"Pétanque, Panic Attacks, and the Fine Art of Not Fucking the Last Person You Should"

The city hums just beyond the glass walls, but here it's like stepping into another world—an oasis stitched together with steel beams and vines. A giant bar anchors the middle of the space, light spilling off its polished brass edges. A restaurant in its own connecting glasshouse, laughter drifting out with the scent of something buttery and rich. Music hums low, blending with the scrape of pétanque balls on gravel and the clink of glasses.

Tonight isn't just drinks. Tonight is a turf war.

"Alright," one of the Dutch yells, almost ending his welcome speech over the growing noise, "Winner of all four games gets two additional nights in Barcelona!"

The cheer that goes up is instant, layered in accents. It's ridiculous really, but impossible not to lean into. A dartboard glows in the corner, the shuffleboard table hum with competition, someone is setting up cornhole near the lavender.

The dress code tonight is business formal. Basically, suits for all, ties for men and Avril Lavigne's. I glance around as drinks and stations are located. I feel a sense of pride as I can't see a single soul adhering to it.

I eye Nick leaning against the bar like he's been styled for it—cream pointelle polo loose over a white tank, dark jeans that sit just right, Doc Martens loafers polished within an inch of their life. A soft breeze ruffles his hair as he tilts me a grin, all effortless charm.

I can't help it—I laugh under my breath. I'm actually here, dressed, pulled together, and it's all because of him. I didn't argue once, didn't push back on a single instruction—not even when he declared his concept was Goth garden party.

He picked out the knee‑length black silk dress, the strappy black heels, my battered leather jacket, and sunglasses like armor.

Only he would care enough to make sure we look like we belong in the same frame. Only he would know I was too much of a mess to even try.

And seriously, I don't even know what's wrong with me. I'm not some wide‑eyed teenager. I don't lose my footing over... this. A hand, a knee, the tiniest brush—and yet here I am, pulse still tripping like it's the most daring thing that's ever happened to me. Like his mere touch is turning me inside out somehow.

Before I spiral any deeper, Nick presses the drink into my hand like it's a tactical weapon. "Alright," he says, squaring his shoulders, "This is it. Danish delegation. Two people. Pure greatness. We're taking them all down."

I snort into my glass. "You mean I'm taking them down while you stand there looking pretty."

"Excuse you," he shoots back, mock‑offended. "Captain of my Lacrosse team, remember? Lightning reflexes. Killer aim. Zero mercy."

I arch a brow. "Adorable. I was the top scorer on my soccer team. You want to talk accuracy? Try blocking me when I'm on fire."

He leans in with a grin. "Accuracy? Please. You lived on yellow cards and spent more time sent off than on the pitch. You're dangerous in all the wrong ways."

"Dangerous wins games," I say, stepping closer to the dartboard, already feeling the buzz of competition in my blood.

"Sure," he drawls, "as long as you're not busy making goo‑goo eyes at your Swedish crush mid‑throw."

I whip around, nearly spilling my drink. "Excuse me?"

He smirks, eyes glittering with evil glee. "Yeah, yeah, don't 'excuse me' me. One August‑induced knee graze and you're toast."

"Wow," I say, slow and sharp, "look at you, obsessed with my social life instead of your aim. No wonder I'll have to carry you through this."

"Oh, you're carrying me now?" He laughs, shaking his head. "If you choke because Mr. Tall‑and-Dimples walks past in slow motion, I'm never letting you live it down."

"You're hilarious," I shoot back, lining up my first dart. "But when I win us those Barcelona nights, I'm leaving your smug self at home and bringing Bo instead."

"Not a chance," he says, cracking his knuckles like a showman. "We win together, we gloat together. Now move over, penalty queen, and watch a real athlete at work."

I laugh, throwing my dart with a snap of my wrist. It lands right into the triple‑twenty,
I glance at him, sweet as poison. "Your turn, Captain Lacrosse. Try to keep up."

He grins, eyes blazing. "Oh, it's on. Just keep your eyes off August long enough to watch me destroy you."

By the time the call goes out for the pétanque finale, Nick and I are already buzzing. The dartboard still hums behind us, glowing with the evidence of our ridiculous streak. Shuffleboard? Won that too. Cornhole? Let's just say I don't think Miguel's recovered from the look on my face when my last bag sank clean through the board.

I rubbed it in, and I'm not even the slightest embarrassed.

Nick bumps his shoulder into mine as we step back onto the gravel court, drinks in hand. "Alright, Lil' Fury," he says, voice low and conspiratorial, "this is where we crush their tiny foreign dreams."

"Careful," I mutter, grinning as I roll the cool metal boule between my palms, "you sound like you're about to give a speech about world domination."

"World domination?" He squints at me like I'm missing something obvious. "No. Just a free weekend in Barcelona. Priorities."

Across the court, Miguel is warming up the Spanish team with loud claps and theatrical shoulder rolls. "¡Vamos, equipo!" he shouts, twirling his boule like it's a football, blowing an overdone kiss in our direction.

The Belgian sweetheart, Clara, is crouched low. Carefully lining up a throw, her dark braid slipping forward over her shoulder. She looks focused... until Martin wanders over with that hedgehog‑awkward smile of his and says something that makes her giggle. Nick and I both clock it instantly.

"Oh my god," Nick whispers, nudging me with his elbow. "Hedgehog's got game."

"If by game you mean tragic levels of dork," I shoot back, though I can't stop smiling as Clara straightens, brushing gravel off her hands, clearly smitten.

"Look at them," Nick says, shaking his head. "Somewhere, there's a romantic comedy being born. Meanwhile—" he points at me with his drink "—we're about to make history."

"Big talk," I say, nudging the gravel with my toe. "You ready to back it up, Lacrosse boy?"

He gasps, full drama. "I can't believe you're still clinging to that yellow card history like it's some kind of superpower."

"Excuse me — undefeated red-card record," I say, narrowing my eyes. "I've got reflexes you only see in action movies."

Nick smirks, as he steps into the circle he marks the start of the final game. He settles in and with one smooth throw, his boule lands snug against the jack. "Reflex that," he says over his shoulder, cocky as hell.

I crouch low, ignoring the way August is suddenly there on the edge of my vision—leaning on a post, wearing a simple white t-shirt, watching me like he's already won. My fingers tighten on the boule. The sun is low, the lavender sways, and Nick murmurs, "Don't let Tall‑and-Dimples over there make you choke."

I shoot Nick a look. "You wish I'd choke. Watch and learn."

The metal arcs through the air, lands, and nudges Nick's perfect shot just enough for us to steal the most points.

August rolls a boule between his palms, glancing at me over the top of his sunglasses with those eyes that drip mischief and magnetism.
"Sweden's taking this," he says, voice smooth as silk, his confidence making my pulse trip over itself.

His vintage black jeans hit that perfect sweet spot—fitted enough to show off just enough muscle, relaxed enough to look effortless. The white T-shirt clings just right—not too tight, never desperate for attention.

Bathed in the golden sunset pouring through the glass roof, he's all sharp angles and dangerous charm. And just like that, I'm caught.

Nick elbows me sharply."Focus, Fury. I need Messi, not a lovesick striker in stoppage time"

I thank him internally while I roll my eyes at him. "You got Messi, can you pretend like someone who can actually tie his own shoes?"

He grins like he just won the world cup. "Deal. Just don't have a August-induced strike-out. I need my MVP in one piece."

Nick's energy is still crackling beside me as August steps back from an objectively beautiful throw. Miguel's up, and I barely notice August stepping closer, his presence folding around me like a slow-burning shadow. He leans in, voice low enough so only I catch it.

"You're distracting the whole court, Lil' Fury. Careful, or you'll make me lose my touch."

I smirk, meeting his gaze over the rim of my glass. "Maybe that's exactly the point."

His smile is sharp, teasing, and just a little dangerous. "We'll see if you can keep up when it counts."

The gravel crunches underfoot as the game continues, but for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just the two of us, the tension sweet and electric. I force my eyes to turn to Nick instead. It's just a tiny bit of relief that I too get under his skin.

The rounds keep shifting, the stakes rising. Belgium's Clara and her partner deliver sharp, tactical throws. Spain's Miguel keeps up the theatrics but can't quite shake us.

Meanwhile, August watches every move like a cat waiting to pounce, all effortless charm and calculated ease.

But Nick and I? We're on fire. Each throw is better than the last, the tension thick enough to cut with a boule.

And then, it happens. Martin fumbles — accidentally nudging Augusts boule away from the jack, Clara's just a tad closer to it. They'd won if he hadn't screwed it up for them. Denmark's victory is sealed.

Nick says it all when he nearly knocks me over, practically launching himself at me in a wild celebration. He cubs my hands, giving me a loud kiss on the lips and goes, "Told you, Lil' Fury. We crush dreams and take names!."

I catch my balance, grinning. "And you? The most infuriating distraction a girl could ask for—even if you're all talk and zero footwork."

There are luckily more congratulatory wishes than half-hearted ones from sore losers. Before our winning buzz wears off, we're directed to our tables in the restaurant.

It's incredibly beautiful. Like big glass domes, old, antique, restored and cared for. Greens everywhere, in between seats and towering over the table. Without asking, we're served. Countless plates with delicious greens, rich scents of butter, something with sage, pasta. I raise my glass to join the toast, the sip of white wine already tells me the food is going to be amazing.

I've hesitantly looked in August's direction a few times. Just slightly nervous about how bad of a loser he might be. He's not sitting in my close vicinity, quite opposite me - at the other end of the table. In a way, I feel just a little lighter - in safe distance - only now realizing the true value of our win.

Nick's on a roll, his energy still continues to peek since our game. I sit back, enjoying the show, admiring him really. He's telling our end of the table - the Spanish and the Dutch's - about a horrible vacation he and Bo went on. I know it all too well, and it continues to earn him wholehearted laughs from me. They booked a cabin in the mountains. Got told on arrival there was a pet mountain lion. Asking them to feed it while they were there. They didn't sleep for a week. Back home, they found it was a fucking cat - called mountain lion.

I enjoy myself, I really do. I put a name to a familiar face - Lucas - one of the ones in blue everything. He too seems lighter, maybe the post-host glow is an actual thing. We talk work, sure, but he's into some of the same bands as me, moreover the same festivals and substances. We battle fucked up battle stories. I don't even have to try to come up with compliments, I just met a fellow-worshipper of Dionysus.

Before I realize, our table has thinned out - two cabs already set out for some club in the center of Amsterdam. Nick's eyes light up when one of the Dutch tells him about an old church converted into a club. I'm relieved to see that Lucas too, seems surprised by Nick's neverending levels of excitement.

Nick's face's already beginning to twist into a kid's asking his parents to go to Disneyland.

For some reason, Lucas picks it up and calls up and down the table to join our end - asking to "stay for a couple of more rounds"

I give him a thankful smile as he sits back down. Nick doesn't even try to hide the disgruntled look he sends me.

We drag a few tables together until they make a lopsided square, enough for the nine of us still hanging on. The relief of not heading out into the night is palpable—this feels better, like a tucked‑away bar after hours. Candles gutter low, the air hums with leftover laughter and wine‑fueled ease, everyone just loose enough to forget tomorrow exists.

Nick, naturally, can't leave well enough alone. He leans forward, eyes gleaming with mischief, and taps his glass with a spoon. "Alright," he says, grinning at the circle, "corporate edition of Never Have I Ever. Let's go."

I already have a bad feeling about this, they don't know Nick like I do. They light up like someone just handed them another drink, and not the grenade it actually is. Before I can protest, Miguel is already throwing out the first: "Never have I ever... joined a meeting while still in bed."

Fingers drop around the table—mine included—and I'm only mildly surprised by how unanimous it is. Clara's next. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, locks eyes on Martin, and says with deceptive sweetness, "Never have I ever... wanted to transfer abroad." Then she folds down her own finger, never looking away from him.

Nick elbows me immediately, muttering out of the side of his mouth, "What the hell? Are they already dating?"

I can't even answer. I'm too busy clocking the ripple it sends around the table—and I'm not sure which gets me more, Martin's shy smile, Clara's blush, or the fact that August folds a finger without breaking my gaze.

Miguel's still laughing when one of the Spanish guys—Andrés, I think—lifts his glass with a wicked grin.

"Never have I ever... gone a month without wanting to quit."

A beat of silence, then groans all around as fingers go down.

I catch myself staring when August folds one.

How did I not know that?

Nick mutters, "Dark. I like it," while Miguel cheers, "¡Salud, amigos!"

Lucas, one of the Dutch, jumps in next, eager.

"Never have I ever... worn pajama bottoms to an online meeting."

Half the table laughs and folds a finger—Nick included.

I arch an eyebrow at him. "Commando doesn't count. You don't even own pajamas."

He shrugs. "Business on top, party on the bottom—either way."

Down the table, Elise, the blond Belgian, leans forward, eyes sparkling.

"Never have I ever... done drugs during office hours."

That earns a howl from the Spanish; August smirks; Martin actually chokes on his drink.

I fold a finger and glance at Nick, silently daring him to do the same.

He grins lazily. "It was just before we left the Friday bar - that barely counts."

Miguel fans the flames, clearly hunting more scandal.

"Never have I ever... puked in the office—both drunk and hungover counts."

The collective groan is immediate. Fingers go down with guilty laughter.

I fold one too, remembering a disastrous summer party... and the aftermaths of countless Six/Sacha's cleanses.

Nick clocks it instantly and smirks. "Lil' Fury, I think you should fold the rest of your fingers."

"Oh please, you're basically a drunk toddler every monday after our cleanse. Fold, and then we're still only counting the times you used the bin under our desk" I shoot back.

He hates that, and his eyes start radiating fuck-you-energy - one, I love when it's directed at anyone but me.

"Lil' Fury," he says, voice-syrup-sweet, "I think you forgot to fold your fingers for 'never hooked up with a bouncer while pretending to be a Spanish exchange student named Luna.'"

I shoot him a look. "Only because you said your name was Father Michael and tried to bless the DJ. It was the only way to get you out of DJ-booth-prison - You're fucking welcome"

The table wheezes. Martin actually spits out his drink.

Nick waves a hand. "Okay, that was one time. And he had needed a severe divine intervention before he ruined the dancefloor and everyone's night"

"Yeah, and I had a leather trench coat and tequila. We all have our crosses to bear."

Nick smirks. "Speaking of crosses—should we talk about when you climbed one? At Sascha's? Mid-song?"

"It was a structural beam. And I was feeling the remix."

"You got kicked out for screaming VIVA LA EMO and making out with the Sons-of-Anarchy-wannabe"

"He had a tongue ring! It was for science!"

Nick leans into the table. "She once dumped a full tray of shots into a guy's pants because he called her 'hun.'"

"I warned him. It was that, or I'd bite him. He made the choice."

"She also told the coat check she was in mourning and refused to take off her cape."

"I was mourning my dignity. And also, you stole a disco ball and wore it as a hat."

"It fit my vibe!" he protests.

"You looked like a sentient Christmas ornament."

Nick turns to the table dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is who you're working with. A disaster with a leather fetish, rage issues and a master's in tequila damage."

I shrug. "And this is Nick. never made it past purberty, petty, and somehow banned from two clubs without ever taking his shirt off."

"Allegedly," he says.

"She once hooked up with a DJ, gave him a fake name and a promise of a record deal, then stole his smoke machine."

"I left him with the aux cord. That's a gift."

"He later texted her, 'You were the best mistake I ever made.'"

"I was," I say, smug.

Nick fake bows. "I rest my case."

"Wait, wait," I say, eyes gleaming. "You told that man in Berlin you were in vocal recovery and couldn't speak for work-related reasons."

"And he still made me cum. That's a king."

"I can't believe HR sent us here."

"I can't believe we're not in jail," Nick says.

Martin's dying. August's blinking, either impressed or terrified. Probably both.

Nick leans toward him. "And that, my friend, is what we call a Cleanse. Twenty-four hours. Six for cocktails. Sascha's for madness. No rules. No regrets. Just hangovers, fake names, and trauma bonding."

August raises his beer. "You guys should come with a warning label."

"We do," Nick says, grinning. "It just dissolves in alcohol."

As we sip on something cold, I realize what we just did. Displayed, shared –willingly – some of our best memories with a group of overachievers. I think I should at least feel a little shamed, but I honestly don't. Not even airing my achievements in front of August. Just a little part of me actually wants him to see, and make him run. Just so I can breathe a little.

I glance over at Nick, his eyes gleam, and I realize he goes in for one last jab.

"Game on again fuckers!" A beat, before he looks over at me, and go, "Never have I ever... hooked up with a client."

Gasps and laughter ripple around the table.

I shake my head, finger still up.

Miguel—looking far too proud—slowly folds his.

Nick's eyes flick to me, and so do August's.

"Technically," I say, hands up in mock defense, "she wasn't a client at the time!"

The table erupts in laughter.

Clara wipes tears from her eyes, then grins slyly.

"Okay, okay—never have I ever... hooked up with my boss?"

Martin's head swivels toward August like it's scripted.

August leans back in his chair, unreadable.

Martin snorts. "Fold, Gus. Don't cheat."

August deadpans, "I just... like my job, that's all," then slowly folds.

His eyes slide to me, gauging my reaction.

Nick grins, then leans closer and whispers. "Ouch, Fury. August's type is senior staff—guess that promotion looks better than ever, huh?"

I don't reply, but I feel the sting. I don't know this man at all.

Elise, emboldened, goes for the finale.

"Never have I ever... wanted to date a colleague."

Her eyes reveal she's really out to get Martin and Clara, and just for a moment, the table is very still.

Then, almost sheepishly, one by one, everyone folds a finger. Except for me.

Nick notices immediately. He leans in, voice pitched low for only me.

"Oh," he murmurs, grin curling, "this just got interesting."

The table is buzzing from the game—no winners, no losers really. We're a little too loud, that electric afterglow making the drinks go down faster than they should. The high from confessions, the laughter... it's left the group restless, thirsty.

Someone jokes that we're running low on truth-serum, and chairs scrape back as a bar run is suggested. August stands without hesitation, a few others falling in with him, laughing as they weave their way toward the counter under the hanging lamps.

I sit back, fingers curled around my glass, watching him go.
I thought I knew him—at least in those little ways that count.
The August who makes his own pasta, who insists on the Killers superiority over Blink 182, and therefore floods my inbox with Killers playlists. The August who once spent an hour passionately debating me on cubism's impact over surrealism's.
But then he folds a finger at that question. Hooked up with his boss?
It hits like a hairline crack in glass—I don't know him. Maybe it's just what he does. Colleagues, like it's fun. Like it's easy.

And then she appears.

Tall. Effortless. A brunette in a molten‑green slip dress that drapes like poured silk. Gold hoops catching the light, a delicate chain against her collarbone, strappy heels that give her the kind of legs magazines are written about. Too pretty for me to even dream of sliding up next to. She does however, slide into his space like she belongs there, fingertips brushing his arm, then his back.

And August just.. leans in. Not just a polite hello. He angles his body toward hers, hand braced on the bar, shoulders dipping as he says something close to her ear. She laughs, soft and warm, her head tipping back, and he lets his mouth curve in that slow, devastating smile I thought was somehow reserved for me.

It's infuriating.
Not just the way he does it—effortless, practiced, like gravity itself is bending for him—but the way it hits me.
I shouldn't care. I shouldn't even be like this.

He's a colleague. A friend.
That's all he's ever been. That's all this has ever been.

And yet there's a knot tightening under my ribs, sharp and bitter, as if every detail of her—her laugh, her dress, her perfect everything—is pressing against every insecurity I didn't even know I had.
I take a long drink, but it doesn't help.

Nick's foot nudges my shin under the table, breaking my spiral.
"Look away, Fury," he murmurs with a crooked grin, low enough for only me, "keep glaring like that and you might combust."

I force a laugh that feels brittle. Push my chair back before anyone can see my cheeks heating.
"I'll be back," I mutter, reaching for my jacket.

Outside, the night is sharp enough to raise goosebumps, but it barely cuts through the heat crawling under my skin.
I light a cigarette with fingers that tremble just enough to annoy me, drag in the smoke like it might steady me. It doesn't.

Get a grip. He's just a colleague. A friend at best. Nothing more.
But my insides are still knotted from watching that brunette in her ridiculous scarlet slip‑dress run her hand over his arm like she owned it. And the worst part? He let her.

The door clicks behind me.
"Your shin okay?"

I stiffen. He's there, leaning against the stone ledge like he belongs in every shadow.

"Heels and a sore shin," he muses. "Not your best look, Fury."

"Surprised you noticed at all," I mutter, smoke curling from my lips.

His smile crooks sideways. "Hard not to. You looked about two seconds from baptizing that brunette in red wine."

My chest tightens. "I just found her attractive, don't be ridiculous."

"Am I?" He takes a step closer, slow, unhurried. "She was cute, wasn't she? That dress, those hands on my arm—"

I cut him off with a snort. "Then go for it. Be my guest."

His brow lifts, amused. "Oh?" Another step closer. "Should I?"

"Why not?" I bite out, staring at the glowing end of my cigarette so I don't have to look at him.
Because my stomach is turning inside out at the thought. Because I can still see her nails tracing his shirt, that stupid laugh she gave him. Because I hate that it bothers me.

"Or..." he draws out the word, tilting his head, "I could tell you about the time I actually dated my boss."

I blink. "Wait—what?"

He smirks, clearly enjoying the moment. "Not some casual hook-up, Fury. A real thing. Months, familiar with the concept?"

My heart stutters.

"But," he adds, voice smooth as silk, "it wasn't until she wasn't my immediate boss anymore. And we ended it on good terms, it didn't fuck up work, at all. Otherwise, you think I'd risk that kind of mess?"

I try to hide how my insides curl at the thought. "Sounds complicated."

"Complicated, but worth it," He steps closer, voice dripping with playful confidence. "Trust me, complicated beat one-offs every time."

"Complicated's never worth it." I exhale, trying to sound unaffected.

"You say that,..." He lets his gaze drift down and back up, deliberate, reading every twitch. "but your body is telling me otherwise."

I freeze. "What the hell does that mean?"

He leans in, voice low. "Your pulse is racing," he continues, soft but relentless. "I can see it, right here." His fingers ghost near the base of my throat without touching, and I almost choke on air.

"You're imagining things."

"Am I?" His smile turns sharp. "Your eyes went dark when I mentioned her. You scrunch your nose every time you're about to lie. You bite your lip..when.."

I feel my teeth sink into my lower lip and hate myself for it.

"Stop," I whisper. "You don't know me, I don't know you."

He tilts his head, grin deepening. "Don't you?"

My breath catches. "I don't."

His eyes flicker—something darker, knowing.
"Well, I know you," he murmurs, stepping close enough that my back hits the wall. His voice is low, steady, but edged like a blade.

"I know you sleep in those shorts from your old uniform, as if it's your adult version of a teddy bear."
Heat prickles under my skin.

"I know you keep stacks of books around in your kitchen counter because you don't have enough shelves. That the tremble of your hands isn't really a tell on how you're feeling. That your favorite tv is in Korean, and it's just to keep your mind busy enough to relax. That you're actually dedicated to your work, easily tuned into being the life of the room, balanced sarcasm, glass always raised—but the second you're home you're silent, live for coffee, books and records.

He tilts his head, reading me like he's flipping pages he's memorized.
"I know your "Restaurant one-nighters" is a lie. Rick feeds you every Sunday. Your favorite food in the world is everything Rick serves. And that the only true loves of your life are Kat, Sam, and Elly. I hear it in your voice when you talk about them."

His voice drops even lower, softer but cutting:
"And you... you love art. Not just paintings or museums—everything. The crooked pottery at street fairs, murals fading on brick walls, torn-up sketches you can't throw away. You see it everywhere, don't you? You respect it like it's holy."

My breath snags. He knows that.

"And you're hyper-independent like no one else I've ever met," he goes on, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You'd rather bleed than ask for help. Bet the medicine cabinet is stocked like a full-blown pharmacy," he adds quietly, "just so no one has to fuss over you when you're sick. Just so you don't have to need anybody to see you weak."

The words land heavy and intimate, like secrets laid bare.

"I know why you get into wine accidents, pick fights with bling bling's. You despise even a hint of entitlement—because you take pride in achieving every single thing on your own, just like your dad. Even though you don't want to be like him."

I feel my stomach turn, my eyes permanent residency on the ground. It's too much. He's too close.

"You," he says, and there's that dangerous softness again, "you keep everyone at arm's length. You don't like complicated things - messing up work. Too scared to risk the status quo - getting too close to anybody. Act like none of this matters, like none of us matter." His smile crooks, sharp and devastating "But I know, you actually want to let me in"

He somehow got even closer, his lips almost brushing my ear, voice dropping lower, wrapping around me like smoke.
"I remember those little sounds you made when I pinned you to the wall outside your building. I can still recall your nails on my back needing me closer in that closet."

I didn't tell you, but complimenting my lips wasn't the only thing you let slip that first night in Copenhagen.

That makes my brow pop. What the actual hell is this?

"You said you've never wanted to kiss anyone more than me"

My stomach drops, every nerve screaming and sparking. The memories come to life - I did that. Everything floods in, uninvited—heat curling through me, the press of his mouth, the tight grip on my waist, the hard lines of his body pinning me in place. It's like being dragged under by something I swore I'd buried.

"And you," he says softly, almost like a dare, his hand braced on the wall beside me, "you want to relive every second. Don't you?"

I try to look away, but his eyes pin me, and my pulse thrums so loud I'm sure he hears it, counts it. I can't breathe. The silence drags on, as I try to put a reply together. Before I know it, the words just..
"Impossible," I stammer, immediately the words tasting like a lie I don't even bother to dress up.

His eyes flash—something like disappointment, quick and cutting—but then it softens into something worse: understanding. He exhales, long and quiet, like he's letting something go. As he steps back, I hear him mutter "Impossible. Right. I think I agree with you on that now.".

With every inch he puts between us, it feels like air rushing out of a room. His gaze slides away, unreadable, and without a word, he turns, slipping into the dark like smoke.

Gone.
Just... gone. Like he was never here at all.

For a heartbeat, I just stand there, stunned, a cold shiver skating down my spine. The night feels too big, too empty.

And then it hits me—a harrowing thought that claws at my chest—he's walking back to her. Back to that brunette in the scarlet dress, her hand still on his arm, that smile that says she knows things I don't.

My insides twist tight, so tight it's almost painful. My pulse hammers in my ears, a frantic rhythm that drowns out the city around me. Hollow—that's what I feel. Hollow and bare, like he just took something with him when he left. Wronged, somehow, and I can't even say why.

Then panic flares hot and sudden.
What if that was it?
What if stepping away was him giving up—on this, on me?
What if I just watched him walk away for good, and I don't even know why I care this much, only that I do.

I sit down, lightheaded. dizzy. light another cigarette. I mull the words over again and again - I actually care. That somewhere between pretending we're just colleagues, just friends, I've started to want him close.

I step back inside, tucking whatever just happened out there behind a practiced mask.
The air in the bar is warm, heavy with laughter and the thrum of music, glasses clinking.

I feel like I made a wrong turn, and feel I need to try to acclimate before sitting down. In the toilet, I cool my wrists, trying to put out the burning feeling all over. I look down, and can't remember when my hands shaked so much. It reminds me of my pills. It's past 22:00, but I take out my container tucked away in my jacket. Count 'em.

As I do, I'm reminded of all the reasons why I need to keep him away.

That part of life is not a possibility for me. I'm not like everyone else. I don't get to do that. I can't risk my life like that. I've been there, gone through hell and dumped it onto someone else to bring me back, never again.

I feel tears pressing, tears blurring my vision, and I try to pull myself together. Holding back every tear seems almost impossible, but I tell myself I just need to count to fourteen. Check all the pills are there. I throw them back, and wash them down with water straight from the tap.

I catch my reflection and I almost don't recognize her.

My expression just reads... Indifferent, like nothing matters, just nothing.

But I feel like someone's strangling me - like I'll stop breathing any second.
I physically hurt, and I just want to catch my breath, make it stop. Like I can somehow breathe the pain away.

But it feels like it's going to stay, that I'm already gone, like I've given up altogether, right there in the mirror.
I tell myself I know I'm doing the right thing, and my pulse steadies just a little bit, not nearly enough though. But I have to. I have to keep steadying my pulse.

I don't know how long I've been in the bathroom, but the door keeps pounding and the thought of escaping this altogether seem like my only possibility.

I slip out, let the impatient girl in. Wobble my way back to the table, slide back into my seat, pick up my drink, try to look like I haven't been strangling myself just three minutes ago.

August is at the table, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.
He doesn't look at me. Not once. I don't blame him, really.

Nick's mid‑story, grinning, but when his eyes catch mine something in his face softens. He narrows them slightly, reads me the way only Nick can.
"You good?" he murmurs under the noise, leaning just close enough.

"Yeah," I lie, fingers wrapping too tight around my glass.

He doesn't push. He just studies me for another second, then looks around the table. His grin is back in place. "Alright, you talentless drunks, who's up for a club?"

The group erupts—laughs, groans, chairs scraping back. The tension lifts for everyone else.
I watch them all gather their things, slinging coats over their shoulders, animated and alive.

We pour out onto the street, the night air cutting through the bar's warmth. Nick claps me on the shoulder as we step off the curb. "You coming?"

I shake my head. "I think I'm done. Hotel."

He hesitates, searches my face again, then nods. "Alright. Text if you need anything, yeah?"

"Yeah."

They move toward a waiting cab, voices bright with plans.
I step back, lift my arm for another.

When the cab pulls up, I climb in and give the driver the hotel name, already sinking back into the seat, ready to be invisible.
The door opens again.

I freeze.
August slides in without a word.

I stare at him. "This one's not going to the club. It's going back to the hotel."

"Yeah." His voice is low, rougher than usual. He doesn't look at me. "Not really in the mood for a club."

The cab pulls away, tires hissing just a bit on the asphalt.

Silence stretches, taut and awkward, filled only by the city lights streaking past the windows.
I fold my hands in my lap, then unfold them. My knee bounces. I can feel him there beside me, so close, and yet he might as well be on another planet.
The driver hums along to a song on the radio.
I stare out at the blur of neon and shadow.
I think about every word he said outside, every breath between us, and now this—this void.

The hotel looms into view, lit up against the night.
We step out into the cool air, neither of us speaking as we cross the lobby, as the elevator hums up floor after floor.
He's just behind me, close enough that I feel the press of him without touching.

The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
We walk the hallway in silence, side by side, until we stop in front of our doors.

No keycards. No goodnight.
Just the heavy hum of the carpeted corridor and everything unsaid pressing in on my chest.

He stares at his door like it's safer than looking at me.

His words from earlier - He agrees with me. impossible - throb like a bruise. A permanent one.

I open my mouth—close it again. Anything I think of saying seems pathetic, underlining how big of a loser I really am.
But the thought of him walking away, of my phone never lighting up with his name again—
It feels like someone is hollowing me out with their bare hands.

I can't stand it.
"Earlier," I blurt, voice shaking, "when you agreed... did you mean it?"

He doesn't move. His jaw tightens.
"I don't know," he says finally. "Maybe I did."

It's like the floor shifts under me.
I hear myself —too soft, choking on air almost. "Like impossible - done? No calls, no tex... You'd really just disapp-?" My words tangle, knot up in my throat. "I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm saying."

He looks at me then, eyes dark and steady, and that almost breaks me more.
"What do you want from me?" he asks softly.

I shake my head, step back, step forward again, a mess of motion.
"I don't know! Maybe just don't quit? I know I don't know how to... do this."
My hands twist in my dress. "But I can't—" My breath catches. "I can't stand the thought of you becoming a stranger."

His brows lift, just barely. His silence is unbearable.

"Can.. you just," I admit, words spilling, breaking. "I need your name to light up on my phone. The dumb texts, and the late FaceTimes, and you just—being there. You're... you're in my day before I even think about it. And if you're done, if that stops, I don't even..." I trail off, chest tight, terrified.

He steps closer, just enough that I feel the heat of him.
"I want you in mine, too," he says quietly, like he's afraid of scaring me off. "But, I don't just want to be your colleague - your friend."

"I know," I whisper. "I just.. can't..."
The words scrape my throat. "Because - it would ruin everything. I just can't do that to.. anyone, really."

I drag a shaky hand through my hair. "But I don't want this to stop. I don't want to lose... being your frien.. whatever this is."

He watches me, searching my face.
"I don't know why you're so scared," he says low. "..of what I want, what I think you want..."
"It's just not possible for me. Not the way you want it." I say fast, panic making my voice jagged. His eyes don't leave mine.
"And I'm selfish for even wanting to hold on, I'm really sorry for -"
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. "But if you don't want to be my friend—if you walk away now—I don't know wh.."

He steps closer, eyes softening but steady.
"Okay, okay, friends." he says. "But just.. stop running, okay?"

Then he closes the distance between us, I swallow hard, heart pounding as he pulls me in for a hug.

"You're the most infuriating friend I've ever had," he whispers.

I needed this, to be right here. Like I'm bursting from relief, hope maybe, feeling like I'm not hopeless. I look up at him, trace his jaw, just about to pull him to me and press my lips to his - but I can't. So, I don't.

"I.. think it's better if I go.." I say, as my eyes watch his reaction closely.

"Mhm. I think it's better if we go watch a movie in my room" He says, just a hint of amusement in his voice, his arms still wrapped tightly around me.

I'm just a little surprised by his sudden mood shift. Like he wasn't just giving me the silent treatment of the century. Like I wasn't just spiralling into the deep, fighting the worst of panic attacks. But, it's like we just.. sort of agreed to be alright somehow. And.. I actually want this, I can allow myself to have this version of him, and at this point I really don't have the energy to fight him, or myself on it.

"It must be about one in the morning" I say, a soft protest more into his shirt than to him.

"I don't have an early start" he says softly, as his arms around me just tighten a little.

"Ok" I mutter, maybe because I don't quite want to put actual distance between us. Want to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't change his mind.

"Ok" He says, just a little surprised. He unwraps me from his embrace, just to pull me towards his door. The leather in my jacket loudly cracks by his soft grip,

"Wait, just give me 10 minutes" I say, as I realize I really don't want to lie on his bed in nothing but a black silk dress.

He eyes me, as I gesture up and down myself. "10 minutes, don't make me come get you" He says with a light cheekiness in his voice.

As I close my door, I drop my dress and heels in seconds. I exhale and notice how the feeling of being strangled is gone. I'd never told anyone what I said to him just now. It was terrifying, but I'm.. Ok. I told him what I wanted, and he just listened, agreed. I feel the relief washing over me, realizing that I'm safe from my own worst nightmares.

A knock on my door interrupts my blissful state, then a voice "Do you need help in there?"

I can't help but let out a small laugh "One second, I need to find my teddybear" I yell back.

When I open the door, he's leaning up against the wall. He's in pajama pants, shirtless.

I arch a brow. He's unfazed, just giving me the elevator "You really don't sleep in anything but that awful raccoon t-shirt and those shorts?"

"Sure I do," I say, leaning in the doorway. "Sometimes I mix it up with my equally awful possum T‑shirt. Keeps things exciting."

He smirks, but it's softer than usual—almost cautious. "Dangerous. Living on the edge, huh?"

His eyes flick over me and then away, like he catches himself looking too long. That's new. That hesitation. I notice it instantly, and something twists in my chest.

"You know what you're doing right now isn't exactly a friends thing, is it?" I arch a brow, crossing my arms.

He straightens a little, like I caught him. "How so?"

"You're standing half‑naked in the hallway, giving me that look, and you expect me to believe this is just what friends do?" My voice is teasing, but there's a quiet warning under it. "I'm not coming over if you can't do better."

For a second, something flickers in his expression—regret, maybe, or that he's replaying everything he's done in the last two minutes. He lets out a breathy laugh and rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away like he's checking himself.
"Alright, alright. You're right. I'll... go get a hoodie. Consider this my official adjustment period."

"Adjustment period?" I repeat, tilting my head.

He gives a sheepish half‑smile. "Yeah. I'm... trying not to screw this up. Suppressing my.. natural instincts, So... hoodie. Be right back."

He disappears into his room, and I feel that ache in my chest again—warm and sharp at the same time. He's trying, and that almost makes it worse.

When he comes back, a dark hoodie pulled over those stupid broad shoulders, his voice is quieter. "Better?"

"Passable," I say, brushing past him, fighting a smile. "We can now proceed with your totally platonic movie night."

He chuckles behind me, but I can feel it—the effort he's making to keep the space safe, the tension humming just beneath it. And I tell myself—again—that I can do this. That we can.

He scrolls through his endless list of saved movies with an almost ridiculous focus, like the wrong pick might ruin the entire fragile balance we've set.
Then he brightens. "Found it."

I glance at the screen. "Ocean's Eleven?"

"Well," he says, grinning as he sets it up. "Middle ground. Not too romantic, not too action‑heavy. Perfectly... neutral."

"Neutral," I echo, trying not to laugh. "God forbid we accidentally enjoy something too much."

He shoots me a look, but there's no sting in it. Just a quiet, shared amusement as he tosses me a pillow. I kick off my slippers, curl up at one end of the bed, careful not to take up too much space. He takes the other side, stretching out, leaning against the headboard. There's a canyon of careful distance between us.

The movie starts, and for a while it's easy—safe. We trade the occasional comment:
"That's you," I whisper when Brad Pitt's character polishes off yet another plate of food.
"Please. You ate half a lasagna in one go," he fires back, and I nudge him with my foot, pretending not to notice the way his smile lingers longer than it should.

Halfway through, I feel myself loosening. The tension in my shoulders eases. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up, forearms resting casually on his stomach. My eyes keep darting there before I catch myself and turn back to the screen.

The heist unfolds, the room is warm, soft, and my eyelids grow heavier with every passing minute. I shift, lying down fully, tucking my arm under my head.

"You good?" he murmurs, voice low.

"Mmhm." My answer is half‑mumbled, sleep blurring the edges of my words.

Somewhere in the second act, I hear him shift too—feel the mattress dip as he slides down from the headboard. A breath later, his shoulder is near mine. Not touching. But near.

The distance shrinks without either of us thinking too hard about it.
I don't remember closing my eyes, only that the sound of the movie becomes a haze and his presence—solid, steady, warm—is the last thing I register.

When I wake hours later, the credits are looping in the dark and I'm curled on my side. There's a weight near me, a steady rhythm of breathing.
I blink, and there he is—on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped loosely over the space between us, like some part of him wanted to close the distance in his sleep.

For a second, I just lie there, staring at him in the glow of the TV screen, feeling that ache in my chest again—soft, terrifying, and so impossibly magnetic.

Quietly, carefully, I shift closer. Inch by inch, until I can feel the warmth of him, until my head fits against his shoulder and his loose arm naturally curves around me in his sleep.
No one will see. No one will know.
And in that small, secret moment, I let myself stay there—tucked into him—like it's the most natural thing in the world.