He shook his head slightly, a sharp breath escaping through his nose. “I know you can. That’s not the point. I just wish…” He trailed off, his voice tinged with frustration. “I wish you didn’t have to.”
I let my hand slide down, fingers brushing his knuckles—the ones still raw from last night’s fight. “Me too,” I admitted. “But we’re in it now. And I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt. I’m not going to pretend I’m okay with the things people are saying. But I trust you. That matters more.”
He took a step closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, the quiet tension in his body. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” he said, low and firm.
And I knew, without question, that he meant it.
There was no fanfare in the way we stood there. No grand gestures. Just the quiet, powerful stillness of two people bracing together for what was still to come. Everything outside those four walls might be twisted and uncertain, but here? Here I felt safe. Seen. Steady.
With him, I wasn’t just surviving. I was fighting, too.
I picked up my phone, my fingers hesitating above the screen as dread curled low in my stomach. I shouldn’t have looked. I knew what was waiting for me—what always waited now. Still, I opened the app and let the avalanche hit. Notifications burst across the screen like firecrackers, but instead of joy, each one felt like a tiny explosion against my chest.
The DMs came first—fast, cruel, anonymous. Words like slut, gold digger, attention whore. Every insult clawed at my skin, trying to sink deeper than I’d let it. I scrolled, hands trembling, the bile rising in my throat. They didn’t know me. They didn’t care to.
“Look at this one,” I said, my voice barely holding together as I turned the screen toward Nikolai. “They’re calling me a gold digger.”
He took the phone from me, and I saw the shift in his expression instantly. His brows drew tight, his mouth a hard line. I could see the heat rise under his skin—like someone had struck a match inside him.
“I’ll break something,” he muttered, gripping the phone like it was Mikel’s throat.
“No.” I snatched it back, firmer than I meant to, but I needed to say it out loud. “If you break, he wins.”
That truth hung between us like something sacred. If I let this spiral destroy me, then Mikel got exactly what he wanted. And I was done letting him hold that kind of power over me.
Nikolai looked at me—really looked—and I saw something flicker in his eyes. It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was pain. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” he said, voice low and tight. “You did nothing wrong.”
“I know,” I said, softer now. “But knowing that doesn’t make it stop.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Just turned away, shoulders tense, radiating fury in waves I didn’t know how to soothe.
Then came a knock at the door, sharp and sudden.
“Cookie!” I jumped up before he could react, chasing the one bright spot this day had promised.
I opened the door to a delivery guy holding a small white box like it might explode. “Delivery for Mina?” he asked, giving me a once-over that said he’d read the headlines too.
“That’s me.” I took the box with both hands like it was made of gold and shut the door.
Back in the kitchen, I climbed onto the counter and opened it with exaggerated reverence. “Here lies my reputation,” I said, holding up the giant cookie like it was a medal. “Saved by chocolate chips.”
Nikolai leaned in, arms crossed, the edge of a smile betraying him. “You’re actually going to eat that?”
I grinned despite myself. “Why wouldn’t I?” I tore off a piece and held it out to him like a peace offering.
He hesitated for only a second before plucking the piece of cookie from my fingers, holding it like it was something wild and unpredictable. His lips quirked in silent reluctance as he took a bite, chewing slowly with the exaggerated caution of someone bracing for the worst.
His expression shifted gradually—first confusion, then intrigue, then… something akin to betrayal. “This is…” He paused, squinting at the half-eaten cookie like it might offer up an explanation. “…an interesting texture.”
I burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that cracked something open inside me. It spilled out of me like I’d been holding it back for too long, echoing through the kitchen, cutting through the thick fog of everything else weighing down the air. Nikolai stared at me for a second, then smirked—because he knew exactly what he’d done. He’d said it on purpose, to make me laugh.
“What?” I grinned, still breathless. “You don’t love cookies now?”
“I can tolerate them,” he said with a deadpan expression, reaching for another piece like a man humoring fate. “If they keep you smiling.”
My heart caught on that—how he said it like it wasn’t a joke, not really. Like my happiness mattered enough to risk eating something with a “weird texture” again. And maybe it was just a bite of sugar and sarcasm, but it felt like more. It felt like care. Like choosing me, even in the smallest ways.
We stood there, side by side in the quiet aftermath of laughter, and something inside me steadied. The world outside was still spinning too fast, still screaming with rumors and lies. But right here, right now? It was just us. Our strange little bubble, fragile but real.
