“No,” he said calmly. “This was structural, not performative.”
That word lodged somewhere beneath her ribs.
Structural.
Not surface-level. Not adrenaline. Not glitter and good lighting.Something foundational.
He leaned back slightly, one ankle crossing over the other knee with elegant precision, as he regarded her like choreography he’d once doubted but was now seeing new merit in.
“Joy is easy to perform,” Nick said. “Security isn’t.”
The café noise faded at the edges. Holly felt the truth of that in her bones. She had performed joy before. Performed indifference. Performed detachment. Nick was right, tonight hadn’t been performance.
“I’m not afraid of it anymore,” she admitted, surprising herself with the simplicity of the statement.
“Of him?” Nick asked, watching her across the table.
“Of staying,” she clarified.
That earned her the faintest shift in his posture. It was subtle, but she’d worked with him long enough to recognize when something had landed.
“Good,” he said quietly with a small nod. “Instability is a waste of fucking time.”
She laughed under her breath. “That might be the least romantic endorsement of love I’ve ever received.”
“I’m not interested in romance,” Nick replied. “I’m interested in longevity.”
There it was again. That quiet, relentless focus on what lasts. On what holds under pressure.
“You think this will?” she asked, genuinely curious.
His gaze held hers for a measured second, assessing, weighing, calculating in that infuriatingly precise way of his.
“Nate won’t break under scrutiny,” Nick said. “You need that.”
The certainty in his tone did something strange to her pulse. It wasn’t warmth or softness. It wasrespectfor her, Nate, even for the architecture of what they were building.
“You’ve chosen someone solid,” he added. “He needs the same from you.”
It wasn’t a warning. It was a standard.
Holly felt the glow inside her settling into something calmer, deeper. Not the wild electric buzz of earlier. Something she could stand on.
“You know,” she said, studying him now with equal intent, “most people would have just said ‘I’m happy for you.’”
Nick’s mouth curved, barely.
“Most people are content with pleasant outcomes,” he said. “I prefer excellent ones.”
She smiled at that. Of course he did.
There was something magnetic about the way Nick occupied space. He was utterly self-contained, as though the world adjusted its tempo to match his and not the other way around. He didn’t rush to fill silence, or soften his edges for the comfort of others. Nick existed at a level of exacting expectation and allowed others to rise or fall accordingly.
It occurred to her, not for the first time, that loving him would be a full-contact sport. Thankfully, that wasn’t her road to walk down.
“You’re such a dick,” she told him fondly, with a small smile as she wrapped her hands around her cup.
“At least I’m consistent,” he smirked.
