Saturday mornings were supposed to be soft.
Filtered light through linen curtains. Coffee so strong it punched you back to life. A slow scroll through unread messages he didn't intend to answer. Maybe classical music in the background while he wiped down his kitchen counters—cleaning as self-care, not a cry for help.
But today?
Today felt like a hangover from the inside out.
He didn't even drink that much at the party.
But his body felt like he'd smoked regret and swallowed shame in gulps.
Nicky lay flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily overhead. He hadn't even taken off last night's eyeliner. It was smudged under his eyes, raccoon and tragic.
His cock was soft now.
Blessedly.
Finally.
But it had been hard. So fucking hard.
And not just in the bathroom.
Not just when she bent over the toilet bowl and he'd hovered behind her like some sleepless sex ghost. Not just when her skirt shifted and he could feel the heat of her thighs through his dress. Not just when he instinctively bucked forward and her body took it, rubbing against him like she didn't know they weren't supposed to.
No.
It started before that.
Way before.
It was the van ride there. That was the first time he really noticed.
She sat on his lap like it meant nothing. Like they were still friends. Like he wasn't vibrating from the memory of her back pressed to his chest in that giant cursed bed at Luca's.
He remembered pretending to be asleep. Remembered the feeling of her shifting—slow, silent. The press of her ass. The damp heat soaking through her panties. The moment she moved him—adjusted him like she had any right—and tucked his hard cock between her thighs.
That moment?
He'd nearly come right there.
And still—he didn't move. Didn't say anything. Didn't breathe.
Because he didn't know what was happening.
He knew she was aroused. Could feel it. Every shiver. Every tremble. Every catch of her breath.
He knew she came on him.
And he did nothing.
He let it happen.
Because back then... he still thought it might be a fluke.
That maybe he was just overreading. That maybe it wasn't about her at all—just... biology. A trapped nerve. Random blood flow. Shitty timing.
But last night?
Last night blew that theory to hell.
He turned his head and groaned into the pillow.
"Fuck."
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. His temples pounded. His mouth was dry. The inside of his brain felt like it had been shredded and reassembled by drunk ferrets.
He dragged himself to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth. Avoided the mirror.
He made coffee. Burned the toast. Forgot the second batch in the oven.
He opened his laptop.
Closed it.
Tried to read emails. Scrolled. Deleted. Replied "sounds good" to something he didn't read.
He mopped the kitchen floor.
Cleaned out his fridge.
Reorganized the spice rack by alphabet, then flavor intensity, then color.
And still—her.
The memory of her bent over the toilet. The way her back arched when she caught her breath. The way she didn't stop him. Didn't flinch. Didn't say a single goddamn thing while he humped her like a fucking lunatic.
Like a man.
He'd never done that before.
He loved men. Always had. The smell of their sweat. The weight of their mouths. The bite of stubble and soft moans and big hands.
He'd been so sure.
So sure of who he was.
But Eliana?
Eliana made him hard.
Made him sweat. Ache. Grind his hips without even realizing he was doing it.
She made him lose control.
And it wasn't just lust anymore. That would've been easier.
Because lust didn't explain the way he looked for her at parties. The way he felt calmer when she was around. The way her laughter cut through his anxiety like sunlight through storm clouds.
The way his chest ached when she smiled at someone else.
Liam.
That fucker.
Nicky stared at the coffee mug in his hand, now cold and forgotten.
"She's not in love with me," he said aloud.
It didn't sound convincing.
"She's just... caught up."
It still didn't feel right.
Maybe she was in lust.
Maybe she was lonely.
Maybe he was.
He thought back to the sleepover again. The way she curled into him. The way he woke up rock hard against her back and didn't move a muscle. Didn't dare.
That was the second time.
The first was... fuck.
That night they were drugged. In Barcelona.
He'd been high. He remembered hands. Her hips. Her neck. The feel of her pressed against him on the dance floor.
And his cock?
Hard then, too.
Back then he blamed the drugs.
Now?
Now he didn't know.
What if it had been her all along?
What if some dark, quiet part of him had been wanting this?
What if she was the only exception?
Or worse—what if she wasn't?
The thought made his stomach turn.
He stood up. Paced the kitchen barefoot. Ran a hand through his messy hair and groaned into the silence.
This wasn't just a mistake anymore.
It was a pattern.
And he didn't know what the fuck to do with it.
He reached for his phone.
Then stopped.
Stared at the screen.
No messages from her.
Of course not.
He left her at the party like a coward. Didn't even say goodbye. She probably hated him now.
And honestly?
Maybe that would be easier.
He dropped the phone on the counter. Grabbed another cup of coffee. Walked to the window.
The city was quiet.
Too quiet.