He glanced over, eyes flickering toward me like he wasn’t sure if I was about to cry, combust, or crawl out the window. “Everything all right?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Just kept staring out the window like if I pretended hard enough, maybe I could trick myself into being okay. Or disappear entirely. Either worked.
The silence stretched between us like taffy—sticky, slow, and impossible to escape.
“Can we go now?” I finally said, my voice sharper than I meant, too brittle around the edges. It came out like a warning, and I instantly hated how small it made me sound.
He didn’t argue. Just turned back to the road, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel. The tension in the car went from simmer to “boiling under the lid of every unspoken feeling ever.”
Did he think this was just a dramatic little detour for me? Like I hadn’t just gotten blindsided by news that the guy who turned me into a bet also cheated on me with tiny dog bike shorts girl?
The engine purred, low and steady, but I felt anything but. My stomach twisted. My skin itched with how not fine I was.
“I know this isn’t easy,” Nikolai said eventually, voice calm, like he didn’t just casually change the entire trajectory of my life by existing in it.
I clenched my jaw. Bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. Because if I opened my mouth now, it wouldn’t be words—it’d be screaming and sobbing and possibly throwing the car manual out the window for dramatic effect.
“You’re not alone in this,” he added, voice softer now. Like he meant it.
But what did that mean? Was he trying to comfort me? Was this guilt? Was this a weird hockey version of atonement?
“Please just drive,” I muttered, trying not to sound like I was shattering. Trying not to let my bottom lip wobble.
He didn’t push. Just nodded once and eased us forward, away from the apartment, the lies, and whatever version of me used to believe Mikel’s mouth over my gut.
And I didn’t know where we were going.
But at least I knew we were gone.
I was still sulking into the passenger seat, arms crossed like a grumpy little statue of emotional instability, when the car took a weird turn.
Literally.
“Uh… this isn’t the way home,” I said, squinting out the window as we passed a neon cow sign and what I was pretty sure was a giant waffle cone statue. "To your place, I mean."
“You like sweets,” Nikolai said simply, as if this were obvious science. “You’re sad. Ice cream helps.”
I blinked. “You think I’m sad because I’m leaving my apartment?”
He gave a small shrug. “You seemed… attached.”
I stared at him, absolutely floored. This man thinks I’m mourning the IKEA furniture and betrayal-scented couch.
I sighed, long and dramatic, and slumped further in my seat. “No. It’s… Don’t worry about it.”
He didn’t ask again. Just parked like this was the most normal mid-meltdown pit stop ever.
We walked in, and the cold air hit me like a second chance. There was a giant chalkboard menu, glittery signage, and free samples waiting like tiny therapy cups.
“Pick something,” I said, already heading toward the counter like I hadn’t emotionally imploded thirty minutes ago.
He just… stood there.
“You have had ice cream before, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, and what’s your favorite?”
