gently fell over the courtyard, frost clinging to the windows, his habit of looking for you was, of course, still there—only now he was filled with a sense of longing every time he noticed you still weren’t there.

He wished for you to have a nice Christmas wherever you were. He hoped you were somewhere warm. Somewhere familiar and good. Mostly he hoped you weren’t alone.

A few days after Christmas, the candle was burning again.

Nico noticed immediately. He came home late from a New Year’s Day game—legs heavy, brain somewhere between exhausted and wired—and he saw the flickering light coming from your kitchen.

You stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like you’d been at it for a while. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed that until he felt his shoulders relax at the sight. Which Nico knew was totally ridiculous.

January dragged on, slow and gray, until eventually the days started stretching again. More light filtered into the courtyard, lingering a little longer each afternoon.

Your window changed with it.

Sometimes there were fresh flowers on the table, bright and out of place against the winter backdrop. Other times, they’d be pushed aside to make room for dinner plates or board games or a bottle of wine that never seemed to stay full for very long.

The four girls came and went, just like always.

Nico had even run into them once—on his way out for a late practice, bag slung over his shoulder, already mentally halfway at the rink. They’d smiled and said hi. One of them had nudged another like they were sharing a joke he wasn’t in on.

You weren’t with them. Obviously. They were on their way to your apartment.

In fact, Nico had yet to see you anywhere that wasn’t framed by your kitchen window. It was starting to feel intentional. Like you existed exclusively in that space—lit by candlelight, half-hidden behind glass, untouchable in a way that didn’t make any logical sense.

After your friends left on Saturdays, you always lingered. Sitting alone at the table again. Sometimes with your phone, sometimes with that notebook, sometimes just staring at the candle like it had you hypnotized.

Nico wondered what you were thinking about. He wondered if you needed the quiet—or if you were just used to it. If the dinners you hosted drained your battery to the point where you needed to recharge alone for a few hours afterward, or if you just simply liked sitting there in your kitchen.

He also wondered, briefly, how deeply unsettling it would be if you knew how much a professional athlete—someone who, on paper, had much better things to do—was thinking about a girl he’d never spoken to.

Probably very. He tried not to think about that part.

Nico also had no idea what he’d do if he ever saw you outside of that window. He wasn’t even entirely sure he’d recognize you.

Turns out he would.

And you wouldn’t give him nearly enough time to come up with a plan.

One morning, Nico stumbled out of his building, barely awake, already mentally complaining about the practice waiting for him. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and rude, and he hunched deeper into his jacket as light snow drifted lazily through the air.

And there you were, on the other side of the courtyard, crouched slightly as you unchained a bike. He thought you were crazy for riding a bike in this weather.

Nico slowed without meaning to, watching as you tugged on a pair of mittens with your teeth. Up close—or just closer—you looked exactly the same. But also less like something framed behind glass.

You were human and not just a figment of his imagination.

Your coat was oversized, the kind that swallowed you whole, and a few strands of hair had escaped from under your knitted beanie, catching the light as they moved. Nico found himself noticing the smallest things—the way you shifted your weight, the way your breath came out in little clouds, the way you seemed entirely in your own world.

Without thinking twice, he said a quiet hello as he walked past you. He was only being a nice neighbor. You were on the way to the car park anyway.

Butyou didn’t react to it at all—you just adjusted your scarf, grabbed the handlebars, and started walking your bike toward the sidewalk as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You didn’t even give a glance in his direction.

Nico slowed to a stop for half a second, something awkward settling in his chest. Then he kept walking. He told himself you probably hadn’t heard him. The snow, the distance, the early hour—any number of reasons. Maybe you were painfully shy.

The silence followed him all the way to his car. And all the way to the rink. And, annoyingly, through most of practice.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

A few days later, some of Nico’s teammates invited themselves over.

Officially, it was to see his new place. Unofficially, Nico was about ninety percent sure it was because he had the biggest TV and the least likelihood of someone’s girlfriend telling them all to go home every twenty minutes.

Also—if he was being honest—there was a faint air of guilt to it too. Most of the guys were in long-term relationships now. Engagements, shared apartments, children. Guy’s nights had become something you had to schedule a month in advance, like a dentist appointment.

Meanwhile, Nico still had single written across his forehead in bold, capital letters.

He didn’t really mind, though—if they were here because of guilt. Not when his apartment was full like this. Voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings, someone yelling about a missed pass on Chel like it was Game 7 of the finals.

It felt good. Almost entirely normal.

Dawson’s voice cut through the room from the couch, loud and indignant as he accused someone of being blind for missing an obvious offside. The response came just as quickly, dismissive and amused, reminding him that it was just a video game and he needed to relax.

And then they had the never-ending discussion about pineapple on pizza when they decided what to order for dinner. Someone declared it should be illegal. Another disagreed. The consensus was that pineapple wasn’t really that terrible when Jesper told everyone about how Swedish pizza places usually offered banana as a topping too.

Nico needed a moment to himself after eating. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Dishes. Trash. Totally normal, productive reasons to step away from a loud room full of grown men shouting over a video game.

He grabbed a couple of empty bottles, stacking them together as he moved toward the sink. He hadn’t even turned the water on yet when he heard footsteps behind him.

Timo. Of course.

“Are you okay, dude?” he asked, leaning casually against the counter like he hadn’t followed him in here on purpose. “You haven’t said a word all night.”

He said it in German, which helped approximately zero considering half the team could still probably guess what was being said just from tone alone.

Nico rinsed out a glass, focusing a little too hard on something that did not require that much concentration.

“I’m just tired, I think,” he muttered in response.

Timo hummed, unconvinced.

Nico braced himself. He could practically feel it coming—the follow-up question, the inevitable digging. Timo had that look, the one that meant he wasn’t done yet. Nico half expected something along the lines of “you sure? you’ve been weird” or, worse, something about him needing to “get out more.”

He kept his back turned, focusing on the glass that was definitely clean now. There was a pause. Long enough that Nico figured he’d gotten away with it. He knew he had when Timo asked something totally unrelated.

“Have you noticed your deaf neighbors across the street?”

Nico didn’t know what he was talking about at first, seeing Timo stare out his window with furrowed brows. He reached for a towel to dry his hands as he walked over to see for himself.

“I think they’re arguing in sign language,” Timo continued, pointing to the window for Nico to see.

The only window with a light turned on was yours, and through it he could see you and one of your friends. It was Saturday after all. For some reason, the other two girls in the group were missing.

And Timo was right; you were talking in what appeared to be sign language, hands frantically gesticulating. Even from a distance, it was obvious that this wasn’t casual conversation. It was tense. Emotional in a way that didn’t need sound to be understood.

Nico’s stomach dropped a little, though he couldn’t have said why.

“What was that look?” Timo asked, watching him now instead of the window. “Do you know them?”

“I tried talking to her once,” he admitted.

“Wait—what?”

“A few days ago. Outside.” Nico rubbed the back of his neck. “She just… ignored me.”

Timo’s expression shifted—somewhere between sympathy and barely contained amusement. “You tried talking to a deaf person without knowing she’s deaf?” he said. “That’s rough, dude.”

Nico exhaled. “Yeah.” Obviously.

But suddenly, it made sense. The silence. The lack of reaction. The way you hadn’t even glanced at him when he said hello. Maybe you couldn’t have heard him no matter what he’d said. How could he not have noticed the sign language before?

“Which one was it?” Timo asked, turning back toward the window.

“The one in the red shirt,” Nico said quietly. “She’s the one who lives there.”

Timo nodded once, assessing. “She’s cute.”

Nico let out a short breath. “Why do you think I tried talking to her?”

“Fair,” Timo said. “Still didn’t hear you, though.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Timo grinned, entirely unhelpful.

“Have you given Jonas’s wife’s friend another chance, by the way?” he added. “The redhead from Halloween?”

Nico groaned immediately. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Timo shrugged. “She seemed interested in you. And you can’t just sit around moping over your neighbor who you literally can’t talk to.”

“I’m not moping.”

“You left a room full of people to do the dishes.”

Nico sighed. “I guess I’ll… think about it. Okay?”

From the living room, someone yelled, “Yo—are you two starting a separate party in there, or are you bringing more beer?”

“Coming!” Timo called back.

He clapped Nico once on the shoulder before heading out, like the conversation had been successfully completed. Nico stayed for a second longer. Just long enough to glance back at your window. Your friend was gone, but you weren’t.

After his teammates left that night, the apartment fell quiet again.

Nico sat at his kitchen table, laptop open in front of him, some half-hearted attempt at planning his summer schedule blinking back at him. His mind was obviously elsewhere. Right across the courtyard actually.

You were sitting in your usual spot, mirroring him. The candle was lit like usual, but everything else was off. There was no laughter. No music. No movement from the rest of your apartment. Just you, sitting still, staring into the flame.

Nico frowned slightly. Saturday nights at your place were supposed to look different. Like something out of an indie movie about friendship, crowded kitchens, and cheap wine that somehow tasted better in the right company.

Of course, he didn’t actually know anything about the situation, but it still felt out of character for your friends to be arguing. Tonight, you just looked sad. More alone than usual. He kept on wondering what you’d argued about.

Your shoulders were slumped, your expression distant, like you were somewhere else entirely. Even from across the courtyard, he could see it. And then, the mascara. Dark streaks trailing down your cheeks, untouched. Like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care enough to fix it.

Nico sat up a little straighter.

On the table in front of you was a rectangular box. And something in your hands—a card, maybe. You kept turning it over, fingers lingering on the edges like whatever it said mattered more than you wanted it to.

He knew he shouldn’t be watching. This was already too much. He didn’t even know your name, and yet he was here, piecing together a story from fragments he had no right to.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes away when you opened the box, gently unwrapping what looked like just a bunch of green fabric at first. It wasn’t until you held it up that he realized it was a dress. A long, flowing dress. Maybe in silk or chiffon. It looked expensive just from the box it came in.

Your hands trembled slightly as you held it. And then, you broke.

The kind of crying that wasn’t quiet or controlled. It hit all at once, like whatever you’d been holding back had finally decided it was done waiting.

Nico froze. Helpless, halfway across a courtyard, watching something he couldn’t reach, couldn’t interrupt, couldn’t fix.

You dropped the dress like it had burned you. Then you turned and left the kitchen so quickly it was almost abrupt—like if you stayed even a second longer, you might fall apart completely.

Nico couldn’t see where you went. The kitchen just went still. But the candle kept burning, and the dress lay crumpled on the floor. He didn’t know why it hurt him so.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Now, did Nico try harder after that? No. Obviously, he did the exact opposite. He avoided you.

Or—more accurately—he avoided the idea of you. Because in reality, you were still there, right across the courtyard, existing exactly as you always had. Nico was the one changing his behavior like that might somehow solve the problem.

He couldn’t figure out how to talk to you. Hell, he barely even saw you outside of his window anyway, so what was the point? And even if he did—what then? He didn’t know sign language. You wouldn’t hear him. He’d already embarrassed himself once. That felt like enough.

So he stopped looking. Or, at least, he tried to. He went to bed earlier. Found reasons to stay busy. Kept his gaze firmly not drifting toward the window every time he walked into his kitchen, like it had developed a magnetic pull.

It worked. Kind of. Until the next Saturday.

He noticed it immediately. You were alone—and it wasn’t even evening yet. By the time Nico got back from a home game, the candle was already burning. Too early. Wrong, somehow. Your friends didn’t come that night.

They didn’t come the weekend after that either.

Not that Nico kept track or anything. But it was weird. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. People got busy. Plans changed. Life happened. Still, something about it sat wrong with him. Maybe it was the way tears had violently fallen from your eyes last time he’d seen you with your friends.

So naturally, instead of dealing with that in any kind of healthy or logical way, Nico agreed to go on a date. Timo and Jonas had been trying to set him up for weeks, and at this point, saying yes felt less like a decision and more like a way to get them to stop talking about it.

Her name was Cassie. She’d been nice to him at the team’s Halloween party last year. Red hair and a nice smile. Seemed fairly normal. That was… about all he had. Which was fine. Probably. Definitely a solid foundation for a first date.

But Nico had never felt more ridiculous than when he stepped out of his apartment that evening.

The button-up shirt alone should’ve been a warning sign. He didn’t wear button-ups unless someone forced him. Or unless there was a formal event. Or unless he was actively trying to impress someone—which, in this case, felt a little forced, considering he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be there.

The collar scratched at his neck. Actually—no. It wasn’t scratching. It was stabbing. He reached back, frowning, trying to discreetly feel for a tag. There was no tag. This was just the way he felt.

He dropped his hand with a quiet sigh, already mildly irritated and not even five minutes into the evening. This was going great. But he had a plan. A good one, even.

Flowers.

If he showed up with flowers, it automatically made him seem thoughtful. Intentional. Like he had his life together. Which—objectively—he did not. But that wasn’t the point. If he turned out to be the most boring date ever for Cassie, then at least she got flowers out of it. He certainly felt boring.

So, before calling a cab, he’d pulled out his phone, googled “flower shop near me,” and followed the directions with increasing hesitation the closer he got. It turned out to be just around the corner.

He’d lived here for months and somehow never noticed it. Then again, he bought flowers approximately never. The slowly dying house plant on his windowsill was proof enough of that.

Nico slowed to a stop outside the shop. A small wooden sign hung above the door, the lettering hand-painted in looping script spelling out Lennon & Lilies.

It was a cute little store, sat tucked between a café and a vintage store, its exterior painted a soft, weathered sage green that stood out gently against the street of redbrick buildings. A string of tiny warm lights framed the window, glowing softly even in the fading daylight, twinkling gold so that he could see inside.

The flower arrangements were really nice as they lined the storefront in various colors and heights. Like, twentieth-wedding-anniversary nice. And not impress-a-date-you-barely-know nice.

Nico stepped a little closer to see more.

That’s when something about the girl behind the counter caught his attention.

At first, it was small—just a flicker of familiarity he couldn’t quite place. Like how strangers in passing sometimes looked like someone you knew. But this was a little more than that. Unsettling almost—like he’d seen her before without ever being there. Like a memory framed by glass, softened by distance and light. The window display wasn’t too different from seeing you through his kitchen window.

Nico could’ve recognized you anywhere.

The way you wore your hair. The shape of your face. The fit of your clothes. The way you moved was familiar in a way that didn’t make sense, considering he’d never actually stood this close before.

His neighbor was a florist.

You were ringing something up at the register. Smiling widely and talking to a customer who held the biggest bouquet of… some pink flower he couldn’t name.

Your voice didn’t reach him through the glass, but your mouth moved easily, naturally, as you gestured toward a bouquet, explaining something with a brightness he hadn’t seen before.

What?

He straightened slightly, trying to make sense of it.

You were deaf. Weren’t you?

He’d seen you sign during that argument with your friend. He’d built an entire understanding around that fact—adjusted his expectations, his assumptions, his everything.

And now—you were talking. Laughing, even. Like there had never been a barrier at all.

Nico frowned, a little thrown off balance.

Okay. So maybe you weren’t deaf. Or maybe you were, but also… talked? Was that a thing? Of course it was a thing. Probably. He just had absolutely no idea how any of it worked. Which, in hindsight, felt like an important detail he maybe should’ve considered earlier.

The customer said something that made you laugh even harder, and Nico felt something in his chest shift.

You weren’t just a quiet figure in a window. You worked here. You existed outside of that kitchen. Outside of the candlelight and the stillness and the version of you he’d built entirely from observation.

You were right there.

Nico’s grip tightened slightly around his phone. He could go in. It would be easy. Normal, even. Walk through the door. Buy flowers. Say something simple. This was the perfect excuse. The most natural opening he was ever going to get. His brain, however, chose that exact moment to be deeply unhelpful.

What was he going to say?

Hey, I live across from you, and I’ve been accidentally watching you for months? Also, sorry I thought you were deaf, but apparently I don’t understand how anything works?

Yeah. Great plan.

He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight. Through the window, you turned slightly, reaching for something behind the counter. Slightly closer to the door now. Closer to him.

Nico instantly took a step back. Then another. He stared at the shop for a second, like he might still change his mind. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned, pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself as he walked away.

No flowers. He just needed out.

By the time he reached the street corner, he was already checking his phone. Cassie’s number stared back at him. Nico winced as he typed it, but at least it was honest.

Hey, I’m really sorry, something came up. Another time?

Nico let out a breath as he hit send, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he stood there on the sidewalk, feeling not better, exactly. But not worse either.

He’d just made a rash decision without understanding why. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to try. It was that he didn’t know how to start without already feeling like he had messed up. And that was always enough to stop him.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The Devils locker room was loud as usual when Nico stepped in after practice—gear clattering against benches, doors slamming shut, and voices overlapping as guys shouted across the room about nothing and everything at once.

Nico barely registered any of it. It all blurred into background noise, distant and unfocused, as he kept his attention fixed on his own little corner. He kept his head down, fingers working slowly at his skates, giving himself something to concentrate on. If he didn’t look up, there was still a chance—however small—that no one would start anything.

“Did you seriously stand up Cassie?”

Jonas’s voice cut clean through the locker room noise, sharp and immediate—like he’d been holding onto that question all practice, just waiting for the right moment to drop it.

Nico didn’t look up. “I texted her,” he said quickly, because technically, that was true. “Like an hour in advance that I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

Even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Jonas stepped closer. Nico could feel it without looking—how he stared down at him.

“That’s still a shitty move, Nico.”

Nico exhaled, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt. Maybe he was just sweaty. “I just— I didn’t want to go,” he admitted. “I figured it would be more unfair to her if I did.”

That also sounded like a cop-out. But it wasn’t wrong.

“You ditched the date we set up?”

Timo’s voice joined in from somewhere to his left, and Nico briefly considered just getting up and leaving. Pretending he had somewhere else to be. A special captain’s meeting. A phone call. Literally anything.

“Is this about your neighbor again?” Timo pressed.

That made Nico finally glance up.

Jonas frowned. “What neighbor?”

Of course Timo would say something. He was as annoying as his own siblings. Except Timo was on the same continent as him and could call him out on his bullshit in person. He was a lovely friend to have, but god, did he need to mind his own business a little more.

Timo continued to not hesitate. “He has this deaf neighbor,” he explained to Jonas. “Who he apparently thinks is pretty, but he can’t talk to her. For obvious reasons.”

Nico closed his eyes briefly. Perfect. That was exactly how he wanted this explained.

Jonas snorted out a laugh, then leaned in to touch Nico’s shoulder, interest immediately piqued. “Can you see her naked from your apartment or what’s going on? Why is she special?”

“What—no,” Nico said, finally looking up. “That’s not—”

He cut himself off. Abort. This was already going badly, and giving Jonas more material felt like actively choosing to make it worse.

“I was going to get Cassie flowers before the date,” he said instead, like that might redirect things.

Jonas scoffed. “What a gentleman.”

“But,” Nico continued, ignoring him, “my neighbor is a florist. I almost walked right into her shop. And I don’t think she’s deaf because she was talking perfectly fine to a customer.”

He could still see it, clear as anything—the way you’d smiled, the way your hands had moved, the way your mouth—wow, he really shouldn’t be thinking about your mouth like that.

Yeah. None of that had looked like someone who could not hear.

Timo tilted his head, considering. “So… she ignored you on purpose?”

Nico shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“How exactly did you try and talk to her?” Timo asked.

Nico hesitated. Because now that the question was being asked directly, the answer sounded… significantly worse.

“I said hi,” he admitted.

There was already a pause, and Timo made a weird face. Not a good sign.

“I was walking to my car,” he added quickly, like context might help. “She was on the other side of the courtyard unlocking her bike.”

Jonas stared at him. Then leaned back slowly, like he needed physical space to process what he’d just heard. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this,” he said, very calmly, “but are you fucking stupid, Nico?”

Nico huffed automatically. “Oh, come on—”

“That’s like fifty feet,” Jonas continued. “Fifty. Minimum.”

Timo nodded, already on board. “She doesn’t have to be deaf to not hear you.”

“Was she wearing—I don’t know—headphones?” Jonas added. “A beanie? Was there wind? Traffic? Literally anything?”

“I don’t know,” Nico muttered.

“Exactly,” Timo said. “You don’t know.”

The words stuck a little. Because it was true. He didn’t know anything. Not really. Not about that moment. Not about you. Not about why this had turned into… whatever this was.

Nico dropped his gaze back to his skates, picking at the laces again just to have something to do with his hands.

“It doesn’t mean anything anyway,” he muttered. “I’ll probably never talk to her, so what’s the point?”

Timo’s expression shifted slightly. “Are you seriously giving up?”

Nico shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “What else can I do?”

“You buy flowers from her. Duh.”

Nico looked up again.

Timo gestured like this was the most obvious solution in the world. “She’s a florist. You say you need flowers. This is not complicated.”

Jonas nodded, butting in again. “Yeah, and then you’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Nico asked.

“If this whole thing is real,” Jonas said, waving a hand vaguely in Nico’s direction, “or if it’s just you being weird about a girl you’ve never spoken to.”

“That’s not—”

“Maybe she’s terrible,” Jonas continued, ignoring him. “Bad customer service. Annoying voice. Maybe she has really bad breath.”

Timo snorted. “That would solve everything, actually.”

Nico huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. “And what if she’s not terrible?” he asked.

Timo and Jonas exchanged a look. Then Timo shrugged. “Then you’re fucked.”

Jonas nodded. “Completely.”

Fucked. Yeah, that sounded about right.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Nico almost turned around twice before actually going in.

Once at the corner—easy excuse, he could’ve just kept walking, pretended he’d never even had the idea. Once right outside the door—close enough to see his reflection in the glass, slightly warped between bundles of flowers, like even his own face wasn’t fully committing to being here.

This was so stupid. He was a grown man. A professional athlete. A captain, supposedly a leader. He played in front of thousands of people on a regular basis.

Buying flowers should not be where he drew the line.

He had to physically force himself by quickly pushing the door open and stepping inside, because if he was gentle about it, he knew he would just turn around and never look back.

A distinct smell hit him immediately. Sweet and damp. Almost thick—like the air itself was holding onto water. It wrapped around him in a way that felt a little overwhelming at first.

And he noticed the colors. They were everywhere. Bright, soft, pale, dark—flowers stacked and arranged in a way that felt intentional without looking staged. It was a lot. More than he expected. More than he knew what to do with.

The shop stretched further back than it looked from the street—rows of fresh flowers, houseplants, little decorations tucked into corners like someone had thought about every inch of the space. So big he didn’t even see you at first and figured he had yet another chance at escaping.

But the door had a bell above him that rattled as soon as it opened. And you poked your little head out from behind door deep into the shop that said staff only.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you quickly said to him.

Your voice was bubbly, a polished happiness covering it in a true retail worker spirit. And nothing like Nico had imagined. Actually scratch that, he didn’t know what he’d imagined. Jonas’s dealbreaker about you having an annoying voice was obviously not going to work, though, because you sounded perfectly normal.

Nico froze on the spot when you finally walked out. You looked different like this. Not in a way he could clearly define—just different. Maybe because this was proof you were an actual person. He was still weirdly unsure about that part.

“Can I help you with anything?” You smiled at him, expectant and patient.

Right, he needed to say something. That’s how this worked.

“Yeah,” Nico managed, his voice coming out just a fraction too late. “Uhm— I need a bouquet.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” you said with a small laugh, like you’d heard that exact line a hundred times before. Of course you had.

You turned, already moving deeper into the shop, and Nico followed a half-step behind, trying very hard to act like this was not the most stressful interaction he’d had all week. He’d scored in a shootout against Vasilevskiy yesterday, yet this had him sweating more.

Keep it together, man.

You moved easily through the space, weaving between tables and displays without hesitation, your hands brushing past leaves and stems like you knew exactly where everything was. Which you probably did.

You looked adorable. You were wearing denim dungarees, practical and a little oversized, with pruning shears tucked into every possible pocket. Not at all mysterious or as cryptic as he had made you up to be in his head. Not some quiet, untouchable figure behind glass.

You were simply adorable, and appeared to have a vast knowledge of flowers. And completely, terrifyingly easy to be around. Which made Nico feel even more like he was doing something wrong.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked, glancing back at him briefly. “See if that can give me something to work with.”

“Oh, they’re for—” Nico hadn’t thought about this at all. “A funeral.”

What the fuck? Why would he say that?

“Or—not really a funeral,” he added, because apparently digging the hole deeper was the plan now. “Just for the grave. My—uh—my aunt. Very sad.”

Nico wanted to leave his own body.

You blinked at him, your expression shifting immediately. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

Nico felt something twist in his chest. Because now you looked genuinely sympathetic. Concerned, even. And he’d just invented a dead relative. Or he had an aunt, but she was perfectly alive as far as he knew.

“Do you want a bouquet,” you continued gently, “or more of a traditional grave arrangement?”

“Just a bouquet,” Nico said quickly. “I think.”

You nodded, already turning back to the flowers. “Lilies are a popular choice for that,” you said. “You could also do carnations—they tend to last longer this time of year.”

You gestured toward a cluster of flowers, and Nico followed your hand.

He had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. They were flowers. That was all he had. Smaller than roses and more wrinkly? Maybe? He nodded anyway, committing fully to pretending he understood.

“Yeah. Those look good.”

You looked back at him, and it was obvious that you saw right through him. Not in a mean way, just unmistakable in the way you paused and the corner of your moth twitched, like you were holding back a smile. Like you’d already figured him out.

“I just got these yellow ones this morning,” you added, a little softer now. You were adjusting for him. “And then we could fill it out with some greenery and baby’s breath.”

A baby’s what?

Nico nodded anyway. “That sounds great. I’m trusting your opinion on this.”

Which was the only smart decision he’d made so far.

You smiled again and got to work. Nico stood there, watching. Your hands moved quickly, confidently, pulling stems, trimming, arranging like it was second nature. There was something almost calming about it.

“I hope your aunt will appreciate them,” you said, walking over to the register when you were done tying the bouquet together. “From heaven, or whatever.”

Nico let out a quiet breath. “I know she will,” he said.

Because at this point, there was no turning back from that lie.

After he’d paid, you held out the bouquet to him, carefully wrapped in brown paper and a white ribbon. “There you go.”

He took it carefully, like he might somehow mess that up too.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

The name slipped out without thinking, something he’d caught just a second earlier on the small badge clipped to the front pocket of your overalls. He hadn’t meant to make a big deal out of it, but, of course, you just had to have the sort of name that sounded perfectly leaving his mouth.

It felt strangely important, like finally putting something concrete to you.

You blinked at him, just slightly surprised, before your smile softened. “You’re welcome…” you said, letting the words linger just enough to feel intentional.

Oh. You wanted to know his name.

That shouldn’t feel like anything. You were just being nice. That was literally your job—customer service, basic politeness. You probably did this with everyone who walked through that door. It didn’t mean anything. It absolutely did not mean anything.

“I’m Nico,” he said, still.

Your smile returned, easy and warm. “Nice to meet you, Nico.”

Hearing his name in your voice did something deeply unhelpful to his body. He nodded once, because apparently words were no longer reliable, clutching the bouquet like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

This was normal. Just a transaction. He had bought flowers. You had been nice to him because that was your job. That was it.

And yet, as he lingered for one second too long before finally turning toward the door, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—small, probably insignificant, but enough that leaving felt harder than coming in had been.

The bell rattled again as he stepped outside, the cool air hitting him like a reset he didn’t quite accept. He stood there for a moment on the sidewalk, bouquet in hand, staring down at it like it might offer him some kind of explanation.

Yellow carnations, whatever that now meant.

He exhaled slowly, already turning toward home, because now he had to figure out what to do with them. He couldn’t exactly leave them somewhere without looking insane, and throwing them out felt wrong.

So that left one option: take them home, find something to put them in, and pretend this had been a normal, well-thought-out decision. Which meant he was about to walk into his apartment with a bouquet meant for a fake dead relative and spend the next ten minutes googling how to properly arrange flowers in a vase.

Did he even own a vase?

But how else had he expected his interaction to go? That he would miraculously leave with a date? This would be so much easier if you’d turned out to be horrible, just like his teammates had said.

But no. You just had to be fucking adorable.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

“Here, take these.”

Nico tossed a bouquet of flowers at Jonas mid-set.

The weight room at the Prudential Center was loud in a different way than the locker room. Less chaotic, more rhythmic—metal clanging, plates sliding onto bars, the dull thud of weights hitting rubber flooring just a little too hard. Music pulsed through a speaker, bass heavy enough that Nico felt it in his chest as much as he could hear it. The air smelled like sweat and something faintly chemical from whatever cleaning spray had been used hours ago and definitely hadn’t won.

Jonas barely caught them, the barbell clanging back into the rack as his entire focus shifted to not dropping what was, apparently, a carefully arranged bundle of pink peonies. A few petals shook loose on impact, drifting down onto the floor like evidence.

Jonas stared at the bouquet. Then at Nico. Then back at the bouquet.

“What the fuck, Nico?”

Nico reached for his water bottle, taking a long sip just to avoid answering right away. He already knew how ridiculous this was.

“Give them to your wife,” he said. “The last ones haven’t died yet. I only own one vase.”

It was becoming a real logistical issue. At this point, his apartment looked less like a place someone lived and more like a greenhouse.

Jonas still hadn’t moved, eyes locked on the peonies. “You bought flowers,” he said slowly, like he was trying to confirm reality, “again?”

Nico shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive indifference.

He had his reasons for buying flowers. He’d had lots of reasons. Actually, he’d gone through every possible explanation at this point, cycling through them like plays he wasn’t entirely convinced would work. The logic never really held up under pressure—but that didn’t stop him from trying.

In the past month, he’d bought flowers from you five times.

There had been his mom’s promotion—despite the small, inconvenient detail that she lived in Switzerland and would never see them. Then the baby shower, which had required him to invent not only a pregnant friend but also an entire social circle that suggested he was the kind of person who got invited to baby showers in the first place. After that, Timo’s birthday—which had been especially bold, considering Timo’s birthday was in October and it was currently April.

And yet, you’d smiled every time.

Asked him questions. Remembered small details. Once, you’d even said, “Back again?” in that light, teasing way that had made his brain completely shut down for a solid five seconds while he stood there holding a bouquet he didn’t need, trying to remember how words worked.

There had been an attempt to ask how long you’d worked there—except it came out as, “How long have you been… flowers?” There had been another where he meant to compliment the shop and instead said, “It smells… like plants. Good plants.” And once he’d almost asked for your name again, even though you always wore a name tag.

Progress, clearly, was not being made.

He did try to space out his visits. For dignity, mostly. But standing here now, in the weight room, watching Jonas hold yet another bouquet, Nico had a sinking feeling that whatever system he thought he’d created was not nearly as subtle as he’d hoped.

Across the room, Timo let out a quiet laugh like he’d just been proven right about something he hadn’t even said out loud yet.

“I can give them to Nicole if you don’t want them,” Jesper cut in, already stepping closer, hand halfway extended like this was a perfectly normal exchange that had happened before.

Maybe because it had.

“No, no, I’ll take them,” Jonas said quickly, pulling the flowers back toward himself before Jesper could grab them. “I’m about to be husband of the year. For free.”

Nico huffed quietly, lifting his water bottle to his mouth again just to have something to do. Hydration had become his main coping mechanism in situations like this. It stopped him from having to actually talk.

Jonas, however, wasn’t done. He looked up again, expression shifting from amused to something far more pointed. “But we can’t keep acting like this is normal behavior, Nico.”

Nico took a sip, buying himself time. “It’s not that weird,” he said after swallowing down a big gulp.

“It’s very weird,” Timo said immediately, not even giving the idea a second to breathe. “I’ve lost count of how many bouquets you’ve bought.”

“That feels like a you problem,” Nico muttered, lowering the bottle.

“It’s very much a you problem,” Jonas shot back, gesturing clearly with the flowers.

Nico rolled his shoulders, already feeling a familiar frustration creeping in—the kind that settled low in his chest and tightened there, stubborn like hell, because he didn’t have the words to explain it. It wasn’t just annoyance at being questioned; it was the deeper irritation of knowing he looked ridiculous from the outside and still not doing anything to change that feeling on the inside.

“I just—” Nico started, then stopped, because there was no version of this that sounded normal out loud. So he defaulted to the simplest possible explanation. “I go in,” he said instead. “We talk. She makes the flowers. I leave.”

There was a loud pause. Jonas blinked at him slowly.

“…and?” he prompted.

Nico frowned. “That’s it.”

That was so not the correct answer.

Jonas dragged a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “You’re killing me,” he muttered. “You’re actually killing me!”

Nico felt his chest tighten, irritation flaring just enough to push back. “What do you want me to do?” he shot back. “Just ask her out? Out of nowhere?”

“Yes!” Timo said immediately.

No nuance allowed there.

“It’s literally the only step left,” Jonas added, like they were discussing something painfully obvious that Nico had somehow missed.

Nico shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No. I don’t— I don’t even know if she’s—”

He stopped again. Because the second he said it, it would sound stupid. As if this entire exchange wasn’t already a joke on his behalf.

Timo raised an eyebrow. “If she’s what?”

Nico heavily sighed. “Interested.”

There it was—out in the open, sitting between them in a way that made it feel just as big as it did in his head. And Nico regretted it instantly.

Because saying it out loud was like agreeing to how ridiculous it was. Like he was overcomplicating something that, for most people, wasn’t complicated at all. Nico had never been this guy before—the one hesitating, second-guessing, getting stuck in his own head over whether someone might like him back. That had never really been his problem.

If anything, it had always been the opposite.

Girls approached him. Conversations came easy because he didn’t have to initiate them. There was no pressure to figure out the right thing to say, no risk of getting it wrong before anything had even started. It had always just happened.

And now he was standing in a flower shop, forgetting how to form sentences because you simply smiled at him. It threw him off in a way he didn’t know how to recover from.

He hadn’t felt like this before. And the worst part was, he didn’t even know why it mattered this much. He just knew that it did.

Timo stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What has happened to your confidence, dude? Go look at yourself in the mirror.”

Nico let out a dry breath. “That’s not the point.”

“It is exactly the point,” Jonas said, already shaking his head.

Because to them, it probably was that simple.

Walk in. Ask you out. If yes, great. If no, then move the fuck on.

But they hadn’t stood in that shop, trying to form a coherent sentence while you looked at him like he was a normal person instead of someone whose brain had just completely abandoned him.

They hadn’t had to process the way you laughed, or how easily you filled the silence with adorable nonsense, or how every interaction somehow left Nico feeling like he was capable of jumping to the moon just from pure energy.

“I don’t have it in me to just randomly ask her out,” Nico admitted finally, more honest than he’d intended. “So yeah. I’m stuck.”

For a second, no one said anything. Then Jonas glanced down at the flowers again, turning them slightly in his hands before setting them off to the side like he needed both hands free for what came next.

When he looked back at Nico, the amusement was still there—but there was something else under it now. Something a little more direct.

“You’re not stuck because you can’t talk to her,” he said. “You’re stuck because you won’t.”

Nico didn’t respond. He didn’t really need to. Because it was so clearly true and hit so hard that Nico completely froze. Just enough to settle somewhere uncomfortable and stay there, even as Timo snorted under his breath and reached for a weight like the conversation was already over.

Nico took another sip of water. His teammates were still laughing. And they were still right no matter how much Nico avoided it.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Nico almost didn’t go in. Again. He always felt like he was standing on a ledge every time he found himself outside of Lennon & Lilies. He still had no idea what that name meant. Maybe that could be something normal for him to ask you about.

He lingered outside longer than necessary, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he might still turn around if he gave himself one more second. The glass reflected him faintly—blurred between rows of carefully arranged flowers—and for a moment he focused on that instead of what was inside.

This wasn’t going anywhere. Same routine. Same conversation. Same careful, meaningless small talk that never actually led anywhere. He already knew how it would go.

You’d smile. Ask what he needed. He’d come up with something very unconvincing. You’d build something beautiful anyway—always something a little too thoughtful for whatever excuse he’d come up with. He’d thank you, leave, and spend the walk home replaying every second, rewriting his own lines in his head like that might change something retroactively.

And repeat.

Yet, he continued to walk inside. The bell above the door chimed loudly as always.

“Hi Nico,” you said happily, sitting on a stool behind the register.

He looked up at the sound of your voice. You must’ve been looking at him even before he stepped inside.

It hit him—again, like it always did, stupidly and without warning—how easy you seemed in your own space. Like everything in this store made sense because you were part of it.

You had your sleeves pushed up, a faint green smear along your wrist that you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about. Your hair was pulled back in a way that clearly hadn’t been overthought, a bunch of loose strands slipping free when you tilted your head just slightly at him.

And of course, you smiled at him. Wide and a little crooked. Enough to make Nico feel like his legs were about to give in.

He suddenly had the very real, very inconvenient thought that he could probably stand here and look at you for an unreasonable amount of time before realizing he hadn’t said anything yet.

“Hi,” he answered, a little quieter than intended.

“You need another bouquet?” you asked. You’d picked up on the pattern just the second time he came into the store.

“Yeah,” Nico said, nodding once. “You can pick freely.”

“Oh, I love when customers let me do that,” you said, already hopping off the stool. “It’s way more fun.”

Nico followed in your direction without thinking. He always did.

He watched the way you moved through the space—not rushing, just very certain in what you wanted. You reached for stems without needing to check where they were, turning them in your hands like you already knew what they’d become before you even started.

There was something almost unfair about how easy you made it look, because he knew it probably wasn’t.

Your fingers worked quickly—trimming, adjusting, and aligning things just slightly off-center before correcting it again. You paused sometimes, tilting your head the smallest amount, like you were seeing something he definitely couldn’t.

Nico found himself staring. Again. God, get it together.

“I’m going to give you one of my personal favorites,” you said, glancing back at him briefly. “I just got these burgundy dahlias that are absolutely spectacular.”

He nodded like that meant anything to him. It didn’t, really. But the way you said it mattered.

“Sounds good.”

Of course it did. Because you said it did.

He watched as you added them to the bouquet, adjusting them slightly—turning one, then another, stepping back just a fraction like you were checking something only you could see. Your lips pressed together in thought for a second before relaxing again, satisfied.

It was such a small thing.

But Nico noticed it—of course he did, because he noticed everything about you, every small, effortless thing that made you seem like the most wonderful person in the world. It wasn’t great, not really, because all that noticing didn’t actually get him anywhere. He was still left standing there, stuck in the same place as always, quietly collecting details that felt important and meaningful and entirely useless all at once.

“Who are they for this time?” you asked.

Your back was still turned to him as you tied the stems together and wrapped the bouquet in the same brown paper you always used. Your little logo consisting of a lily was embossed on it.

“Me, I think.”

Nico, for once, didn’t reach for a lie. He noticed it the second he said it—how tired he was of lying. The words came out in a quiet admission, like he hadn’t fully decided on them until they were already said.

You turned around and pushed a few buttons on the register, gently nodding at what he’d said like it wasn’t any different than all his lies. Then you looked up and tilted your head at him.

“Like all the other bouquets too, right?”

Nico frowned slightly, instantly thrown off. “What?”

You quickly hesitated. That was a little new. You didn’t usually hesitate.

It was subtle. Anyone else might’ve missed it. But Nico had spent an unreasonable amount of time watching you exist. He noticed the way your shoulders shifted, the way your fingers froze on the register for a second too long before continuing.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about buying flowers for yourself,” you said softly. “I’m not going to judge you.”

Your gaze went back to the register as you spoke, like you were giving him an out.

“I’m not going to judge you. I think it’s sweet,” you added, almost under your breath, like it had slipped out before you could stop it. “A guy wanting fresh flowers on his kitchen table every week.”

“What?” Nico managed to repeat, the confusion he was suddenly feeling slowly starting to settle.

You let out a small laugh, barely audible. Then you glanced up at him, and there was something different there. “You know we’re neighbors, right?” you said, carefully, like you were testing the ground before stepping forward. “I can see the bouquets through my window.”

Nico couldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure he blinked.

The pause that followed wasn’t long, but it stretched. You shifted slightly, like you suddenly felt the need to explain yourself. “Not in a weird way,” you added, too fast. “I just—Our windows face each other, so—” You stopped, cutting yourself off, and for the first time since he’d known you, you looked unsure. Not fully embarrassed, but close enough that it registered.

Nico’s brain, meanwhile, had completely short-circuited. The realization didn’t hit all at once—it stacked, piece by piece, each one worse than the last. You could see his kitchen. The table. The flowers. Every single time he’d stood there, pretending not to look across the courtyard. Also every time he had looked. Every bouquet lined up like quiet, undeniable proof of… something going on.

Holy fuck.

“I—” he started, and immediately stalled out. Nothing followed. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, trying to grab onto literally anything that resembled a coherent thought. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

What? Spying on you? Lying about dead relatives? Building an entire routine around five-minute conversations he couldn’t get past? Literally pick one and they’re all equally bad.

You misunderstood him instantly.

“I hope you don’t think I’m weird for saying that,” you rushed out, words overlapping with his as you tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did notice, but not like—” You huffed out a small, awkward breath, shaking your head at yourself. “Okay, maybe it is a little weird,” you admitted. “But not in a bad way, I don’t think.”

That somehow made it both better and worse at the same time.

Nico let out a laugh, something in his shoulders loosening despite the absolute chaos still happening in his head.

Because you weren’t calling him out. You weren’t making it into something uncomfortable or exposing. If anything, you were meeting him halfway by admitting you’d seen exactly the thing he’d seen through his window but about him.

Before he could figure out how to respond—how to say anything that didn’t immediately make this worse—you moved on.

“Here,” you said, holding out the bouquet. “Your flowers.”

You saved him from further embarrassment.

He took them automatically, his fingers brushing yours for half a second before pulling back, the contact brief but enough to spark a little.

The bouquet was spectacular, to use your own words. Nico didn’t know what a dahlia was, but they were big and delicate, a deep red color filled out with wispy greenery and small white flowers for the rest of the bouquet.

You were damn good at your job. You made the whole thing feel very intentional. Like it belonged somewhere. Like it belonged on a grand table. His table that you’d seen. More than once. Had you purposely tried to match them to his kitchen?

Nico swallowed, adjusting his grip slightly. “Thank you,” he said.

You nodded quickly, still smiling, hiding awkwardness behind it. “See you around, neighbor.”

He left the shop in a bit of a blur. Not because anything had gone wrong, but because for the first time since this whole thing had started, it didn’t feel like he was stuck in place anymore.

—

By the time Nico got home, it was already dark, the apartment quiet as he stepped inside and kicked off his shoes, still holding the bouquet he set down on the kitchen counter without much thought.

His mind lagged behind him, trying to catch up to what had just happened—how you knew, how you’d known for a while probably, and not just about the flowers but about him, or at least enough to make everything feel suddenly, undeniably closer.

The candle on your table was already lit across the courtyard, as it always seemed to be, a steady presence he never had to search for, even when he pretended not to notice it.

But Nico didn’t look at it. Not right away.

He made himself dinner and cleaned some things around his apartment, all without looking out the windows. Moved through his apartment with a kind of deliberate focus, like if he just stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t have to think about what the fuck all of this meant. Maybe it didn’t mean a thing.

Coming across as needy or intrusive was the least of his intentions.

It wasn’t until later, when he was getting ready for bed, that he finally drifted toward the window. His hand paused on the blinds before he looked out—and there you were, like always.

You were not at the table this time. You were closer, leaning against the windowsill with your arms folded and your head resting lightly on them, gazing out into the courtyard in a way that felt almost deliberate, almost like you were waiting.

Nico stilled, caught for a moment in the quiet of it, and then you looked up, meeting his eyes without hesitation or confusion.You immediately flashed him a little smile and waved your hand daintily.

Nico took an embarrassingly long amount of time to react, but he smiled and waved back. He fell asleep that night with the same stupid smile still stuck on his face.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It was raining. Not lightly either—proper, relentless rain that soaked through everything within seconds and made the whole courtyard look washed out and gray.

Nico was halfway down the stairs of his building, jacket thrown on, keys in hand, already mentally set for yet another Saturday alone, when the patter of raindrops finally registered. The steady drumming against doors and windows. The way the light outside had dimmed into complete dullness.

Fucking perfect.

He needed groceries, and maybe another bouquet if he found his way past your shop. But his evening was now ruined before he’d even made it to his car.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he glanced out through the glass doors—and paused.

There was someone crossing the courtyard.

A polka dot umbrella tilted against the rain, moving a little too quickly for it to be comfortable. That would be the rain’s doing. The wind pushed at the umbrella, tugging the fabric sideways, and whoever it was adjusted their grip without slowing down.

Nico watched, distracted more by the movement than anything else at first.

Something about it felt familiar.

The way you walked. Slightly forward, like you were always already on your way to the next thing. The shape of your body, your height, and your stance. The way messy strands of your hair were visible peaking out from under your raincoat’s hood.

His brain caught up a second later, but he still didn’t move.

Just stood there, watching as you crossed the last stretch of pavement, stepping up onto the covered entrance with a small, relieved exhale. You shook the umbrella once, careful not to splash too much water everywhere, and closed it swiftly. In the same moment, Nico saw you adjust your grip on a paper-wrapped bouquet.

Of course.

Nico stared as you opened the door to his building and immediately caught sight of him.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not like this and not anywhere except behind the counter or framed by your kitchen window with that stupid candle burning beside you.

But you were.

You were wearing rain boots—actual rubber rain boots in bright yellow—and your jeans were tucked messily into them, like you’d done it in a hurry. Your jacket looked a little too big, sleeves pushed up just enough to keep them out of the way, and your hair was already a little damp, a few strands sticking to your cheek where the wind had gotten to it.

“Hi,” you said, a little breathless.

“Hi,” Nico said back, which felt wildly insufficient considering the situation.

There was a brief pause where neither of you moved. Rain filled the space instead as the sound filtered in through the door you held open.

“I, um—” you started, shifting your weight slightly. “I figured I could bring these to you.” You held the bouquet out just a little, like you weren’t entirely sure how to present it. “So you wouldn’t have to come to the shop in this weather.”

“You—” he started, then stopped. “You came here for me?”

“Yeah,” you said, like that part was obvious. “It’s not far.”

It was. Well, not far, far—but far enough that no one in their right mind would walk from the store in pouring rain just to deliver flowers to someone who… bought them every week. Oh, right. He did that. And you still believed it was because he liked having fresh-cut flowers at home.

“That’s—” Nico exhaled, a hand automatically going to the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I just thought, since you always—” You trailed off slightly, like you were suddenly aware of how that sounded. “They’re parrot tulips,” you added instead, lifting the bouquet a little. “Straight from Holland. Kind of a spring special.”

Nico looked down at them. They were tulips, presumably. A little messier than the ones he’d seen before. The petals curled and ruffled in a way that made them look almost unfinished.

“Parrot?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “The petals look like feathers. More ruffled than normal tulips.”

You said it like it mattered, like he should care, or that you thought he cared. For a second he almost did, but it was never about the flowers. It was about the way you were explaining them, about the fact that you’d brought them here for him despite the rain.

Something in his chest tightened and shifted, and then, before he could stop himself, he felt everything he’d built up slowly unravel.

“Actually, can I—” Nico started. He hesitated, feeling his mouth go dry as he gambled with what to say next. “Do you want them instead?”

“Why?” you asked, genuinely confused. “Do you not like them?”

“No, no,” Nico said quickly. “They’re beautiful.”

They were. That had never been the problem.

“I just—” he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, already feeling this go horribly wrong. “I don’t really need them.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t?”

“No,” he said, and then, because apparently he had lost all sense of self-preservation, added, “I don’t really want them either.”

There was a brief pause, filled only by the steady sound of rain. You kept staring at him. It didn’t look like he’d offended you, but you were still confused. It made everything just a little worse because your confused little frown was maybe the most adorable expression he’d seen.

“I don’t—” Nico started again, the beginning of a spiral. “I don’t care about flowers. At all.”

Your brows pulled together even more. “Then why do you keep—”

“I’ve been coming to the shop every week because I’ve been trying to ask you out.”

The words dropped between you, heavy and stupidly quick. Even the rain seemed to quiet around you. Nico froze the second he said it, because that had absolutely not been the plan. Not to admit it that directly, anyway.

“And when I obviously failed at that,” he continued, unable to stop himself, “I just bought flowers so I’d have a reason to talk to you.”

Nico stepped back slightly, already cringing. “Oh my god. That sounds—” He cut himself off with a quiet groan. Bad. It sounded bad. “That sounds worse out loud. I’m not—I mean, I am, but not like—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can just go. Or move out. That’s also an option. I don’t have to live here—”

“Nico.”

He stopped rambling instantly.

You were looking at him with a smile now—a stupid, happy grin, maybe a little smug because you’d finally figured him out.

“Can you stop talking for a second?”

He closed his mouth and nodded once.

The silence that followed wasn’t nearly as unbearable as the one before. You adjusted your grip on the closed umbrella, shifting the bouquet slightly in your other hand as you thought.

“There’s this diner a few blocks away,” you said.

Nico blinked, thrown. What?

“Ruthie’s,” you added. “If you’ve heard of it.” He hadn’t, but he figured it didn’t matter. “They do really good malt milkshakes. And the burgers are kind of insane.”

You paused, then looked back up at him, still stupidly smiling. “Are you busy? Or—” you hesitated just slightly. “Do you want to come with me? Like right now, maybe?”

Rain kept on pouring steadily around you, soaking the pavement and pattering against the building. Nico stood there, brain still catching up, heart doing backflips inside his chest.

“Yes!” he said too quickly, before steadying himself. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Nico barely heard what you said as you started to talk.

The diner was exactly what you’d promised. Full fifties kitsch—checkerboard floors, chrome details, and red leather booths that stuck slightly to the back of his jacket. There was an old jukebox humming somewhere in the corner and the faint smell of bacon grease and pancake syrup hanging in the air.

It should’ve been distracting—to have all of that around him—but it wasn’t.

Not when you were sitting across from him, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a warm oversized sweater pulled over your hands as you leaned forward just a little and wrapped your lips around the straw of your vanilla milkshake.

Nico’s brain sizzled like telephone wires.

The maraschino cherry balanced on top disappeared between your lips, and he watched helplessly as you bit down, chewing softly before speaking as if nothing significant had happened at all. As if it hadn't stained your lips a perfect shade of pink.

“So,” you said, and Nico actually managed to listen, “is your aunt actually dead? Or did you come up with lies every time?”

“She’s very much alive,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “Somewhere in Switzerland.”

You perked up a little. “That’s where you’re from?”

“Yeah. Born and raised.” He shrugged lightly. “Most of them were lies, by the way. Except for one. I did get flowers for a friend’s birthday. I don’t think he appreciated them, but I didn’t lie that time.”

Nico left out the part about Timo’s birthday being in October.

You laughed, it gently slipping out like you couldn’t stop it. “That’s cute.”

He hummed in response, too aware of his own awkwardness to continue digging himself into a hole about it. You either didn’t pick up on it, or you didn’t care. He wondered if you thought you were on level playing fields—as if you’d overstepped the boundary that strangers were supposed to have just as much as he had.

Nico busied himself by taking a bite out of his burger, but not before picking away the slices of pickles that society insisted on putting there. He wasn’t picky enough to ask for them to be excluded, but he thought removing them himself was perfectly normal.

“Wait,” you said, staring at his plate like he’d personally offended you. “You don’t like pickles?”

Nico chewed before explaining. “They’re too tangy.”

Your phone buzzed against the tabletop before you could argue with him. Once. Twice. Then again. Three messages coming in quick succession. You glanced down at it briefly, your expression flickering—something tired passing through it—but you didn’t pick it up.

“You can just say you’re childish, Nico,” you corrected easily, already reaching across the table. “But I will be taking these.”

He watched as you plucked the pickles straight off his plate like you’d been doing it your entire life.

“You can have them,” he said. “But you’re not stealing my fries.”

Your phone buzzed again, and this time you totally ignored it. You popped one of the pickles into your mouth instead, chewing and then proudly grinning at him.

Nico let out a snort, but before he could be embarrassed about it, your phone buzzed a third time. Or technically maybe sixth.

“I’m sorry,” you said, finally reaching for it. “My sister keeps texting me. She’s being a pain in my ass.”

Nico shrugged lightly. “You can answer if you want.”

“No,” you said quickly, muting it. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

You set the phone aside, but your fingers lingered on it for a second longer than necessary, brushing absently over the edge of the screen like you were fully expecting it to light up again within seconds.

It didn’t.

Nico noticed the way your demeanor changed. Your shoulders had tightened just slightly, barely noticeable unless someone was really paying attention, and your gaze dipped for a moment—not avoiding him, but not quite meeting his eyes either.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

You looked up at him, a little surprised. “You want to hear me rant about my sister?”

He leaned back slightly, picking up his chocolate milkshake. “Yeah. Hit me.”

You looked like you studied Nico for a moment, squinting your eyes. Like you were deciding if he meant it or not. But you started talking before he could reassure you again.

“I haven’t talked to her in over a month,” you said, lips twisting into a tight line. “Not properly, anyway. We just keep arguing about the same thing.”

Nico nodded once, letting you continue. He tried to connect the dots, wondering if one of the girls who used to come to your place for Saturday dinners was actually your sister.

“She’s getting married this summer, and she picked out my bridesmaid dress without telling me,” you went on before pausing, exhaling slightly. “Which would be such a non-issue if I were able to be normal about it. Everyone thinks I’m overreacting, but I just—I don’t even know.”

You looked down at your hands instead of looking at Nico. You, crying over a dress in your kitchen, was really starting to make sense to him now.

Your thumb worried at the edge of your cuticle, picking at it absentmindedly, then not so absentmindedly when it caught and stung. Nico could see you wince. He felt a strange, almost overwhelming urge to reach across the table and still your hands. To catch your fingers in his and make you stop. But he didn’t.

“She has this great guy,” you continued, a little quieter. “And she gets to wear our mom’s old wedding dress, and they’re getting married at a sunflower farm, which is just—” You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Adorable.”

Nico smiled slightly. “Sounds kind of perfect.”

“It is,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t hesitate when you said it, but something in your expression shifted right after, like the words had maybe come out a little too honest.

Nico watched you, trying to piece it together. He wasn’t sure he fully understood how something perfect could feel like a problem. But there was something familiar in it anyway—the way things could look so complete from the outside that there didn’t seem to be any space left for you in them.

He sort of felt that way with his own siblings; when they celebrated a milestone of any kind, Nico always wondered when it would be his turn, and what that would even look like.

“She’s deaf,” you added, like you were circling back to something steadier. “And he learned a bunch of sign language before their first date. How disgustingly cute is that?”

Ah. That explained why he’d seen you two sign through the window.

There was a new softness to your voice. Fondness. A little tired maybe, but mostly fond.

“It took him like six months to become fluent,” you continued. “It took me twelve years.”

Nico tilted his head slightly. “Were those your first twelve years alive?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands slightly. “Then it’s fair.”

You laughed again, freely, like it bubbled up without a way to stop it.

God. He liked that sound a little too much.

“He’s a great guy,” you went on. “They’re going to have this amazing wedding, and I’m—” You gestured vaguely to yourself, hands hovering in the air like you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. “—busy feeling sorry for myself because she chose a dress I’m not comfortable with. It’s so stupid.”

Nico leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on the table, trying to catch your eye. “What’s wrong with it?”

From his view through the window, it had looked like a pretty standard dress, but he also wasn’t that well-versed in the world of women’s clothing.

He could visibly see you hesitate again. Your mouth opened, then closed again, like you were reconsidering whether you actually wanted to say it out loud. Your shoulders shifted, pulling in just slightly, and then you dumped it all out.

“It’s beautiful,” you said quickly, almost too quickly. “Like—objectively.” You let out a small breath, eyes flicking up to him for half a second before dropping again. “But the straps are super thin, so you can’t wear a bra, and the back is completely open, so all I can think about is how—”

You stopped, the words caught somewhere between your brain and mouth.

Nico frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he waited, not quite sure if you were going to finish the sentence or not.

“How?” he prompted softly.

“How gross my back acne scars look,” you mumbled out in a hurry, as if you said it fast enough he wouldn’t hear it. “See? I told you it was silly. We’ve been arguing for months about nothing.”

You were sitting there, shoulders slightly hunched in on yourself, like you were bracing for him to agree. Like you’d already decided how this sounded out loud and didn’t expect anyone to take it seriously.

Nico didn’t think it was silly, but he didn’t know how to say that out loud.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “This is so not a first date conversation. You’re allowed to run away. I’ll even pay for your meal.”

“I’d like to stay,” Nico said immediately.

No hesitation. Absolutely none. You blinked at him in surprise.

“I mean, if that’s okay with you,” he added in recovery.

He saw you relax as he said it. Your shoulders loosened just a little, and the corner of your mouth tipped up in this small, almost shy smile that felt completely different from the easy ones you’d been giving him all night.

It caught Nico off guard, forgetting anything he might’ve wanted to say. He was too busy watching the way your lips puckered around your straw again as you ducked your head just slightly like you were trying to play it off.

“I’ll get over it,” you said after taking a sip, trying to brush it over. “I know I will. I just wish I wasn’t such a… bitch about it.”

“I don’t think you are.” Nico shook his head. “I think you care about her day being perfect,” he continued. “And you can’t really do that if you’re uncomfortable the whole time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you said. Then with a small exhale, “Can we talk about something else now?”

Nico smiled. “Yeah, of course.”

You both lingered there for a second, the conversation settling between you like something gently folded. You dragged your straw through your milkshake with a soft, hollow sound, eyes flicking briefly to the side like you were searching for something lighter to grab onto. Nico picked at the edge of his napkin, folding and unfolding it without really thinking, giving you the space to shift things without rushing you.

Maybe it was his turn to come up with something.

“Uhm, how’s your hockey thing going?” you asked suddenly, straightening a little.

He blinked. “You know I play hockey?”

“Yeah, I mean,” you said, popping the other pickle slice you'd stolen from him into your mouth, “you learn quite a lot by staring out the window.”

Nico stilled. Right, the windows. If he saw through yours, you saw through his. His brain immediately started flipping through every single morning he’d ever spent in that kitchen like it was trying to pull up security footage. It was embarrassing enough that you’d seen the flower bouquets collecting on his table; what else could you have seen?

Making coffee. Eating at the table. Talking on the phone. Occasionally pacing. Definitely staring out the window like an idiot. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate. No, he hadn’t, right?

He frowned slightly, trying to picture it. There had been mornings where he’d just thrown on sweatpants. Or a shirt. Or… there had definitely been a towel situation once or twice.

Fuck.

His lips curved into a dimpled smile anyway. “What?”

You grinned back. “Your morning ritual of making coffee naked needs to stop, Nico.”

Nico choked on nothing. “What?”

His brain short-circuited again. Because now he was actively trying to remember if there had been a single moment where he’d walked into his kitchen without thinking, half-asleep, not dressed.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You burst out laughing. “That was a joke,” you said quickly. Then paused. “Wait—do you make coffee naked?”

“No,” he said, way too fast. “No, I don’t.”

He definitely didn’t. Probably.

“Okay, good,” you said, nodding. “Or I don’t know if it’s a good thing— Actually, why don’t I keep my mouth shut?”

You exhaled all the air you held inside into a laugh, hiding your face in your hands like you were trying to physically retreat from what you’d just said.

Nico now felt how heat had risen to his cheeks, letting out a soft breath as his shoulders loosened, watching you, the flirty tension easing just enough for him to latch onto something safer.

“I get what you mean, though,” he said. “You can basically see someone’s whole life from those windows.”

He kept it to himself that it was your life he was talking about.

“Oh, absolutely,” you hummed in agreement. “I once saw the lady below you aggressively pick her nose. That was certainly an experience.”

Nico winced. “That’s rough.”

Then you pointed at him, just slightly, like you’d remembered something. “You mostly just sit at your table, though,” you said. “Very mysterious. Annoyingly normal. I couldn’t figure out anything about you at first.”

He shrugged, looking down at the table for a moment. “I don’t think there’s much to figure out.”

“See, I disagree,” you said, leaning forward a little, resting your chin in your hand. “My sister saw you leave once carrying this huge hockey trunk. Like—massive. And her fiancé is a Rangers fan, so they’ve basically been trying to spy on you from my kitchen ever since.”

Nico snorted. “Any luck?”

“None,” you said, smiling. “I haven’t told them you play for the Devils, but she won’t stop talking about how I live next to some hot athlete anyway.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you a little more closely now. “You think I’m… hot?”

“No. Definitely not.” You didn’t even hesitate. “I only date guys I find repulsive.”

“Perfect,” Nico sighed. “That works out for me.”

Your smile softened at that—just enough that he noticed. He could see through your sarcasm.

“My sister might actually kill me for asking you out without telling her,” you went on, glancing down at your phone for a second before pushing it further away. “If the dress thing doesn’t get me first.”

Nico leaned forward slightly this time, mirroring you without really thinking about it. His hand moved before he could second-guess it, reaching across the table to take yours—warm, a little tentative, but steady once he had it.

“I can keep a secret.”

—

Nico’s cheeks hurt by the time he reached his building.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been smiling until he was alone again, the night air cooler now, the rain reduced to a soft drizzle that clung to his jacket instead of soaking through it.

He’d walked you to your door. Stood there for way too long. Said goodnight like a somewhat normal person. And then left, like an idiot.

He ran a hand over his face as he climbed the stairs, letting out a quiet breath that turned into something dangerously close to a laugh. He was actually unbelievably bad at this. All of that, and he’d just…walked away.

Nico pushed his door open and stepped inside, toeing off his shoes without much thought, the familiar space of his apartment feeling slightly different. Or maybe that was just him. Because everything felt different.

His phone buzzed in his hand as he was just about to put it down on his hallway table. Nico blinked down at it and saw your name. You had exchanged numbers so maybe he wasn’t as helpless as he felt.

He picked up before it could ring a second time. “Hi.”

“You got home safe?” you giggled from across the line.

Nico snorted out a laugh, shrugging off his jacket. “Yeah. Made the long journey home.”

“Good,” you said. There was a small pause before he heard your voice again. “Can you go to your kitchen?”

Nico stilled slightly, glancing toward the window. “Why?”

“So I can see you.”

That did something irrevocable to Nico. Like his brain tripped over itself, missed a step, and went tumbling straight down a flight of stairs, headed for a place labeled “Oh no, I’m in love now.”

“Okay,” he said, already moving.

He didn’t bother turning on more lights, just walked straight into the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear as he reached for the edge of the counter.

When he looked out, your window was lit. Of course it was. The candle was there too, flickering softly against the glass, casting everything in that warm, familiar glow he’d spent months pretending not to search for.

And there you were—standing by the window, looking right at him.

“Hi,” you said again, smiling.

“Hi,” he echoed.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You just took each other in, finally, like there was no glass in the way.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said eventually, your voice still in his ear, even as he watched your lips form the words across the courtyard.

“Yeah,” Nico said. “Me too.”

Then you lifted something slightly into view. The tulips.

“Thank you for these, by the way.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, of course. I’m really good at picking out flowers.”

“Clearly,” you said, amused.

There was another soft pause—the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Nico leaned back slightly against the counter, still watching you, still half-convinced this wasn’t real. This had to be something he’d made up. Something his brain had come up with after one too many nights staring out the window.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “you could’ve kissed me.”

Nico blinked.

For a split second, he was back there again—standing outside your door, rain still clinging to his jacket, your hand lingering just a little too close to his as you said goodnight. He’d thought about it. God, he’d thought about it. The way you’d looked at him, the way neither of you had moved right away—it had felt like something was supposed to happen. Like he was supposed to lean in, close that small, stupid distance. And instead, he’d just… smiled. Said goodnight. Walked away like he hadn’t spent the entire evening staring at your cherry-stained lips.

“I could’ve?”

“Yeah,” you said simply. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

His grip tightened slightly around the phone. Fuck. Good to know.

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “For next time.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t hang up right away. Neither did he.

The line stayed open, quiet except for the faint sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Nico shifted slightly where he stood, his shoulder brushing the edge of the counter, eyes still fixed on you through the glass.

You hadn’t moved either.

Still standing there, framed by that warm light, the candle flickering softly beside you like it always had—except now it didn’t feel like something distant. It felt close. You felt close. Like he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to.

After a moment, you lifted your hand slightly, giving him a small wave through the window. He mirrored it without thinking. This was ridiculous. Ridiculously perfect.

“Good night, Nico.”

He let out a quiet breath, something easing in his shoulders as he smiled. “Good night, schatz.”

—

What happened after that is probably better left unsaid. Or maybe it’s simple.

You’d stopped spending most of your nights alone. And Nico didn’t have to look out of his window to see you anymore. Most nights, he could just turn over in bed and find you there instead.

Half asleep, wrapped up in one of his shirts, your hair a mess against his pillow. He’d lie awake sometimes, longer than he should, just watching you. Counting your birthmarks. Tracing the shape of your face without touching, like he was still half-afraid you might disappear if he got it wrong.

Other nights, you’d still find your way to the kitchen—whether that was his or yours. Always in front of a candle burning brightly, doodling in a notepad. Sometimes he’d watch you from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he used to lean against his counter. Other times he would join you at the table, borrowing a pencil to hijack your doodling.

“What are you drawing?” he’d ask.

You’d shrug. “Nothing.”

It was never nothing. It was always flowers.

On your sister’s wedding day, he’d been your date.

It was an overwhelmingly beautiful day. Slightly chaotic. Full of too many people, too much laughter, and too many emotions stacked on top of each other until it all burned into a memory strong enough to watch like film in your head.

Sunflowers had stretched endlessly behind the ceremony, glowing gold in the late afternoon light. The kind of setting that didn’t feel real until you were standing in the middle of it, squinting into the sun and trying not to cry.

Nico had watched you the entire time.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice—he’d learned how to be more subtle about it now—but enough that you noticed every time you caught him across the room.

By the time night settled in, the wedding had turned into something looser. Music spilling out across the fields, people barefoot in the grass, ties long abandoned and heels carried instead of worn.

Nico had lost track of you at some point.

You got pulled into conversations, into dances, into hugs that lasted longer than you were comfortable with. Every time he thought about stepping in, someone else was already there, spinning you away again.

So he’d let it happen. Leaning back against the edge of the reception space, watching from a distance. Smiling to himself like an idiot over the most beautiful girl in the room.

He’d found you on the balcony much later, overlooking the fields, where the noise softened into something distant and the night air cooled the lingering heat of the day.

Standing by the railing, arms resting lightly against it, your back to him. The dress dipped low just like you’d said it would, the fabric falling away to expose the skin you’d been so worried about.

Nico had walked up and kissed your shoulder, shrugged off his suit jacket without thinking about it, stepping into your space just enough to drape it gently over you.

Then you’d danced on the balcony, softly to some Beatles song your sister had picked out. Even if she couldn’t hear it, you insisted she liked certain vibrations of music, nylon-stringed guitars, and Lennon & McCartney’s lyrics.

God, he loved you. The words had come easy, spilling from his lips over and over again.

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