#devils nico

You hum in response, pretending it doesn’t matter, because it shouldn’t. It’s just one night. But then his phone buzzes. It’s almost subtle, the way everything about him shifts. His attention sharpens instantly, posture straightening as he reads the message, and suddenly he’s no longer half-present in the room with you.

 “Timo needs help moving some stuff,” he says, already pushing off the counter, already reaching for his jacket like the decision has been made for him. “I’ll be back later, yeah?”

You stare at him, the words catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, because just seconds ago he was too busy, too exhausted and too scheduled for something you asked for days in advance.

“Wait—you’re leaving now?” you manage, but he’s already halfway out the door, offering you a quick, distracted smile.

 “Yeah, just for a bit.” Just like that, Timo Meier asks, and Nico goes. You ask, and Nico postpones.

At first, you tell yourself it’s coincidence. Timing. Bad luck. But patterns have a way of revealing themselves, especially when you’re not looking for them. It becomes something you start noticing in the quiet moments, in the pauses after you ask a question, in the way his answers always seem to hinge on some vague future that never quite arrives.

“Can we try that new place downtown?” you ask one evening, scrolling through reviews and pictures, already imagining the two of you there.

“Yeah, next time,” he replies, not unkindly, just distant, like the answer exists on autopilot.

“Can you come to my friend’s birthday on Saturday?” you try again a few days later.

“Next week, for sure.” Always next week. Always later. Never now. And yet, when his phone lights up with a message from the guys, when someone needs help or wants to grab drinks or just hang out, there’s no hesitation, no delay just immediate action, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to choose them.

You don’t mean for it to build into something bigger. You don’t wake up one day deciding to be upset about it. It just… accumulates, quietly, like pressure beneath the surface. Every “next time” stacks on top of the last until they start to feel less like promises and more like excuses, less like scheduling conflicts and more like avoidance. And the worst part isn’t even the waiting, it’s the feeling that you’re always the one expected to understand. To be patient. To adjust. To accept that your place in his life exists somewhere after everything else has been handled.

The fight, when it finally comes, isn’t explosive at first. It starts small, almost deceptively calm. Nico is by the door again, tying his shoes, his keys already in his hand, and you can feel it before you even speak that familiar tightening in your chest, that quiet voice in your head whispering not again.

“You said that last time,” you say, your tone sharper than you intend. He pauses, glancing up at you with a faint crease between his brows.

“Said what?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

“Next time,” you reply, a hollow laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “You always say next time.”

He straightens slowly, confusion flickering across his face before it gives way to something more defensive.

“I don’t—” he starts, but you cut him off, because now that it’s out, you can’t seem to stop it.

“You do,” you insist, your voice tightening with every word. “It’s like I’m scheduled for later. Always later.”

His expression shifts, jaw tightening as he exhales. “That’s not fair.” The words land heavier than you expect, but they don’t stop you.

“Isn’t it?” you shoot back, crossing your arms like it might hold you together. “Timo calls, you go. The guys need something, you’re already out the door. I ask for anything and it’s—what? A rain check?”

“It’s different,” he says, more sharply now, and something about that makes your chest ache.

“How?” you push, stepping closer despite yourself. “Explain that to me, Nico. Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like I’m not a priority.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, guilt, maybe, or frustration, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears.

“That’s not true,” he insists, but it sounds thinner now, less certain.

“Then why does it feel like it is?” you ask, softer this time, and the question hangs between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to find the right words, something that will fix this without unravelling everything else.

“You know how my schedule is,” he says finally. “You know how things are with the team—”

“And I’ve always understood that,” you interrupt, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “I’ve been understanding. That’s the problem. I’m always the one who understands.”

His frustration spikes at that, visible in the way his shoulders tense. “That’s not fair to say.” But you’re already shaking your head, because fairness stopped mattering somewhere along the way.

“No, what’s not fair is feeling like I have to compete with your friends just to spend time with you.”

“They’re not just friends, they’re my teammates—”

“And I’m your girlfriend,” you cut in, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered. “Or at least, I thought I was someone you’d make time for now, not just eventually.”

That’s the moment something in him falters. You can see the way his expression shifts, the way the argument drains just enough to let something more honest through. But it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t undo the weeks, the months of being put off, of being told later, later, later until later starts to feel like never.

“I do make time for you,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince both of you. And maybe, in his mind, he does. Maybe all those postponed plans still count to him because he means them when he says them. But intention doesn’t feel the same as presence.

“When?” you ask, barely above a whisper. And that’s the worst part because he doesn’t have an answer. Not one that comes easily, not one that doesn’t sound like another excuse waiting to happen. The silence that follows is suffocating. It stretches between you, filled with everything neither of you knows how to say. You swallow hard, forcing the words out even though they feel like they might break you.

“I don’t want to be your ‘next week,’ Nico,” you admit, your voice softer now, stripped of anger and left with something far more vulnerable. “I want to be your now.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, it feels like he finally understands the weight of what you’ve been carrying.

“I didn’t realize…” he starts, but the sentence trails off, unfinished, because realization doesn’t fix what’s already been done.

“Yeah,” you murmur, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “That’s kind of the point.”

He doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t stay, either. For a long moment, Nico just stands there by the door, keys still clutched in his hand like a decision he hasn’t fully made. The silence between you stretches thin, fragile, like it might snap if either of you breathes too hard. You watch him, searching his face for something, anything, that looks like certainty. Like choosing you. But all you find is hesitation, the kind that lingers too long to feel harmless.

“I can cancel,” he says finally, but it doesn’t sound like a decision. It sounds like a question. And that’s what does it. Because you don’t want to be something he can cancel for, you want to be something he doesn’t want to leave in the first place.

“You shouldn’t have to,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but steadier than before. “That’s not the point.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows that answer isn’t going to get him out of this.

“Then what do you want me to do?” he asks, frustration creeping back in, laced with something else, something closer to helplessness.

You let out a slow breath, dragging your hands over your face before looking back at him.

“I want you to stop treating me like I’ll always be there later,” you say. “Like I’m… convenient.”

“I don’t—” he starts again, but the words die halfway out. Because this time, even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Your chest aches at that, at the realization that this isn’t just miscommunication or bad timing. It’s something deeper, something built into the way things have been between you for longer than either of you noticed.

“You don’t even see it,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “That’s the worst part.”

“I’m trying to understand,” Nico says, his voice softer now, stepping a little further into the room like he’s finally choosing a side, but it’s hesitant, uncertain. “Just talk to me.”

You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “I have been talking, Nico. You just weren’t really listening.” That lands harder than anything else you’ve said so far.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again, pacing once like he’s trying to burn off the tension building under his skin.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, forcing the word out like it costs him something. “Then tell me now. What does ‘choosing you’ even look like to you?”

For a second, you just stare at him because it shouldn’t be that hard to answer, but it is.

“It looks like this not being a debate,” you say finally. “It looks like you not having to think about it this long.” Your voice wavers despite your effort to keep it steady. “It looks like me not feeling like I’m asking for too much just because I want you to show up.”

“I do show up,” he insists, but there’s less conviction now.

“Not when it matters,” you reply, and the quiet certainty in your tone makes him flinch more than if you’d yelled. Another silence falls, heavier this time, filled with things neither of you can take back.

His phone buzzes again. You both glance at it. And there it is, the moment, laid out plainly between you. No arguing, no overthinking. Just a choice. Nico stares at the screen for a second too long and then he flips it over.

“I’m staying,” he says.

It should feel like a victory. It doesn’t because the damage isn’t in whether he stays now, it’s in the fact that you had to get to this point for it to happen.

“I don’t want you to stay because you feel guilty,” you admit quietly.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in gently, not accusing this time, just tired. “And tomorrow, or next week, it’s just going to happen again. Because nothing actually changed.”

“That’s not true,” he says, stepping closer now, urgency creeping into his voice. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

You look at him, the conflicted expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying now in a way he didn’t before. And that’s what makes it hurt.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Now you are.”

The words hang there, unfinished but understood. For the first time since the argument started, Nico doesn’t try to argue back. He just stands there, taking it in, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in his chest.

“So, what, then?” he asks quietly. “What are you saying?”

You hesitate because this is the part where everything shifts.

“I think…” you start, your voice catching before you steady it again. “I think I need some space.”

His expression changes instantly, like the ground just shifted under him. “Space?” he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite make sense.

“Just for a little while,” you clarify, even though you’re not entirely sure what “a little while” means. “I need to not feel like this all the time.”

“Nico…” he begins, then stops himself, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“I know,” you say softly. “That’s kind of why it hurts.”

He nods slowly, like he’s piecing it together too late, like he’s replaying every “next time” in his head and finally hearing how it must have sounded to you.

“I can fix it,” he says after a moment, more firmly now. “Just—give me the chance to fix it.”

You swallow, because part of you wants to believe him. Wants to hold onto that. But another part, the part that’s been waiting and waiting and waiting, isn’t so sure anymore.

“I don’t need promises right now,” you tell him. “I’ve had a lot of those.”

The words hit their mark. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, in the way his grip on the keys loosens like he doesn’t even remember he’s holding them.

“What do you need, then?” he asks.

You take a step back, creating just a little more distance between you.

He was tall. That was your first thought, stupid and obvious but unavoidable. Broad shoulders, dark hair slightly damp like he’d just come from training, the unmistakable build of a hockey player. And then your brain caught up with your eyes, because you knew that face. Anyone in the Village did, even outside his sport. Nico blinked down at you, equally startled, his hand still hovering near your arm like he wasn’t quite sure if he should let go or not.

“Hey—no, that was my fault,” he said quickly, his accent soft but unmistakably Swiss, his voice warm in a way that felt disarming for someone who, you were pretty sure, had spent the morning slamming people into boards at full speed. “I wasn’t looking.”

You let out a small laugh, mostly because your brain had short-circuited somewhere between oh my god that’s Nico Hischier and I just ran into him like an idiot. “Yeah, same. I think we both failed that test.”

His mouth tipped into a smile at that, a little crooked, like he didn’t quite realize how much it changed his whole face. For a second neither of you moved, suspended in that awkward, quiet bubble where strangers decide what comes next.

Then his gaze dropped briefly to the skates at your side. “Figure skating?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious.

“Yeah,” you said, shifting them self-consciously. “Practice ran late.”

He nodded, like that made perfect sense. “Hockey’s earlier. We just finished.”

Of course, he had. Different worlds, same ice. There was something strange about that realisation, something that settled between you like a shared language you hadn’t expected to find. You both knew what it meant to wake up before the sun, to step onto frozen surfaces under bright lights, to fall and get back up, and to do it again until your body stopped protesting. It made the space between you feel smaller, somehow.

“Good practice?” you asked before you could overthink it.

“Yeah,” he said, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Hard, but… it’s the Olympics, right? It’s supposed to be.”

You nodded, because there was nothing else to say to that. It’s the Olympics. The sentence held everything. The pressure, dreams, and years of work condensed into a few minutes or a few games. You wondered if he felt it the same way you did, that constant hum under your skin.

He shifted slightly, glancing past you down the path, like he knew he should probably keep moving but didn’t, not yet. “When do you compete?”

“In a few days,” you said. “Short program.”

“Then I’ll watch,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t have games?”

“We’ll make it work,” he said with a small shrug, and there was something quietly determined in it that made your chest do something unexpected. Representing Switzerland at the Olympics was something he’d been waiting for, something he’d called a dream come true after years of near-misses and delays, and yet he said it like watching you skate could fit somewhere inside that, too.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Okay. Then I guess I have to not fall.”

He laughed, it was soft and genuine, and it felt like a reward you hadn’t earned but were going to keep anyway. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “You look like someone who doesn’t fall.”

You almost told him that wasn’t true. That falling was half the sport. That getting back up was the part that mattered. But something about the way he said it made you hold onto the compliment instead. There was a beat of silence again, but it wasn’t awkward this time. Just unfinished.

“I should—” you both started at the same time, then stopped, and that made you laugh again, quieter.

“Yeah,” you said, adjusting your grip on your skates. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” he echoed, though he still hadn’t moved.

For a moment, it felt like the universe was holding its breath.

Then he stepped back, just enough to give you space, but not enough to feel like distance. “Good luck,” he said.

“You too,” you replied, and meant it more than you expected. You walked away first because someone had to. But you could feel it that strange, invisible thread pulling tight between where you were and where he still stood. And when you glanced back, just once, you found him already looking at you.

The first time Nico came to watch you skate, you didn’t know he was there. The arena lights were blinding from centre ice, hot against your skin despite the cold beneath your blades, and the world beyond them disappeared into shadows and movement. You’d always liked that part. Once the music started, everything narrowed. The roar of the crowd became distant, your breathing became a rhythm, and your body moved on instinct built from years and years of repetition. It was easier not to think that way. Easier not to remember this was the Olympics and that one mistake here lived forever.

Your short program had gone almost perfectly. Not perfectly, because no skater ever really thought that, but close enough that when your final spin slowed and you hit your ending pose, chest heaving, the sound that crashed over you felt enormous. Applause thundered through the arena in waves, flags blurring together in the stands, camera flashes sparkling like stars. Relief hit you so hard it almost hurt.

You smiled automatically for the cameras as you skated off the ice, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins, your coach already talking a mile a minute beside you. Something about levels. Something about your combination jump. You nodded even though you barely heard her, because halfway down the tunnel, just before the entrance closed off from public seating, you caught sight of someone standing near the barricade. Tall. Dark-haired. Switzerland hockey jacket. It was Nico.

Your breath caught so abruptly you nearly missed a step.

He looked strangely out of place there among skating fans and officials, like someone had dropped him into the wrong movie, but the second he saw you notice him, his whole face lit up in recognition. Not the polite smile athletes gave cameras. Something realer than that. Softer. And in his hands, awkwardly squeezed between his fingers, was a tiny bouquet of white flowers that looked very much like he’d panic-bought them ten minutes earlier.

You stared.

He held them up a little, visibly uncertain now. “I didn’t know if flowers were too much,” he admitted as you approached, almost sheepish. “Figure skaters always get flowers, right?”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, exhausted and emotional enough that the sound came out breathless. “You brought me flowers?”

“Well, you did really good,” he said, like that explained everything.

Something in your chest folded in on itself. You took the bouquet carefully, fingertips brushing his for only a second, but it was enough to send warmth skating all the way up your arms. Up close, you could tell he’d rushed over straight from practice; his hair was damp again beneath a beanie, cheeks pink from the cold outside. And yet he’d still come.

“You actually watched?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on you, steady and open. “You were incredible.”

The compliment should’ve sounded casual. Athletes said nice things to each other all the time at the Olympics. But the way he said it, like he genuinely meant every word, made it land somewhere dangerous.

Your coach tactfully disappeared several feet away.

“You know,” you said, unable to stop smiling now, “I was nervous you’d see me fall after I talked all that shit.”

Nico laughed softly, shaking his head. “I told you already. You don’t look like someone who falls.”

And because your body was still humming from performance adrenaline, because the Olympics made everything feel sharper and bigger and more honest than real life, you looked at him and said, “You should see practice sometime.”

His grin widened immediately. “Deal.”

Three nights later, you were the one standing in an arena that felt entirely too loud. Hockey crowds were different from skating crowds in every possible way. Figure skating audiences watched in near silence, holding their breath through jumps and exploding only at the end. Hockey fans screamed for three straight periods like they might die otherwise. The Swiss section behind the glass was waving flags so aggressively you thought someone might lose an eye.

You sat tucked into a reserved seating section near the ice, bundled in an Olympic jacket and beanie, trying very hard to pretend your heart wasn’t racing every time Nico stepped onto the rink. It was ridiculous, honestly. You’d performed in front of millions of people before. But somehow watching one hockey game had you more nervous than your own event.

The stadium lights flashed across the ice as players lined up for introductions, skates carving hard lines into the surface. Nico skated out with the captain’s “C” stitched across his chest, and the crowd erupted immediately. You’d seen him calm before. He was steady and gentle, even. However, this version of him was different. He was faster on the ice and sharper.

The second the puck dropped, he transformed completely. Every movement looked explosive and effortless at the same time, powerful in a way figure skating never was. You watched him drive down the ice with impossible speed, absorb hits like they were nothing, and bark instructions to teammates with startling authority.

And then he scored. The goal happened so quickly you almost missed it. It was a clean shot snapped past the goalie in a blur, and suddenly the arena detonated around you. Fans were on their feet screaming, teammates crashing into Nico against the boards while he laughed breathlessly beneath his helmet. Without thinking, you stood too.

Nico turned toward the crowd during the celebration, scanning instinctively, and somehow, impossibly, found you immediately. Even from across the rink, you saw the moment recognition hit. His grin changed. It became brighter. Warmer. Almost disbelieving that you were actually there watching him. Then, before skating back to centre ice, he pointed once toward the stands. Toward you.

Your stomach flipped so violently it was embarrassing.

The fans around you probably assumed he was pointing at Switzerland supporters in general, but you knew better. The tiny, secret certainty of it settled under your skin for the rest of the game.

After Switzerland won, the arena stayed chaotic long after the final buzzer. Reporters swarmed the players near the benches while fans leaned over railings shouting names. You lingered near the tunnel entrance, suddenly feeling shy now that the adrenaline had worn off. Then Nico appeared through the crowd, still in partial gear, helmet tucked under one arm. The second he saw you, his exhausted face softened.

“You came,” he said.

“Obviously,” you replied, like there had ever been another option.

For a moment neither of you moved. The noise around you blurred into something distant again, just like it had in the Village that first day.

Nico stepped closer, still slightly breathless from the game. “Did you see the goal?”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “No, I closed my eyes the whole time.”

He had been trying to focus all evening—practice had gone well, and his teammates were all heading out for a well-deserved night off. But Nico couldn’t shake the image of you from his mind. The way your eyes lit up when you smiled at him, the way you always seemed to know exactly what to say to make him laugh, to make him feel lighter in a world that sometimes felt heavy. You had a way of making everything seem right.

A sudden vibration in his pocket broke his reverie. He pulled out his phone to see your name flashing on the screen.

“Hey you. What are you up to?” the message read, followed by a string of heart emojis.

A smile tugged at Nico’s lips. Every time he saw a message from you, his heart seemed to skip a beat, as if you had this unspoken ability to get under his skin in the most exhilarating way. He typed back quickly: “Just finishing up here. Can’t stop thinking about you, as usual.”

It didn’t take long for a reply to pop up: “You’re sweet. Come over when you’re done, yeah? I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Nico’s chest tightened with excitement. A surprise? That could mean anything, but with you, it always felt like a secret that he wanted to uncover, a story waiting to be written. He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, slipping his phone into his pocket before heading out.

When Nico arrived at your place, the door was already cracked open, a soft light spilling out from inside. You were waiting for him—he could see you through the window, standing by the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in your hand, your hair falling loosely over your shoulder in that way that always drove him wild.

He knocked softly, and the door swung open almost immediately.

“Look who decided to show up,” you said, a teasing smile on your lips as you leaned against the doorframe. You were wearing one of his old jerseys again, the one that had always made him feel like you were a part of him, even when you weren’t together.

“Had to get out of there,” Nico said with a chuckle, stepping into your flat. “You always know how to get me to drop everything.”

“You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to,” you said playfully, stepping aside so he could enter. “But I’d like to think you do.”

Nico’s heart skipped at your words. Every time you spoke to him like that, it was like you saw straight into him, past the carefully curated walls he’d built over the years. He could feel himself falling deeper, but with you, it didn’t feel scary. It felt like home.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper as he walked toward you. He reached out, gently taking the wine glass from your hand and setting it on the counter before pulling you into a warm hug. You fit so perfectly in his arms, like you were meant to be there.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. “I missed you,” you murmured, your voice muffled by his shirt.

“I missed you too,” Nico replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It felt like the world had paused just for this moment, just for the two of you.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his face. “I have something for you,” you said, your lips curling into that smile he loved.

Nico raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A surprise?”

“Yep,” you said, giving him a playful wink. “You’re gonna like it. But first...” You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. “You wanna know what I like?”

Nico’s breath hitched. He could feel the heat radiating between you both, the tension building in the air. Every time you spoke like that, it sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins. You always knew how to make him feel alive, to make him want things he couldn’t explain.

“I’m dying to know,” he whispered, his voice low and full of promise.

You pulled back slightly and gave him a teasing smile. “I like it when you look at me like that,” you said, your eyes locking with his. “Like you want to be closer.”

Nico’s pulse quickened. There was something about the way you said it, the way your voice dropped to a hushed tone, that made him feel like he was losing himself in you. “I do,” he replied, his words thick with need. “I want to be closer to you.”

The air between you two crackled, filled with the electricity of shared longing. Nico could feel his heart racing in his chest, the desire to kiss you overwhelming him. And before he could think twice, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was soft at first but quickly deepened as he pulled you closer. His hands found their way to your waist, holding you tightly against him, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart for even a second longer.

You responded immediately, your hands threading through his hair, tugging him closer. The kiss was everything—tender, passionate, all-consuming. And when you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, Nico rested his forehead against yours, his hands still lingering on your back.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice low. “You make me feel things I don’t even understand.”

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “I feel the same way,” you whispered. “You’re my wildflower, Nico. I love how you make me feel alive.”

Nico’s heart fluttered at your words. He had always admired your strength, your wild, untamed spirit. You were everything he wasn’t—free-spirited, passionate, unapologetic in the way you loved. But when he was with you, it was like he could finally let go of everything that weighed him down. He could just be himself, with no masks, no pretences.

“You’re the only one who makes me feel like this,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Every time we’re together, I just... I can’t think of anything else.”

“And that’s exactly what I want,” you replied, your hands sliding down to rest on his chest. “I want you to be here, with me, just like this.”

Nico smiled softly, his heart racing in his chest as he looked at you. You were everything he never knew he needed—his favourite fantasy, his wildflower. And as the night stretched on, with soft whispers and gentle touches, Nico knew one thing for sure: he never wanted to let go.

Later that evening, you both found yourselves wrapped in the warmth of the couch, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows on the walls. Nico’s hand was resting lightly on your shoulder, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He had never felt more at peace than at this moment, with you beside him.

“You know, you’re my favourite fantasy,” he whispered, his voice full of meaning as he looked down at you. “I never thought I could feel like this about anyone.”

You looked up at him, your eyes soft and filled with affection. “And you’re mine, Nico. You’re my wildflower, the one thing I can’t explain, but I never want to stop feeling.”

Nico leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I don’t ever want to let you go.”

“And you won’t,” you replied, your voice full of certainty.

The text glared back at him from his screen, the words hanging in the air like smoke. He hadn’t hit send, not yet. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe she had already moved on, tucked herself into someone else’s world, someone who didn’t leave her questioning her place in his life.

The thought of her with someone else made his stomach twist. She had always wanted more, something he struggled to give her. Not because he didn’t love her—God, he loved her—but because his life was a whirlwind of airports and ice rinks, of waking up in different time zones and trying to keep the Devils’ crest above his own needs. She had understood for a while. Then she hadn’t.

Now she was gone.

Nico ran a hand through his hair, exhaling into the cold night air. He should go home. Shouldn’t keep standing under her window like some desperate cliché. But his feet stayed planted on the cracked pavement, memories flashing like snapshots in his mind. The way she used to trace the veins on his hands when he was too exhausted to speak. The way she smelled—like vanilla and something uniquely hers, something he wanted to drown in.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The nights spent curled up in his flat, her fingers absently playing with the hem of his hoodie, her voice soft as she asked him about the next game. The way she looked at him after a loss, like she knew exactly how much it weighed on him. She had been his solace, his escape from the chaos. And now, without her, the silence was unbearable.

He had tried to shake her, tried to fill the void with gruelling practices and mindless distractions. He spent extra hours at the rink, forced himself into team outings, even entertained the idea of dating again. But nothing worked. She was under his skin, in his veins, a constant hum in the back of his mind. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like withdrawal, but she had become a habit he couldn’t break, a craving that refused to fade.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard again. Maybe this time he’d say what he never could before. Maybe she’d listen. Maybe she’d tell him she missed him too. Or maybe she’d tell him what he already feared—that she was happy, that he was a chapter she had closed.

The thought made his throat tighten, but he pressed send before he could think too much.

The moment the message was delivered, he regretted it. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of it all. He couldn’t take it back. All he could do was wait.

Minutes felt like hours. He paced the pavement, glancing up at her window, half-expecting the light to flicker on, for her to appear, to tell him she felt the same. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the city, the faint echo of laughter from a nearby bar, and the dull ache in his chest.

Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she had seen his name on her screen and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Maybe she was lying in bed with someone else, too wrapped up in new love to care about the past.

His chest tightened at the thought, and he forced himself to turn away, his feet moving before his mind could catch up. He needed to let go. He needed to walk away before this crushed him completely. But as he reached the end of the street, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Heart pounding, he pulled it out, eyes scanning the screen. One message. Her name. His breath caught in his throat as he opened it.

"Nico... why now?"

He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he typed his reply. Because he couldn’t do this anymore. Because the thought of her with someone else drove him insane. Because no matter how hard he tried, she was the only thing he ever truly wanted.

But he didn’t type any of that. Instead, he settled on the only truth he could manage.