We sit there like that for several moments, my ear against the heart beating solidly under his ribs, my head tucked under his chin.
“I love my sister,” I tell the car.
He nods, arms tightening just slightly.
“I hate Tom.”
He snorts.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
Nico turns my chin, tilts my face up to meet his. He presses a kiss, soft and gentle and knowing, against my lips. “Lie.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Annie
The airin Miami is thick with heat and salt and the promise of trouble. I step out of the car and take a deep breath, the warm wind curling through my hair like a dare. I adjust my sunglasses and throw Nico a look over my shoulder that says,What now?He just smiles, slow and knowing, as he rounds the car to meet me on the sidewalk.
We don’t have a plan. That’s the point.
I used to live without plans. That was my whole thing—chasing the thrill, making wild decisions, doing whatever the hell I wanted, never thinking past the next hour. And it got me into some serious shit. But it also gave me some of the best stories of my life, and today I find myself feeling… proud of them. And now, here, with Nico’s hand warm and steady at the small of my back, it doesn’t feel reckless. It doesn’t feel like I’m bracing for fallout. It feels like balance, or like maybe spontaneity isn’t dangerous when it’s built on trust.
And it’s not that my brain has gone quiet. It still zings and sparks with all the old ridiculousness. But with him beside me, grinning like mad, I can finally hear the part of me that says,You’re okay. This is good. You’re not screwing it up.
He takes me shopping. Not like a weird sugar daddy—or, you know what, maybe just like that. I think he likes paying for me or taking care of me. But he says, “Let’s go get some clothes for dinner.”
The boutique we stumble upon is sleek and intimidating in that minimalist, art-gallery way, but Nico makes it easy by giving each mannequin ridiculous names and fake backstories in his fake academic voice. I try on dresses I’d never normally pick. Soft, muted colors. Conservative necklines. But also something gauzy and gold that moves like water when I walk.
He waits outside the dressing room like a carved statue, impossibly gorgeous and annoyingly relaxed, his eyes locked on me with something that makes my stomach dip and my heart ache. When I step out in the gold dress, he doesn’t say a word. He just stands, takes my hand, and twirls me slowly in front of the mirror.
And for a second—I see it. What he sees. Not “nothing” or a mess or a problem or a mistake waiting to happen. But someone beautiful. There is someone there in the mirror.
That dress goes into the bag.
I buy him a shirt, too. Crisp white, fitted just right across his shoulders. He grumbles, but he lets me, and there’s something so warm in his smile I want to wrap myself in it.
Dinner is at some candlelit spot with oysters on ice and soft jazz playing somewhere just out of sight. We sit outside under tall, lazy palm trees, my bare leg brushing his beneath the table. I order something just because I like the name. He watches me lick aioli off my finger and doesn't bother pretending it’s not doing things to him.
We don’t talk about anything heavy. Not tonight. I laugh too loudly. My heels pinch, but I don’t care. I feel buoyant, like I could float all the way down the block.
We find the club by accident. Music bleeds out into the street, low and hot and magnetic. Inside, it’s all hips and rhythm, lights flickering like heartbeat. I hover at the edge of the dance floor, hesitating—until Nico takes my hand.
He doesn’t ask. Just pulls me in.
I still don’t fucking know bachata. I barely know how to sway with rhythm. But I know the way his hand fits against the small of my back, the way his thigh presses between mine, the way his breath curls against my cheek as we move.
And I let go.
I let myself be led. Let myself be seen. Let myself be the girl who gets spun and dipped and kissed in the middle of a dance floor. I let myself be the kind of girl who dances too close in a hot club in a city she doesn’t know, wearing a dress that shimmers and clings and makes her feel golden. And yes, I’ve done that before, countless times, but never with a man so good. So safe.
There are moments—tiny stabs—where the self-doubt claws back in. You’re too much. He’s not going to stay. You’re making another impulsive mistake, and you’ll regret it, just like always. But then Nico’s lips brush the curve of my shoulder, and that noise quiets down.
I’m not disappearing this time. I’m not shrinking to fit someone else’s version of lovable. I’m expanding. Becoming.
I’m having fun.
I trust myself to hold this joy without breaking it.
