Hopefully.
The address Nico texted me is on a quiet road tucked away from the main traffic, the kind of neighborhood you don’t accidentally end up in unless you belong there or you’re delivering something.
As I turn onto the drive, my chest tightens anyway.
Because this is his house.
Not his office. Not my couch or bedroom. Not my kitchen,227 where he could move through the space like he’d already claimed it.
Actually his.
The road curves, trees thick on either side. Then the stone wall appears, low enough that it doesn’t feel like a prison, but high enough that it does its job. An iron gate sits between two pillars, clean lines, no ornate scrollwork.
I slow to a stop in front of it.
For a second, I stare at the gate like I might’ve typed the address wrong. Like maybe this is someone else’s house, and I’m about to embarrass myself in a whole new way.
Then a small light blinks above the keypad.
The gate opens smoothly and quietly, like it’s expecting me.
My stomach flips.
I drive through, and the gate closes behind me with a finality that makes me swallow hard. The driveway is long, lined on both sides with colorful bursts of flowers. Gravel crunches under the tires. Landscaping is manicured without being fussy—green hedges, mature trees, beds of flowers that look like someone actually wants them there, not just arranged to impress.
The house appears around the bend, and my foot eases off the gas.
It’s… disarming.
Not sleek, not cold, not some glass-and-steel billionaire fortress perched above the world.
It’s stone and warm wood. Wide and grounded. Windows glowing from within like the house itself is breathing.
A deep porch stretches across the front with comfortable, inviting seating, the kind where someone might sit barefoot with a cold drink on a hot summer night.
It doesn’t posture.
It welcomes.
There’s a softness to the lines—rounded edges, a sloping roofline, the kind of shape that feels built for living, not impressing.
For some reason, I expected something stark. Defensive. Impenetrable.
Something that matched the sharp edges Nico shows the world.
This isn’t that.
This feels like it belongs to someone who wants to come home.
Nico’s home. I have a sense of something between curiosity and relief.
I pull up near the steps leading to the double-front doors and kill the engine. My hands stay on the wheel for a second longer than they need to, gripping.
Okay.
I can do this.
I get out and pop the trunk.
