Not Nothing. —NickMiller
i can hardly ever find anything good to read about him, so i tried. hope y’all like this!!
The loft doesn’t feel like it just hosted a party. It feels like it’s holding its breath.
The lights are low, most of them turned off—probably by someone who meant to be responsible and got distracted halfway through.
The air is warm and faintly sweet with leftover alcohol and perfume, heavy with bad decisions.
You step carefully over a pair of heels by the couch. Jess is asleep there, curled awkwardly, a throw blanket half on, half off her shoulder.
Someone—definitely Winston—drew a tiny mustache on Schmidt with a marker before dragging him to the couch for safety.
You’re certain Winston is grinning to himself somewhere in his room right now.
You glance at Schmidt’s face and smirk, silently grading the artwork: A for effort. F for execution.
Your body is tired, but your brain refuses to follow.
Nick is already at the counter, leaning against it, staring down at a beer bottle like it’s about to confess something. His tie is gone, sleeves rolled up, hair messier than usual.
He looks like the version of himself that only shows up when the night’s almost over.
“You good?” he asks, still not looking up.
You shrug, grabbing a cup and realizing there’s nothing left in it. “Too wired to sleep.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, already pouring you a drink without asking, like his body knows the move better than he does.
You notice the ease of it — the familiarity.
“Same. My brain’s still doing reruns of every dumb thing I said tonight.”
“That was most of the things you said.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
He looks back down at the counter, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“I’m a delicate flower, okay? I’m fragile right now. Don’t kick a man when he’s down.”
You smile at him, soft and helpless, like you don’t quite know how to stop yourself.
He finally looks at you, eyes softer now that the audience is gone, as if he’s testing whether this moment can exist without breaking anything.
Parties always make him defensive—jokes louder, movements bigger.
This version of Nick feels more real, like the volume finally got turned down.
“You wanna… sit?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen table, like it might reject him.
You hesitate for half a second, then sit across from him.
You fold your arms on the table, half defensive, half curious. Your knees itch to bounce, but you keep them still — trying to look composed while silently calculating whether his awkward vibe matches yours.
For a while, it’s just small talk. Complaints about Schmidt. A half-hearted argument about whether raccoons have “bad vibes.” Nick insists they’re “untrustworthy.” You argue they’re just misunderstood. He admits he once lost a sandwich to one and has never forgiven them.
You both talk too much and say nothing, padding the space with words so neither of you has to be the first to stop pretending things are normal.
The words run out anyway.
Nick goes quiet.
“Okay,” he says finally. “This is probably gonna sound stupid.”
“Strong start.”
He shakes his head, annoyed at himself. “Do you ever—” He stops. Tries again. “Do you ever feel like you’re just… bad at people?”
Your chest tightens just a little. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he gestures vaguely, nearly knocking over his drink, “everyone else seems to know when to say things. Or not say things. And I’m just—” He shakes his head. “I either say too much or I say nothing and then it’s too late.”
You know this tone. It’s the one he only uses when he’s drunk enough to stop pretending.
You open your mouth, then close it again.
“Yeah,” you say finally, it comes out quieter than you meant. “I don’t usually know what I’m doing either. I just kind of… do it. And hope I’m not ruining anything.”
He looks up then. Really looks. Holds your face in his gaze like he didn’t expect you to say that.
“See,” he says, lifting a finger to point at you, eyes locking on yours. “That. That’s why I like you.”
Your brain blanks. Completely.
“Oh,” you say, and immediately regret it. “I mean—not ‘oh’ like that’s bad. Just—”
“No, wait—” he cuts in, waving a hand. “I don’t mean—well, I do, but not in a—God. Not in a creepy way. Or—”
He exhales, rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe this is creepy. I don’t know. I’m bad at this.”
He glances at you, then away. “You’re making this worse by being calm.”
Your smile falters. You can feel the moment tip into something real.
“You’re doing great,” you say anyway, even as your fingers curl into the edge of the table like you need something to hold onto.
He laughs, short and disbelieving. “You’re lying.”
You hesitate. Just a fraction.
“Only a little.”
You don’t quite meet his eyes when you say it.
He takes a drink. Then another. His hand trembles slightly as he sets the bottle down a little harder than he needs to.
“What I’m trying to say is—” He swallows. “You make things quieter.”
You blink, caught off guard.
“When you’re around,” he adds quickly. “Not like—you’re boring. I don’t mean that. I mean—” He taps his temple. “This. It shuts up. Not completely. But enough.”
A beat.
“And that does not happen. Ever.”
Nick presses his face into his hands briefly, trying to steady himself, before letting them fall into his lap. He goes very still.
You hesitate, words catching in your throat. Finally, you whisper,
“I… like that.”
You wonder how long he’s been carrying that. Whether this is honesty—or just the bourbon loosening something he usually keeps locked up.
You glance around—the empty bottles, the half-dark kitchen—and at Jess and Schmidt, making sure they’re asleep, before turning back to Nick.
“I like you best like this,” you say, then wince a little. “That sounded… more intense than I meant.”
Nick looks up, caught off guard. “Like… what?”
You gesture vaguely, mirroring him without meaning to. “It’s just— after. When everyone’s gone and nobody’s performing.”
Something in his shoulders loosens.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. Then, softer, “Me too.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath all night—like your words finally landed somewhere soft instead of breaking him.
You stand before you overthink it and pull your chair around the corner of the table, dragging it right next to his.
Nick stiffens. Just for a second.
His eyes flick up, sharp with instinct—like he’s bracing for a punch or a joke or a reason to retreat.
Then he realizes you’re not leaving.
His shoulders drop.
You take the bottle from his hand and set it aside. You sit back down, close enough that your knees brush against his.
“For what it’s worth,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “you don’t scare me.”
His breath catches. “You should be smarter than that,” he says, almost to himself.
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I’m not.”
For a long moment, he just looks at you. Like he’s trying to memorize your face in case he needs it later.
You notice the small details—the way his eyes soften, the little hesitations.
“Can I do something?” he asks quietly.
You nod.
He leans forward slowly, giving you time to pull back, and rests his forehead against yours anyway.
Warm and solid, his hair brushes lightly against your skin, and you feel his uneven breaths against your own.
Neither of you moves.
The space between you feels fragile — like it would shatter if either of you breathed wrong.
“I don’t know what this is, and I hate that,” he says.
“I hate not knowing things — which is stupid, because I don’t know anything. Ever. But still.”
Something in you flinches.
“You’re just saying that,” you murmur, quieter, almost to yourself.
His mouth opens. Closes.
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t make it nothing.” He pulls back a fraction, just enough to catch your gaze.
“I mean it.”
“But why now?” you ask softly, almost careful with it.
“Because I’m terrified,” he says, like he hates that the word exists.
“And it’s easier to say it like this. With whiskey. At three in the morning. When I can —“ He shrugs. “When I can pretend it doesn’t count.”
Your throat feels tight. “And tomorrow?”
He swallows. “Tomorrow I’m probably gonna make a joke. Or avoid you. Or make a joke while avoiding you. I’m very versatile.”
He tries to give you a small, lopsided smirk, but it dies when he sees your face. You don't laugh. You don't even smile.
You nod slowly, like you’re absorbing his words.
Like they don’t sting.
“Okay.”
Nick blinks. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” You stand, pushing your chair back gently. No dramatics. No anger. Just quiet resolve. “If it doesn’t count, then I shouldn’t be here for it.”
His brow furrows. “Wait—what?”
You move toward the hallway, heart pounding, hands steady only because you refuse to let him see them shake.
“I don’t want to be someone you get to be honest with only when you’re drunk,” you say carefully. “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and have you look through me like this never happened.”
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops. His voice drops. “That’s not what I meant.”
You pause, but you don’t turn around.
“Then what did you mean?” you ask softly. “Because it sounded like you were already practicing how to erase this.”
Silence.
Then—
“Hey.”
His voice is closer now. Too close.
You feel it before you see it: his presence behind you, tense and unsteady.
“Don’t leave.”
Not joking. Not deflecting.
Real.
You turn slowly. He’s standing there like he’s bracing for impact, eyes wide, shoulders tight, hands curled at his sides, fighting the instinct to grab you and the fear that he shouldn’t.
He swallows. “If I let this count—really count—“ he says, voice tight, “then I can’t pretend I didn’t feel it. And I don’t know how to do that without screwing it up.”
You study him for a long moment. The fear in his eyes isn’t performative. It’s raw. Earnest. Ugly in the way real fear is.
You take a deep breath.
“I hope you figure it out,” you say quietly. “Before it’s too late.”
His brow furrows. “What does that—”
“Good night, Nick.”
You don’t wait for an answer.
Behind you, he stays very still—like moving might make the moment real in a way he’s not ready for.
And for the first time, it’s not you walking away from something unfinished.
It’s him—standing there—realizing that if he doesn’t move soon, he’s going to lose it.
⸻
Morning in the loft is never gentle.
It arrives loudly, with the sound of Schmidt’s voice echoing from somewhere down the hall.
“Why is there a mustache on my face?!”
The bathroom sink blasts on.
“It’s not coming off! Who did this? What did you use, wall paint?!”
Jess’s voice floats in next, bright and invasive. “Good MORNING, loft!”
Winston answers her calmly with something about “respecting the morning energy,” which does not help.
But there’s a smile tugging at his mouth, shoulders shaking as he fights a laugh, staring anywhere but Schmidt.
He’s completely, unmistakably proud of himself.
Your eyes flutter open to light you didn’t consent to.
Your head doesn’t hurt. That almost makes it worse.
You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night in pieces you didn’t ask for: his forehead against yours, the way his voice sounded when he said don’t leave, the stillness behind you when you did.
Your stomach flips.
You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The loft looks normal. Painfully normal. Your shoes are by the door. Your phone’s on the nightstand. No sign that something fundamentally shifted in the universe at 3 a.m.
Except the faint smell of him still lingers in the air, and your fingers twitch once, as if reaching for a ghost.
You hear him before you see him.
“Okay, who moved my keys and replaced them with fake keys that don’t unlock anything?”
That’s Nick. Fully awake. Defensive. Annoyed at inanimate objects. Back in his armor.
You hesitate, then step out of your room.
He’s in the kitchen in an old gray T-shirt, hair flatter than usual but still doing that stupid thing where it refuses to behave.
You scan the room on instinct, as if someone might still appear and save you from this.
No one does.
It’s just you and Nick, standing on opposite sides of the morning, like that was always how this moment was going to end.
For half a second, your eyes meet.
Something flickers across his face—recognition, panic, something softer that vanishes almost immediately.
“Hey,” he says, too casual, like the word is armor. “Morning.”
“Morning,” you reply, pouring yourself a glass of water and taking a slow sip.
There’s a pause. A strange, suspended one, like you both reached the same step and stopped short.
Then Nick looks away.
He turns back to the counter like the cabinets are suddenly fascinating, like they might explain themselves if he stares long enough.
“Crazy night, huh?” he blurts, clearing his throat, his voice a little too high. “I mean—not crazy. Normal. Regular amount of night. Totally normal.”
You blink at him, caught off guard by his flustered state, and a small, reluctant smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah… pretty normal,” you say, even as your stomach flips in a way that definitely isn’t.
He nods too fast. “Right. Cool.”
He shoves the keys into his pocket, takes them back out, sets them down again. You watch him do it, the restless energy, the way his hands never quite know where to land.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m gonna—uh—grab a shower. Or coffee. Or both. Not at the same time. That’d be… bad.”
“Sounds dangerous,” you say.
“Extremely,” he agrees.
He starts to walk past you to leave the kitchen, but as he does, his shoulder brushes yours—solid and warm.
He hitches a breath and stops mid-step, caught, side-by-side with you. His mouth opens, like he wants to say something, but no words come out.
Somewhere behind you, a chair shifts.
You don’t turn around—but you suddenly feel very aware of how close you are. Your fingers twitch, almost reaching for him, then curl tight at your sides.
Then he clears his throat, the moment breaks, and he keeps walking, leaving the spot where his shoulder hit yours feeling unnaturally hot.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the loft wake up around you.
Schmidt’s voice gets louder again. Jess laughs at something you didn’t hear. Winston murmurs something gentle to his cat in the hallway. The normalcy presses in, too bright, too fast.
You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, your shoulders finally slumping.
It’s the classic Nick Miller maneuver: he gives you honesty and then bolts before the consequences catch up.
He doesn’t come back right away.
When he does, he’s dressed, shoes on, jacket half-zipped like he couldn’t decide whether to commit.
“I’m heading out,” he announces to the room.
Jess looks up from the couch, suspicious. “Out where?”
“Bar,” he says. “Important… bar things. Checks… uh… business-y things.” He clears his throat like that made perfect sense.
Schmidt squints at him. “It is ten thirty in the morning.”
“Exactly,” Nick says, eyes flicking briefly to you before darting away like he just remembered the floor might be lava. “That’s when bars are… um… vulnerable. Yeah. Very vulnerable.”
Winston glances between you and Nick, eyebrows knitting together just slightly. “You okay, man?”
Nick nods too fast. “Yeah. Yep. Thriving. Absolutely crushing today.”
He grabs his wallet, pauses mid-step, then—finally—looks at you. Something quick flickers in his eyes—recognition, hesitation, maybe even… something softer. Then it’s gone.
“See you later,” he blurts, like he’s relieved to get the words out at all.
“Later,” you echo, careful not to give him anything he might drop.
He starts toward the door, stops halfway, turns back, clears his throat again, then mutters,
“Uh… or maybe… don’t wait up. Or do. Whatever. I—ugh, bye.”
The door clicks behind him.
He exhales, long and shaky, staring at it like it might open again if he waits long enough.
It doesn’t.
“Idiot,” he mutters.
“Yeah, just leave. Great plan. Real brave.”
You watch the door after it closes and feel something small settle in your chest.
Not shock.
Just confirmation.
Jess watches the door for a moment, then slowly turns to you.
“…Did something happen last night?” she asks, gentle but very much not fooled.
You shrug, careful. “Not really.”
“Mmm,” she hums. “Because that was a lot of… movement for a man who hates mornings.”
Schmidt snorts. “He fled.”
“He did not flee,” Jess protests.
“He absolutely fled,” Schmidt insists. “I know a retreat when I see one. I invented them.”
Winston tilts his head, eyes flicking to you and lingering there a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah… no. He only does that when he’s avoiding something.”
There’s a beat.
Jess, Schmidt, and Winston exchange a look — the kind that doesn’t need words.
Winston’s eyebrows lift.
Schmidt’s mouth curves.
Jess claps her hands once, like a woman who has decided something.
You suddenly feel like you missed a meeting you didn’t know you were invited to.
—
Nick comes back sometime in the afternoon.
You know it’s him because the door doesn’t slam. It closes carefully, like he’s trying not to disturb the air itself.
You’re at the table, pretending to read something you’ve already gone over twice.
Nick doesn’t look at you.
Every step seems measured, like he’s walking through a minefield of his own emotions— afraid of stepping too close to you. For a second, you hope he’ll say something—anything—but then he just turns and heads straight down the hall.
The moment passes without resolution, the way most things do here— and eventually the afternoon settles back into its quiet rhythm.
Time moves forward without asking anyone if they’re ready.
The loft smells faintly of garlic and something burning.
Jess is bouncing between the stove and the counter, overly excited about the dinner she insisted on hosting. She swears it’s under control, which somehow makes Schmidt more nervous.
He takes one look at the pan and steps in without asking, adjusting the heat like this was inevitable.
Winston offers encouragement from a safe distance, moral support only.
That leaves you to set the table, grounding yourself in the familiar chaos of the loft.
Nick lurks.
Not helping. Not leaving. Just existing in doorways and corners like he’s unsure where he’s allowed to stand.
Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes sharp but darting away when you meet them, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he actually looks.
The buzz of the door cuts through the noise.
“Oh! That’s Alex!” Jess says, already halfway to the door. She glances back at you, grinning. “And just so you know, he’s very cute. Like—responsibly cute.”
Nick lets out a soft scoff, barely audible.
“That’s not even a real category.”
Alex steps inside with a bottle of wine and an easy smile, tall, relaxed, the kind of guy who probably pays his taxes on time and owns more than one scarf. He shakes hands, compliments the loft like he means it.
Alex smiles at you, open and warm. “Nice to finally meet you. Jess talks about you all the time.”
You laugh, a little surprised. “Hopefully not the embarrassing stuff.”
“Oh, definitely the embarrassing stuff,” Jess says cheerfully.
Dinner gets underway. Everyone crowds around the table, knees knocking, elbows bumping. Nick is sitting beside you. Alex ends up sitting across from you, close enough that his foot brushes yours under the table.
“Sorry,” he says automatically.
“No worries.”
Nick sees it.
He doesn’t react right away. His fork pauses halfway to his mouth—just long enough to register, not long enough to explain. He sets it down. Picks it back up. His jaw tightens, barely there, but it’s enough.
The tension radiates from him quietly, but you feel it like electricity through the table.
Schmidt notices.
He clocks Nick’s fork stopping midair. Files it away. Then, with the precision of someone choosing a weapon, he looks back at you and Alex.
“You know,” he says pleasantly, “you two seem… alike.”
Alex looks up, surprised, then smiles. “Yeah?”
“Emotionally available. Moisturized. Capable of owning more than one plate.”
Nick coughs briefly, a bite catching in his throat. He leans just enough toward Schmidt to keep his voice low.
“I’m gonna kill you,” he murmurs.
Schmidt doesn’t look at him. His mouth curves, satisfied.
“Coward,” he says softly, lifting his glass.
Across the table, Alex nods, unfazed. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s easy to talk to.”
You give Alex a small, polite smile.
Nick reaches for his drink and takes a swallow that’s too fast, like he’s trying to drown the thought before it settles. The glass clicks against the table a beat too hard.
You catch the way his eyes flick to you after, quick and uncertain, like he’s checking to see if you noticed.
A small hesitation. A breath.
Jess’s eyes flick between you and Nick, something calculating settling in.
“Nick,” she says lightly, too lightly. “You okay?”
“Fine!” Nick says. His voice is an octave too high. “I’m great. I’m just… thinking about bread. It’s a very complex carb, Jess. People don't give it enough credit.”
Nick reaches into the basket and shoves an entire piece of sourdough into his mouth at once. It is a lot of bread. He can't chew. He just sits there, glaring at Alex with bulging cheeks like a very angry squirrel.
Winston nods solemnly. “He’s very passionate about the sourdough arts. It’s a whole thing.”
Schmidt snorts into his drink.
Winston leans toward Schmidt. “He’s spiraling.”
At some point, Alex reaches for the salt and his hand brushes yours. You barely react—just a quick smile, a polite shift.
Nick reacts immediately.
His fork clatters against his plate.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Sorry.”
Everyone freezes for a beat.
You look at him. He won’t meet your eyes.
The room feels suddenly too small, too aware of itself. The tension isn’t loud—it’s tight, coiled, pressing against the edges of the table.
Jess finally breaks it. She glances at Nick’s slumped shoulders and forced calm. “Okay!” she says brightly. “Dessert?”
Nick looks up at you, like he’s about to say something, then looks away.
He pushes back his chair. “I’m gonna—uh—get some air.”
He stands too fast, knocking his chair back.
You watch him go, heart thudding, the door closing behind him a little harder than necessary.
Silence lingers.
Alex glances after him, then back at you, brows knit. “Did I… do something?”
You shake your head, forcing a small smile. “No. He’s just… like that.”
But Winston watches you carefully.
Schmidt and Jess too.
Because whatever that was—it wasn’t nothing.
Nick steps out onto the little fire escape, the door clicking shut behind him, the cold night air hitting his face like a reprimand. He grips the railing, knuckles whitening, and exhales hard.
“Get it together,” he mutters to himself. “You’re being insane.”
He stares out at the street, traffic crawling below, lights flickering. Normally, this helps. Normally, the city reminds him he’s just one guy with dumb feelings and worse coping mechanisms.
Tonight, it doesn’t work.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool metal railing, breathing through it like he’s trying not to bolt.
A shiver runs through him, cold and stubborn, that has nothing to do with the air.
His mind replays the night before against his will: the kitchen, the quiet, your knees brushing his, your voice telling him he didn’t scare you.
You should be smarter than that, he’d said.
God, he wishes he were.
A wave of panic hits him—he could go back in, talk, grab your hand, say something stupid—but he knows he’d screw it up. So he stays here, hugging the railing like it’s a lifeboat, silently cursing himself for caring this much.
The railing trembles under his grip, and for a moment he wonders if just leaning over and screaming would feel better. Then he decides no, probably not.
Inside, dinner continues — slightly off-balance now, like everyone’s sitting in the aftermath of something they didn’t fully witness.
After a while, Alex leaves. The loft exhales, or maybe it just pretends to.
Nick doesn’t come back. You hear his door close softly down the hall, quieter than usual, like he’s trying not to announce himself. As if that somehow could helps.
It doesn’t.
The room feels… different now. Too light. Too still. Like the air’s thicker somehow, harder to breathe in without thinking about it.
No one talks for a second.
Then everyone looks at you. Not obviously. Not all at once. Just flickers of attention—eyes catching yours briefly, then darting away. Little checks.
Like you might explain it.
Like you might translate whatever just happened at that table.
But there’s nothing to explain.
Nothing you could say that wouldn’t sound stupid out loud.
So you just shrug, small and casual, like it doesn’t matter nearly as much as it does.
Like your chest doesn’t feel tight.
Like you’re not still thinking about the way his forehead rested against yours, warm and careful, as if you were something breakable.
You almost look down the hall toward his door.
You don’t.
Instead, you turn away before you can talk yourself into something stupid and slip quietly to your room, closing the door behind you as gently as you can.
The click echoes anyway, a small, lonely sound that feels too much like the end of a sentence you weren’t ready to finish.
Down the hall, voices drift through the walls.
Jess paces—each step a drumbeat of concern.
“I just… I want to talk to them,” she says, voice tight with concern. “Both of them. Like, figure out what’s going on.”
Schmidt sighs, the long, suffering kind. “Jess. No. This is above our pay grade. Let them breathe.”
Winston hums in agreement, leaning against the counter. “Yeah. Step back. Let the storm do its thing.”
Jess huffs, clearly unsatisfied. “But I’m their friend! I’m allowed to interfere!”
“Allowed,” Schmidt corrects, “does not equal wise. They need space, Jess. Trust me.”
“Fine,” she mutters, hands on her hips, clearly still simmering.
After that, everything settles into a strange, almost too-quiet normalcy — the fridge humming, pipes creaking, someone opening a cabinet — the usual sounds of the loft going on like nothing cracked open tonight, like nobody’s heart didn’t quietly rearrange itself at the kitchen table.
You sit on the edge of your bed and stare at the wall you share with Nick’s room.
It feels unfair how thin it is.
If he coughs, you’ll hear it.
If he moves around, you’ll know.
If he laughs at something dumb on his phone, it’ll drift right through the drywall like always.
So close it almost feels cruel.
You wait anyway.
For footsteps.
For the door opening.
For a knock you already know isn’t coming.
Nothing happens.
The quiet stretches out, heavy and unmoving.
And just when you’ve convinced yourself this is it — you hear a door click open down the hall.
Your heart stutters, sharp and immediate, like it was waiting for permission to hope.
Footsteps follow.
Slow. Careful. Almost hesitant.
Not Nick’s usual half-asleep shuffle but something more deliberate, like each step had to be negotiated, like he was arguing with himself silently the entire way down the hall.
And then—
Nick.
He lingers in your doorway, a shadow framed by the hall light, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
His eyes flick around the room — the desk, the floor, the wall — anywhere but you, like he’s still weighing if it’s too late to turn around and pretend this was a bad idea.
“…Hey,” he mutters.
His voice is low. Rougher than he means it to be.
“Hey.”
The word barely makes it across the room.
He steps inside like he is entering someone else’s apartment instead of the place he’s lived for years, movements quiet, almost apologetic.
He looks tired.
Like he’d spent the last few hours arguing with himself and lost.
He closes the door gently and leans back against it for a second, like he needs the support just to stay standing there with you.
“I… uh…” He winces at himself. “I didn’t want to leave it like before.”
A beat.
“I know I bailed.”
A small shrug. Barely there.
“Not exactly my best move.”
You swallow, fingers curling into the blanket.
“I noticed.”
Not sharp, not gentle—just true.
He pushes off the door and drifts closer, slow enough to give you time to stop him.
You don’t.
“…I needed to see you,” he says softly. “Just to— I don’t know. Make sure you’re okay.”
His eyes lift to yours.
“And to make sure we’re still… us.”
He stops himself, frustrated, like even saying it out loud is a risk.
Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts, you look down so he can’t see it.
“I’m okay,” you say — and the lie doesn’t quite stick.
He nods like he hears it anyway.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, leaving space that feels intentional.
“I…” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes unfocused. “I like how things are.”
The words come out slow, careful, like he’s stepping across thin ice.
“I like the loft. I like… us. The whole dumb little family thing we got going on.”
A beat. His voice drops.
“And just… you being there. In the kitchen. On the couch. Around.”
His eyes stay on his hands.
“It’s stupid, but when you’re not there, the whole place feels off. Like somebody moved the furniture an inch and now I keep bumping into everything.”
Your chest tightens quietly.
“And you’re important to me.” he adds, softer.
“And I didn’t wanna screw that up by, you know…” he gestures vaguely between you, frustrated at the lack of vocabulary, “…doing the thing where I realize I care and then immediately ruin it.”
He swallows.
“And I hated the way that guy looked at you.”
He says it flat. Honest.
“I hated it because he looked… easy. He looked like a guy who doesn’t have a million thoughts screaming at him at once. And me? Even just seeing you? I feel like I’m gonna lose it.”
His jaw tightens.
“And I spent the whole day trying to be mad at you instead of admitting I wanted to be that guy for you. The one who actually knows what to say.”
“Nick,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the noise in his head. “I don't care about Alex. I don't care about 'easy.' I don't care about anyone but you.”
He freezes, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp hitch.
“That is a terrible choice,” he says, a small, lopsided smile finally breaking through the panic.
“But I’ll take it. I’m claiming it. It’s mine now.”
He leans in closer, the humor fading into something raw and terrifyingly real.
“I’m not going to disappear,” he whispers.
“I’m not good at this. I’m gonna screw it up. I’m probably going to make a joke about something wildly inappropriate in five minutes because this much honesty makes my skin feel itchy—but I’m not going to look through you.”
He exhales. Not all the way — but enough.
“That’s not who I want to be.”
You feel your chest tighten, and then loosen, all at once.
You reach out, almost without thinking, letting your fingers brush against his. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he catches your hand, holding it gently but firmly, like he’s grounding himself through you.
Nick leans in slowly, giving you time. His forehead rests against yours, familiar and steady.
“I like you,” he murmurs, just a breath, but it lands fully in your chest.
You close the last bit of distance, pressing your hand over his cheek, feeling the rough warmth of him there, and whisper back, “I like you too.“
He lets out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping from his ears.
“Good,” he mutters, a bit of that familiar Miller grit returning to his voice. “Because that was my best material. I don’t have a Plan B.”
The next movement is natural, inevitable. Nick tilts his head slightly, and your lips meet. Soft at first, cautious — then steadier, like neither of you wants to be the first to pull away.
He slides one hand to your waist, steadying himself, as if proving to himself that this is real, that you’re real, that you’re here.
You rest your other hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm, anchoring both of you in this moment.
When you finally pull back, just enough to breathe, his eyes are shining.
“I’m here,” he says simply. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smile, softly, the kind that reaches your eyes, and nod. “I know.”
“I mean,” he adds, awkwardness creeping back in, “I might get water.”
A small smile.
“But I’ll come back.”
And for the first time tonight, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy.
It doesn’t feel empty either.
Nick leans in again, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead this time, and it feels like a promise, quiet and unshakable.
No words needed. Nothing else matters now.
You just sit there together, finally letting the world fade, letting it be just the two of you, fully and completely, at last.
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