"Loving Like a Psychopath: Acid Tongue, Ice Daggers, and Masochism Served with a Side of Fuck You to Surrender"

The plane dips low over Barcelona, city blocks glowing under the late sun, every balcony and rooftop golden like they've never known a bad decision.

Somewhere over the Pyrenees, I finally lean over to Nick and tap his arm. He's mid-scroll, probably judging someone's LinkedIn headshot.

"Hey," I mutter, "Sorry I was a total dick about, you know, when you tried to talk to me about August. I mean it"

He doesn't look up right away, just blinks once. "Wow. You okay? Do I need to alert the captain?"

I sigh. "I'm being serious."

"I know. That's what's making me nervous."

I nudge his leg with mine. "I just... I get it now, okay? You were trying to help. And I bulldozed it. So—if you —want to help - not in a 'text him for me' way. Just—have my back. Nudge. Steer. Translate my social incompetence when necessary."

He stretches, cracking his knuckles like he's about to accept a royal title. "I formally accept being your Wingman in Chief. Effective immediately."

"Do I get a welcome kit?"

"No, but I get veto power if you panic and run away again."

"Fair."

We land thirty minutes later. The air outside the terminal is warm and lemony, the mid-August kind that makes you feel like something good's about to happen—even if you have no idea what. The hotel is glossy and over-designed, perched directly across from La Sagrada Família like some kind of capitalist apology.

By the time we reach our rooms, the sky is streaked in violet and gold. The rooftop bar glows gently above us, not crowded, just alive. We dump our bags, splash water on our faces, and head up.

The rooftop bar is exactly what you'd expect—glass panels, expensive lighting, infinity pool that screams no kids are allowed. And, the view is impossible to hate. The spires of the basilica glow in twilight, like it's trying to outshine the cocktails.

The four of us—Nick, me, Clara, and Martin—gather around a corner table near the glass. From here, the basilica looks like it's melting into the sky.

Rick-level service: within five minutes, there's cava on the table. No one ordered it.

"Did you...?" I ask Nick.

He shakes his head, and Clara shrugs. "Reception must've told them."

Martin raises his glass. "To surviving airport security and corporate babysitting."

"To getting paid to be here," Nick adds.

"To promotions and four-day weeks," Clara says, looking at me with a knowing smile.

They all toast, and I do too, trying to ignore the empty chair across from me. August's not here.

I've glanced toward the door more times than I can count. Everytime time he doesn't appear, the disappointment stabs.

I can't imagine my priorities's subtle to the table. But I.. Sip my drink. Text Kat about the guy I met in customs who looked like Pedro Pascal's understudy. Try to act like everything's as a summer evening on a rooftop should be.

I smile when someone makes a toast. I even laugh at one of Martin's jokes, even though he has subtly dodged any questions on August's whereabouts. But every few minutes, my eyes flick to the entrance again.

Another stab.

Nick sees it. Of course he does.

He raises his glass with a knowing grin. "To second chances."

I clink his without a word.

As the others descend down the stairs to the rooms, I stay for another glass and a cigarette. I make my way to the opposite side of the roof, the one hidden behind the solar system of a bar. Here, the view is nothing but blocks, barely windows on the grey facades. Knowing as much, explains the few plastic stools and empty beer cans lying on the ground.

It feels okay here - like the windstill in my kitchen. I can breathe. Focus. Brace myself for what I'm setting out to do. Pray to the drama gods that August will actually show up.

I realize that the stabs of disappointment might just be a light warm up compared to what's to come. Remind myself I've already gone to hell and back once. Knowing how I am willing to do that over and over, if that means there's just a tiny chance of being with him. A chance to show him beige, that I can do it, I can be good, I can be someone he can trust.

***

Theme: "Leading From Within"
Or: How to survive a leadership seminar while actively disassociating from your own emotional decisions.

Nick and I strategized over an overbusy breakfast hall, missing no one in the entire corporate world except for August. After three americanos and Nick inhaling a stack of pancakes like they were evidence, we—by which I mean Nick—decided that flirty, pushy stranger energy was the move. Not sad emo ex-vibe crying over chia pudding in the corner. Apparently that had "desperation" written all over it.

"Be bold," he said, mouth full of syrup. "Be the kind of woman who ruins his day in the best possible way."

"Pretty sure I did that already," I muttered into my coffee.

He pointed his fork at me. "Then do it better."

We spent ten minutes workshopping lines I'd never use, ranking confidence levels by espresso intake, and establishing that if all else failed, I could always fake a mild fainting episode near his table.

A breath before we enter the room, I summon the energy of my Nick-approved-get-him-back-outfit:

Black leather mini — just long enough to say I'm behaving, just short enough to imply barely. Thrifted The Killers band tee, tucked — logo cracked and faded across my chest. I bought it for the slim chance that one day — one glorious day — he'd rip it off me. For now, I'll settle for the man — the one who once sent me six separate playlists just to prove their range — to just look in my direction.

Corporate accessories - boxy black blazer over the top. And heels. Because I'm here to stand taller than whatever wall he's hiding behind.

We enter the room and there he is — every breath of confidence I just inhaled, gone in a blink.

Nick must notice the standstill. Maybe the other symptoms of sudden oxygen deprivation. I feel his hand on my back, steadying me like a carer guiding the faint.

We sit. He's one row ahead — just close enough for me to make out the slope of his jaw, the way his fingers tap his pen like he's conducting a symphony only he can hear.

He hasn't looked at me once.

I try not to let it show, but my pulse is chaotic.

He looks better than I remember. That stupid just-right-tight white t-shirt. The one that already lived rent-free in my brain. His hair's a little longer, a little messier, like he stopped trying, and somehow that makes it worse.

The projector screen says Leading From Within in bold blue Helvetica, like it's about to save our souls through corporate synergy. I'm in a beige conference room that smells like filtered water and ambition, and I'm not listening to a word of it.

I want to scream.

Not at him—never at him. At myself. Because I did this. I walked away. Told him I didn't want him. And now here he is—real, right in front of me—and I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

I'm stupidly in love with him.

I need to fix this.

August stands to stretch during the break, reaches for his water bottle, and I spot my opening.

"You always show up this overdressed for self-help school," I tease, grinning. "Or is this just for me?"

His gaze flicks over—cool, unreadable. Lazily polite.
"Showing up's already more than some people manage."

It takes a beat to land. Then it hits.

"Wait—what's tha—?"

He shrugs, all effortless indifference. "Relax. Not everything's about you."

And then he walks away like that one line didn't just twist every nerve in my body into a guilt-slick knot.

Nick's voice appears at my elbow like a demon summoned by the jagged noise behind my ribs. "Wow. August's been studying your 'emotionally unavailable' playbook."

"Do. Not. Start."

"I'm just saying," he mutters, "on the scale of reconciliation, that ranked somewhere between a first date silence and your therapist blinking too long."

Lunch isn't better.

August sits wedged between two of the Dutch guys, holding court like he's the headliner at some low-effort comedy club. They laugh at every dry one-liner he tosses their way. I watch the curl of his mouth, the easy tilt of his shoulders. Like he didn't kiss me like his life depended on it. Like I didn't shatter the whole fucking thing on impact.

Nick glances over. "You look like you're trying to telepathically rewrite history."

I keep my eyes locked on August. "I'm just... reassessing."

Nick sets his fork down, solemn. "If in doubt, double down."

"That only works in Vegas. Or bars."

"You really are my muse," he says, mock-reverent. "You inspire all my worst instincts. Think: Sacha hookups. Copenhagen cleanses. Full commitment to the bit."

I blink. "I know I'm beige and all now, but don't you think it's a little early to try and get him drunk?"

"Not really," Nick says, deadpan. "But no. This isn't about alcohol. This is about the gospel of you. You double down. You crash harder. You throw charm like it's glitter in a fan."

I let that settle. Watch August laugh at something, effortlessly magnetic. He still doesn't look my way.

"Glitter in a fan," I murmur.

"Exactly," Nick says, nodding. "No one likes it. But no one forgets it either."

Back from lunch, I switch it up—literally. Bribe Martin with intel I don't have on Clara. Sit right next to August.

He doesn't react. Just registers it with a blink and the faintest exhale, like sitting next to me is a minor inconvenience. Like he already regrets not getting coffee slower.

I sit a little too close. Let my knee graze his.

Then again, like maybe the table's too narrow or I'm just naturally graceless.

Still nothing.

So I lean in, voice low. "We keep meeting like this. Almost like fate."

He doesn't look at me. "You're crowding me."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Now he turns, finally, just enough to land the hit: "You're not subtle. And this isn't cute."

The air in my lungs evaporates.

I laugh once, short and sharp. "Wow. You've really upped your charm since Amsterdam."

He shrugs, already turning away again. "Guess we can't all be predictable."

I shift back an inch—but not out of surrender. Reload.

I nudge a torn slip of my notebook his way — a quiet offering, disguised in ink and paper. He barely spares it a glance before curling it into his palm like trash. Mentally, I scratch a thick, definitive line through the plan titled Sorry. Can we talk?

Disappointment quickly takes over the sting of his rejection. Not in him - because of course he would. But in myself - What the hell did I think would happen? A scribbled Yes back with a smiley face and a heart? If anything, this just proved how emotionally intelligent I truly am – not that he needed further proof.

And there it is, the strength of beige creeping in - mental clarity - deciding not to run, to give up, to hide – deciding I'll do better. Feeling that it's okay to ask for what I want. Knowing exactly who that is, and going for it.

In the afternoon, it gets worse.

August laughs at something two rows over. Not at me. Not with me. With a woman who says ideate like it's a personality trait.

He just continues his masterclass in nonchalance. I try to make him laugh again—something easy about the moderator's obsession with clip-art arrows.

He doesn't crack.

Nick gives me a pity pat on the back during our group debrief, whispering, "I've seen fewer ice walls in Antarctica."

I give him a look that says, "Please. I'm already being treated for emotional hypothermia."

He even speaks up in the group session, contributes smart things, draws nods. Meanwhile, I'm chewing through the cap of my pen and plotting at least five fake emergencies that might trigger just a sliver of love-for-mankind energy.

Nick leans over with a smirk. "This your strategy? Slow erosion of your will to live until he pities you?"

"I'm going to win him back."

Nick sips his sixth espresso. "Okay."

"I'm serious."

"You keep saying that like I'm not emotionally invested. I'm rooting for you, obviously. But also: this is brutal."

I wait until the very end of the day. August's zipping up his bag, standing alone for just a beat. I move in, trying not to look as desperate as I feel.

"Hey, can we just—"

He doesn't even let me finish.

"Stop," he says, voice calm, even. "Whatever this is that you're doing."

I freeze. "I'm not—"

"You are," he cuts in, shouldering his bag. "And I'm asking you to stop."

Then he walks past me, clean and quiet, like I don't even register.

I stare at the doorway long after he's gone, hands tight at my sides. I want to scream into a throw pillow.

Nick appears beside me again, far too pleased with himself.

"You know what this calls for?"

I don't answer.

He grins. "A revenge outfit and a comped dinner with a bunch of overachievers."

I roll my eyes, but he's not wrong.

I'm not done.

Not even close.

***

The dinner's at one of those moody little Barcelona restaurants that looks like it was designed for three people and their distant relative casually dropping by.

Candles flicker on low tables, the walls are half brick, half velvet, and it smells like lemon zest and garlic — all the while still somehow giving recovering from the financial crisis.

It might be the first time someone's called a restaurant authentic and I actually agree.

Nick orchestrated my appearance.

I wear the black dress — boat neck, sleeveless, cut close like it knows exactly what it's doing.
Simple. Tight. Classic. Sexy, but not loud about it. In spite of my best efforts, I still hear my mom's "Always show cleavage or legs, never - ever - both at the same time" in her school teacher's voice. It is, however, good advice.

Strappy black sandal heels: friendly while standing, total frenemy in motion.

My trusty Loewe bag — somewhere between a grown-up accessory and an emotional support blanket.

Nick outlined three possible makeup looks, complete with mood boards and commentary — all three well beyond my skill set.

I insisted on keeping the berry chapstick. Not dark red. Berry.
It looked like it physically pained him not to veto it.

We compromised: I got the lips; he got to do my blowout and sneak a little bronzer onto my cheekbones.

I haven't felt like myself in days—whatever that means anymore—but the second I'm ready, something clicks. Maybe it's not me, maybe it's because it channels being at Sascha's. But at Sascha's I'm almost fearless. And maybe that's what I need tonight. A little borrowed bravado.

We're packed into the restaurant like it's a post-wedding afterparty that forgot it was corporate. Half seated, half leaning, sharing too many small plates and not enough context. Shot glasses come and go like stray thoughts. I lose sight of August, then find him again across the room, mid-conversation with a Belgian girl in green heels. He's laughing. Not with me.

I wait. But not really.

The second he drifts within reach, I lean in—light, easy, just enough to test the air.

"Do you ever take a bad photo?" I ask, nodding toward the photo they just took. "Or is that part of the talent package?"

His mouth flickers into a small, unreadable smile. "Lighting does a lot."

I try again, grinning. "Still have that photo from the Van Gogh museum? The one where you pretended you didn't know how to use portrait mode?"

He meets my eyes—just for a beat too long.

"No," he says simply.

It should stop me. It doesn't.

Later, as we jostle for room at the table, I brush his hand reaching for a bowl. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't smile, either.

I make a joke about red wine. About soaking someone in it. Not the way he said it once proved I had a heart—just hoping he still thinks that way.

He doesn't bite. Not once.

But he doesn't leave, either.

Until he does.

I clock him heading toward the side terrace—the one where smokers disappear for air and sins.

I follow, cigarette already in hand. Not lit. Not really needed.

He's at the railing, back to me.

"I'm not here to start a scene," I say, voice soft.

He doesn't turn.

"Then don't," he says. Calm. Cold.

I step beside him and let the silence fill the space between us. The night is cool. Not enough to sting. Just enough to remind you you're alone.

"It was good to see you laugh in there," I offer.

That gets him—barely. A short breath. A tug at the corner of his mouth that might be irritation, might be pain.

"Come on, Frederika. Don't do this."

I hate how gentle his voice is when he says it. Like I'm breakable. Like he's already halfway gone and just waiting for me to finish walking myself into the wall.

My chest aches, but I manage to smirk. "What exactly is this? Talking to you like a person? Or is that too emotionally charged these days?"

He finally looks at me.

And I wish he hadn't.

Not angry. Not cold.

Just tired. Like this hurt took up too much room in him already, and he's exhausted from carrying it.

"You wanted strangers," he says.

I nod, tight. "I did. But I—"

"No." His voice is so even it hurts. "You made your bed. You lie in it—with someone else."

It's not cruel. It's not bitter.

It's hollow.

He doesn't wait for my reply. Doesn't give me the dignity of a goodbye.

He's just gone.

I light the cigarette. Flick ash that doesn't exist. Stare at the coffee stain on my boots like it'll tell me something I don't already know.

I'm not done.

I won't be done.

But I feel it—the space between us, colder than ever.

I knew this might happen. Doesn't mean it doesn't feel like I just downed a shot of acid.

***

I kiss Nick on the cheek before I go. A sign of retreat for the night. I don't look at him when I do it—don't look at anyone. I just leave.

Before I say something that cracks wider than this already is.

Outside, the night's humid and humming. Barcelona is thick with leftover heat and broken cobblestones. Removing myself from the situation, should provide a sense of relief - earn a pad on the back for knowing my limits. It doesn't. The quietness of the streets only seems to anger the furious bees stinging my chest.

My body can't make out the culprit - anger, hurt, frustration, guilt - they all seem to conspire. It triggers an overwhelming need to eject myself from my head. The way I used to do it.

But. Beige. I need to show him beige. I need to find the strength to fight for what I want. And that strength doesn't come from following my insects to word-vomit all over him, yelling at him, showing him my crazy.

Or, find a guy on a motorbike, drink somewhere between 16-19 shots and just, and dissolve altogether.

So, I walk. Walk. Walk. Hope my frenemy heels take me towards a clear head. I'll be the beigest of fucking beige, if that means I can figure out to disarm him just a tiny bit.

I glance at my lock screen for no reason, and there it is:

Woman with a Vase. Fernand Léger. Bold. Abstract. Balanced, both broken and put together, in a way I've never managed. Every time I look at it, I feel closer to him, thinking he glances over the framed version everyday at his desk.

Now it feels like a punch.

Eventually I made it back. The room smells like air conditioning and my own anxiety. I toss my things somewhere I won't be able to locate in the morning. My dress slips to the floor in a single movement, just as easy as I tug his hoodie on. It feels right - bare legs, bare skin, bare heart—and climbs into bed like it's the only thing holding me together.

I tug myself and his hoodie properly in. Putting on one of those deep-sleep playlists Charlotte recommended —whale noises, soft chimes, the works. I bore holes in the ceiling while I force myself to think tomorrow'll be better.

Until I hear it.

Loud. Off-key. Some kind of dramatic ballad meets national anthem energy.

I give it a second of beat, just to register an increase in volume. Apparently, being 99% emotional turmoil doesn't leave room for any overbearing tendencies.

I fling off the covers, pad barefoot to the door, ready to hiss death threats at whatever drunk corporate intern thinks they're the next Freddie Mercury—and then I freeze.

"Oh no," I whisper.

August.

Standing in the hallway.
Nick draped over his shoulder like a drunk, overgrown scarf. Grinning like he won the Nobel Prize in Downing shots.

"Thank you," Nick says, very British and very formal, "for escorting me home. Just—over there." He points to the bed like he's introducing it on a real estate tour. "En-suite emotional damage included."

August steps into the room without saying a word.

But his eyes hit me like glass. On me. My bare legs. On the hoodie. On the fact I'm wearing nothing but that.

He doesn't say a word as he moves the extra body to the bed.

As he faces me again, everything about him goes still. Like he's buffering.

"You're surprised," I say, too quietly.

His voice finally lands. Rough. Soft. "What... do you still have that?"

I nod. "Yes."

"It lies with me in bed every night," I add, unsure if I sound brave or pathetic.

Something flickers across his face—something sharp and unsure and fighting itself. He blinks. His eyes drop once, quick, to the bare skin of my thighs and then snap back to my face like it burned him.

"You're not getting it back," I say, lifting my chin.

His jaw shifts. Eyes unreadable. Then: "Keep it."

And then he's gone.

I'm still rooted to the spot, heartbeat jammed in my throat, his scent lingering like a ghost. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until Nick groans theatrically from the bed.

"Holy shit, that was even better than I imagined."

I whirl around. "You evil, scheming little bastard."

He flops onto his side, eyes wide with glee. "Tell me that didn't just make the top five moments of your life. Go ahead. Try."

"You pretended to be drunk."

"Bold of you to assume I faked all of it," he mutters, then grins. "The best lies always have a grain of truth."

"You gave him my room number."

"Uh-huh. And let's review what happened when I did." He sits up now, positively beaming. "He carried me to your bed, saw you in his hoodie, and looked like someone unplugged his soul. That, my dear, is a cinematic arc."

I fold my arms, pacing. "You're ridiculous. That was—messy. And stupid. And risky."

"And wildly effective," he fires back. "Did you see his face? I mean—did you? It was like you short-circuited every wall he's been building since Amsterdam. He looked at you like you were the plot twist he didn't know he was rooting for."

I blink. That hits somewhere I'm not ready for.

Nick isn't done. "You keep acting like you ruined everything. Like this is some hopeless grand tragedy. But you're missing the point—he came."

"So did you," I mutter.

He snorts. "Touché. But I'm serious—he came, he saw, he emotionally combusted. And for once, you didn't back away. You didn't panic. You stood there. You let him see you."

I sit on the edge of the bed. My throat aches.

Nick bumps my knee with his foot. "You think you're failing. But you're actually doing the one thing you swore you couldn't."

I glance at him.

"You're showing up for love. Own that hoodie."

I look down at the sleeves, long over my hands.

He leans back again, grinning up at the ceiling like he's just orchestrated a heist. "God, I'm so proud of myself. I'm on fire really. Let's plan the outfit for the next time you destroy him emotionally".

And we do. Grand plans.

***

Nick nearly chokes on his espresso when I step onto the rooftop.
"Jesus Christ. You're giving hostile takeover, legs for days, and 'I will haunt your dreams in the best possible way. If he doesn't look twice, he's defective."

"I fucking hope he short-circuits," I say, tossing my hair over one shoulder like we didn't plan this — but we did. Obsessively. Down to the exact number of buttons to leave undone.

Today it's Prada loafers — the BFFs of last night's blisters, giving me a real shot at stopping him from running.

Minidress, suit edition. The sandy — not beige — fabric used to belong to a dead man. Some rich guy's three-piece I thrifted, then had re-tailored into this.

Sharp shoulders, softened just enough to make it mine. The blazer hangs off my arm like a technicality — brought purely to adhere to be perceived as beige, but with no intention of ever touching my shoulders.

The fitted vest — nothing underneath — feels exactly right.

High-waisted shorts. Clean lines. Short. Just short enough to showcase the exact angles — hips, thighs, that subtle dip in stride — that made him buffer. Go still. React without realizing he is.

My way of claiming a little of that old-school entitlement — all that space-taking, power-assuming, call-me-sir energy.

Nothing's tight, but everything's deliberate.

Nick hums approvingly. "It's giving: emotionally expensive, and possibly a Me Too allegation or two tucked away."

"Perfect," I say. "Now let's go do trust falls and ruin my life."

On the way down — to film yet another episode of Emotional Vulnerability: August Stomps on My Heart Edition — I check the group chat.

KAT: Tell him your therapist says hi.
SAM: Withhold all warmth. Eye contact is for closers
ELLY: If this were a movie, today's the swelling soundtrack moment. Go ruin him.

I grin into my mug, tell myself I'm not nervous.
I'm not.

***

I am, at best, skimming the surface of today's session. At worst, openly hostile to it.

Some woman with perfect teeth and a headset mic is walking us through "Intentional Empathy Mapping." She gestures at a flip chart like we've all collectively lost the plot. I don't listen. Because August walks in during the intro, and every neuron in my brain switches to alert.

He sits three chairs from me today. Not next to me. But definitely not across the room from me.

His shirt's wrinkled in a way that says he either got up late or didn't sleep at all. There's a fresh scratch across his wrist — barely visible. It anchors me. Reminds me he's not untouchable. Just guarded.

We split into four-person groups. He's in mine and I send flutters of love to the universe.

During an exercise on "vulnerable leadership moments," some guy launches into a monologue about being humbled by a failed start-up.

I tilt my head, deadpan. "Mine was ordering chili oil thinking it was a wellness shot."

August's mouth twitches.

Encouraged, I keep going. "Or maybe the time I led a meeting for ten minutes on mute."

One of the Belgian girls snorts.

August exhales through his nose. Close to a laugh.

Nick catches my eye from his table and slowly, dramatically, fans himself with a name tag.

Then I throw out: "Actually, no, my real leadership breakthrough was realizing every 'open-door policy' came with a lock and an ego."

August lets out half a huff. It's fast, barely audible, but it's a noise.

And I know that sound. It's the same one he made the day I tripped up the gallery stairs and mistook his sister for his girlfriend.

He's fighting it. Hard. But his body's betraying him in pieces.

Progress, Nick texts me from across the room. ONE SMIRK. KEEP PUSHING. GLITTER FAN ON STANDBY.

I text back a single knife emoji.

There's a break right after. Coffee. Croissants. Some small talk I'm blissfully ignorant to. I stand, stretch, and pretend I don't immediately scan for him.

He moves at the same time I do—toward the espresso machine, like fate has a flair for dramatics and caffeine dependency.

My heart kicks, too sharp, too eager. But my stride doesn't break.

If he won't come to me, I'll meet him halfway

We both reach the espresso machine at the same time—because fate is a petty little thing with a flair for comedy.

I don't yield. I lean in, casually confident, like the outfit doesn't have a 10% chance of starting an HR ordeal.

"You look well-rested," I say, tone breezy. Cool. A flick of charm in the air.

He doesn't even look at me at first. Just fills his cup, deliberate. "Someone gave me a workout last night."

My stomach tightens.

He pauses. "Nick, I mean."

I scoff, lips twisting. "Shame. I'm told I'm better."

That gets him—barely. His hand hesitates. Eyes flick to mine, then lower, then away. But not fast enough to hide the flush creeping up the side of his neck.

He doesn't reply. Just walks off with his coffee and whatever resolve he's clinging to.

But his ears?

His ears are definitely pink.

And for now, I'll take the win.

***

At lunch - August's a few seats down, making the Belgian girls giggle like he's hosting a TED Talk on charm. Then—he looks over.

Not a glance. A look. Full eye contact. Too long. My cheeks go up in flames.

I elbow Nick. "He looked."

Nick leans in. "Yeah? Did you give him the vibes back?"

I turn to him and recreate the exact face I gave August. It's half-hopeful, half-drowning possum.

Nick recoils. "Oh no. That's not vibes. That's emotional roadkill."

"I panicked!"

He rubs it in, or keeps me grounded, as he says "You sad-puppy-eyed him."

"NO! Nobody wants to fuck a sad puppy!"

Nick sighs. "Legs for days or not, that's a felony."

We're herded out into the courtyard like corporate cattle for the "cultural exchange challenge," which is—according to the overly enthusiastic facilitator—a scavenger hunt meets team-building meets "fun." Three words that should never be in the same sentence.

We're split into small teams. Somehow, possibly via divine intervention or Nick's unholy influence, I end up partnered with August.

I don't look at Nick, but I feel the smug vibrating off him from thirty feet away. I can already hear the debrief: You're welcome. I manifest in mysterious ways.

August glances over, expression unreadable. If he's annoyed, he hides it well. Too well. Suspiciously well.

We're handed a laminated sheet with riddles, clues, and photo prompts—Barcelona trivia meets escape room energy—and then we're off, half the group scattering like this is a competitive sport. I glance at August. He's already walking.

"So," I say, catching up, "is this one of those situations where we pretend we don't know each other, or are we the high-functioning co-parenting type of non-exes?"

He barely flicks his gaze toward me. "Let's just get through it."

"Classic civil partnership energy it is, then" I mutter.

The first challenge involves finding a tile quote hidden behind an old fountain. I spot it first.

"Ten points to me," I say, smug.

August raises a brow. "It's not Hogwarts."

"Wouldn't have guessed that from your whole sexy-tortured-academic aura."

His mouth twitches. I swear it twitches.

We hit our stride. He's efficient, I'm just her for the view. I misread a map, he reroutes us without a word. I flirt mid-translation, he pretends not to notice. We bicker over the name of a poet, nearly debate ourselves into him giving up entirely—and still, we're in the lead.

We're alone by the chapel wall dissecting the last clue, the rest of the group still ten steps behind and loudly failing at interpreting the poetry tiles. August reads one aloud under his breath, translating like it's muscle memory.

His voice dips low, and something about the way the words roll off his tongue makes my brain short-circuit just a little.

"You sound fluent," I say, smiling. Flirty.

"I am."

"In how many things?" I tilt my head. "Is seduction one of them?"

He gives me a look. One of those devastating, sideways glances that could short out public infrastructure. "You tell me."

And okay. My pulse does something inappropriate.

"Well," I say, stepping slightly closer, "you've successfully bartered, decoded, navigated, and flirted your way through half of Barcelona. I think it's fair to say I'm... mildly impressed."

He nods once, like he's accepting an award. "Mildly. I'll take it."

His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. And it's there — that flicker of something just beneath the surface. Like he's about to drop the act and kiss me against the ancient stone wall.

I lean into it. "You're not going to admit you missed me, are you?"

He tilts his head, flashing that near-smirk with a superiority complex.

"I did miss you," he says, soft. "The version of you who spilled coffee on me. The one I didn't even know the name of."

It takes a second to process — then it hits.

"Wow," I say, blinking. "You really warmed up there for a second. Almost forgot how long you can hold a grudge over coffee and lack of eye contact."

He lifts a brow, deadpan. "No grudges here."

"Oh?" I shoot back. "Funny. The Siberian daggers aimed at my vital organs say otherwise."

He steps in — not close enough to touch, just close enough to make it count.

"You think this is punishment? That this is me holding a grudge?"

I smile, tired. "I think it's the longest warm-up to a real conversation I've ever seen."

That lands. For half a second, something flickers.

Then he takes one step closer, leans in like he's about to say something dangerous — and instead drops it, low and calm, sharpened at the edges.

"It's not Warm-up. Not punishment. Not a grudge, Frederika."
He holds the shortest of breaths, then,
"It's just gratitude. You turned out to be the harshest teacher I've ever had."

And just like that, he walks past me — cool, distant, and violently handsome — like he didn't just flip me inside out with a compliment booby-trapped into a middle finger.

***

I lean against the cool wall to recover, but there's no graceful surrender in sight. No quiet dignity. Just injustice-inticed furiousness. One of my least flattering instincts — and the only one that still feels somewhat honest.

As I clock the other overachievers tailing into our post, I grab August by the wrist and pull him into the closest tucked-away alleyway.

"What the fuck, Frederika," he says, breath catching, genuinely surprised — either by the impending burn on his wrist or my fury-fueled strength.

"Don't pretend you're the only one who's been schooled," I snap.

"You — you — put me through the worst hell of emotional cram school the world has ever seen. You got one lesson? Fine. But you had me racking my brain with questions I didn't even know existed. Every fucking week, another edition of why I'm doing life wrong."

He gives me a look — blank but heavy. The kind that tells me I should turn my volume down by ten. I don't.

"Okay. So this is how you're gonna play it. Fine"

He lifts a brow. Barely. Just enough to say Knock yourself out, and maybe even I'd like to see you try.

"Remember how you asked me why I get sad when you said I don't have a heart — and mad when you said I do?"

He doesn't flinch. Can't tell if it's because he forgot or because he hasn't.

I push through either way.

"That question tore me apart. Because it stabbed at something I've worked really fucking hard to bury. Just hearing you mention my heart triggered a mental slideshow I didn't ask for — of how I almost died from using it. And the guilt..."

"The guilt came in waves. Crashing over me. From how I'd carelessly brought it on myself. From thinking I'd cursed myself. From putting it on my family and closest friends to scrape me off the floor."

I hold his eyes. I can't tell if he wants me to stop or doesn't want me to leave anything out.

"And I kissed you because I didn't have the words back then — or the courage to speak them."

I jab a finger against his chest.

"But you asked me to answer that question. You asked it without even trying — and somehow, at the same time, dared me to want fucking beige - something that didn't scream 'spend-the-night, no names.'"

He doesn't blink. But his jaw's tighter now. So I press again.

"You could've given up. But you didn't. You kept dragging my eyes back to the blackboard."

I pause, just to brace myself for speaking of some of my worst moments,

"You showed me how to let someone in. How to stay with someone crumbling in a mess they didn't cause. How to be someone who takes care of others — and maybe even themselves. You showed me your heart. And it made me want to resurrect mine. You showed me how to lead a bachelor's degree-level-life, while I was barely graduating high school."

Still no words. But the muscle in his cheek jumps.

My voice slips — not breaking, but close enough to know this isn't rehearsed.

"I told you my worst of secrets in the hopes of bringing you just a tiny bit of comfort"

He gives nothing back. Unfazed at best.

And I know I'm not owed a Nobel Prize for emotional honesty, but still—

There's something brutal about the fact that the biggest breakthrough in a decade of therapy gets met with the silent treatment.

"I went beige. Fucking beige. I now want to be the safest version of myself just to make sure I never hurt you again. And you've got nothing to say?"

"I don't know, Frederika. Do beige if that's what you really want. You really don't owe me anything."
He shrugs faintly.
"Just do whatever works for you,"

I laugh, dry and sharp.

"No, what's best for you."

"None of this would've happened if you didn't have the fucking shoulders of an Olympic swimmer."

He's halfway back to the chapel before I can figure out if that was a joke or a cry for help.

I walk back toward the others, spine straight, sunglasses on. Like that conversation didn't just carve something open in me and leave it bleeding in a side alley.

One of the teammates yells something about the final clue — a painfully on-the-nose line about vulnerability being the bridge to connection.

I don't even think. I just yell back:
"I FUCKING HATE EMOTIONAL GROWTH!"

It gets a few laughs. I keep walking.

No pause. No glance back. Especially not at him.

***

I convince Nick I need wine before I let him treat me like the Barbie he never got for Christmas.

Thankfully, the rooftop bar serves ice-cold white wine and just enough breeze to cut through my personal emotional heatwave — maybe the only spot in Barcelona not actively suffocating me.

"So," he says, swirling his glass like a therapist who's read my file too many times. "Wanna walk me through the alleyway meltdown you had with Mr. Ice Veins?"

I groan, tipping my head back. "Let's just say I performed a not-so-beige aggressive one-woman monologue on heartbreak, guilt, and the psychological effects of Olympic swimmer shoulders."

Nick snorts. "Poetic."

"He gave me nothing." I wave my hand. "Like, full-body silence. Blinked once, maybe twice. That was it."

Nick squints at me. "Wait. Nothing?"

"Nothing."
I take a sip from my glass.
"Meanwhile, I'm out there bleeding vulnerability, handing him the beige emotional equivalent of my childhood diary — and he just walks off. Cool as ever. Completely unfazed."

Nick's eyebrows knit together.

"Huh. That's... weird."

"What?"

He takes a sip, then tilts his head.
"Because I swear I saw him smile. After your 'emotional growth' comment."

I blink. "What?"

"Yeah. You yelled it. Everyone laughed. And August..."
He gestures with his glass.
"He didn't just smile. He laughed. Like, teeth and everything."

I stare at him, wine glass paused midair.

"Are you sure?"

Nick nods. "I know a stunned man chuckle when I see one. He looked like he'd been sucker-punched by a compliment wrapped in sarcasm."

I blink again. Replay it.

I'd already walked away. Didn't even look back.
All that — and that's the thing that gets a reaction?

Nick leans forward, smug. "So... who's emotionally stunted now?"