This chapter is written in Paxton's POV. Please enjoy reading this chapter. <333

My days blended together in a repetitive cycle, but Nicolai's behavior was too hard to miss. It was like watching a house collapse, piece by piece, and pretending it wasn't happening.

For the first time in years, he didn't pack the silence with cutting remarks or that typical businesslike aloofness.

He had gone into a routine so automatic it was nearly robotic.

Each morning, he left for work without a word, his face white with fatigue. By evening, he returned just as silently, slipping into the guestroom and closing the door behind him like a fortress.

The week dragged on, heavy with a tension I couldn't shake. Every corner of the apartment seemed to carry traces of his absence, even when he was physically there. It was disarming, almost maddening, to see someone so larger-than-life reduced to a shadow of himself.

Nicolai had always been irritatingly composed, his effortless charisma pulling people toward him whether they wanted to be or not. His bright brown eyes used to gleam with intelligence—always calculating, always one step ahead. He had that perpetual just-out-of-bed look, like he couldn't be bothered to fix his hair but somehow made it work.

And that smile—I hated it the most. Hated how warm it was, how it could disarm even my sharpest remarks. It was infuriatingly genuine, like he didn't just know he was better than everyone, but also didn't care to prove it.

But now? Now he looked like a stranger.

The green of his eyes had dulled, their usual sharpness replaced with a vacant, glassy sheen. His skin was paler, almost sickly, and dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises. His face, once so animated—smirking, sneering, teasing—was slack, drained of expression.

Every time he shuffled into the kitchen, aimlessly opening the fridge like he'd forgotten what food was, I told myself it wasn't my problem. Except my mind wouldn't shut up about it. It wasn't guilt—it couldn't be. Just... irritation. Yeah, that was it.

By the fifth day, it became unbearable.

I caught Nicolai sitting at the dining table in the dim light of the kitchen, a half-eaten piece of toast on his plate and a cup of coffee gone cold in his hands. He just sat there, staring at nothing, fingers wrapped loosely around the mug like he'd forgotten he was even holding it.

Lingering in the doorway, I took in the sight, my chest tightening. His shoulders were slumped, his head slightly bowed, the soft light casting harsh shadows on the hollows of his cheeks.

He looked... broken.

It wasn't just tiredness or sadness—it was something deeper, something gnawing that made my stomach twist. I hated the guy, but I didn't want to see him turn into this empty shell. I still craved the thrill of our mind games, but only if Nicolai could meet me as an equal. It was more satisfying to antagonize him when the challenge was real.

"You gonna drink that coffee or just keep holding it?" I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended.

Nicolai didn't even flinch. His head tilted slightly, like he'd heard something far away, but he didn't respond. After a moment, he set the mug down with almost deliberate slowness and stood, the scrape of the chair legs against the floor grating my nerves.

It felt like he had just... stopped trying.

And with it came the memory of that night—of how I'd revealed his most personal secret.

I thought I had buried my feelings about his crush on my brother so deeply that I had convinced myself I was indifferent to it.

But having him here, in New York, living under my roof, had unearthed those emotions like a fault line under pressure. The dam I'd carefully constructed had begun to crack, and now it was bursting wide open.

A small part of me felt pity, but a larger part relished the idea of exploiting him—of revealing the truth to my brother and watching everything unravel. The thought was amusing, at least for a moment. But the satisfaction I anticipated never came. Instead, an unsettling tightness gripped my chest, making the plan feel... off.

But this was Nicolai. Hurting him was practically second nature, wasn't it? I thrived on it.

Maybe this hesitation wasn't guilt, I told myself. No, it had to be something else. By keeping his secret, I wasn't sparing him—I was prolonging the game. With him under my control, the power would last longer.

Yes. That had to be it.

By the seventh day, I knew something had to give.

Morning light spilled through the blinds, painting the walls with pale streaks of gold, but it did little to warm the chill in the air. Nicolai sat at the dining table as he had every morning that week—motionless, hollow, gaze fixed on the table's surface as though deciphering some secret only he could see.

The plate of PB&J I had left out earlier remained untouched, a single crumb resting on the rim as evidence of his feeble attempt to eat.

From the kitchen, I watched him, my hands gripping the counter tightly.

I hated how it affected me. It gnawed at me like an itch I couldn't scratch.

With a sharp exhale, I turned toward the fridge, desperate for something to do—anything to break the suffocating monotony.

Eggs, butter, a sad assortment of vegetables on the brink of spoiling.

An omelet. It wasn't much, but it was something.

The pan clattered louder than expected as I set it on the stove, the sound breaking the stillness. I winced but didn't glance back at Nicolai. Instead, I focused on cracking eggs into a bowl, the motion soothing in its simplicity. The whisk scraped against the bowl's edges in a steady rhythm, my mind wandering.

The memory of our last argument surfaced, sharp and bitter. The look on his face, the flash of something raw and hurt beneath his usual defenses—it lingered, playing in my head on repeat like a broken tape.

The hiss of butter meeting hot metal snapped me out of it. I poured the eggs into the pan, the edges sizzling unevenly.

"It's burning."

The voice was quiet, sudden. I nearly dropped the spatula.

I turned sharply to see Nicolai standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the pale light filtering in from the living room. His eyes, dull and shadowed, were fixed on the stove.

"What?" I asked, more startled than I meant to sound.

"The heat," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the pan. "It's too high. You're going to dry it out. Lower the flame."

For a moment, I just stared. He had spoken. Really spoken—for the first time in days.

Wordlessly, I adjusted the flame.

Nicolai moved closer, his steps slow, deliberate. He stopped beside me, his presence both unfamiliar and strangely grounding. He peered into the pan, gaze scrutinizing.

"You're folding it too soon," he murmured, his voice steady but laced with weariness. "Let the bottom set longer. And you should've sautéed the vegetables first. They're going to make the eggs watery."

I frowned, a retort on the tip of my tongue, but something about the quiet authority in his tone stopped me. Instead, I muttered, "Since when are you an expert?"

He didn't answer. Just reached over, fingers brushing against my wrist as he adjusted the angle of the spatula.

"Grate some cheese on top before you fold it. It'll melt better."

The brief contact made my stomach flip.

I grated the cheese as instructed, the awkward silence between us broken only by the soft scrape of metal on ceramic.

When the omelet finally slid onto the plate, it looked shockingly edible.

"Not bad," I muttered.

"Decent," Nicolai corrected.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and for a fleeting moment, he looked like himself again.

I was about to respond when he laughed—a sharp, unexpected sound that cut through the room like shattered glass.

But the laughter twisted into something else. It broke, jagged and raw, as his shoulders began to shake. His hand flew to his face, but it couldn't hide the sob that tore free, loud and guttural, as though it had been clawing its way out for days.

I stood frozen, watching him crumble, the rawness of his sobs like a knife twisting in my chest. For a moment, I wanted to pull away, to retreat back into the safety of my indifference. But my feet stayed rooted to the spot. I wasn't sure if I was offering comfort or just weathering the storm, but either way, I couldn't bring myself to move.

"Hey," I said softly, my voice rough around the edges.

My hand trembled as I reached out, brushing away the tears streaking down his face.

I expected him to pull away, maybe even snap at me, but he didn't. No flinch, no withdrawal—just the way he leaned into my touch, fragile and vulnerable, his breaths breaking into short, uneven gasps.

I froze, my palm still against his damp cheek, caught between uncertainty and instinct. My rational brain had gone silent, replaced by something more primal, more immediate. My body moved before I could think too hard about it, driven by a pull I couldn't quite name.

Slowly, hesitantly, I stepped closer. The moment stretched, fragile as glass. Then, almost without realizing it, I awkwardly wrapped my arms around him.

The hug was tentative at first, my movements stiff and unsure, but Nicolai melted into it, his fingers bunching in my shirt, his sobs ragged and unrelenting. I stood there, frozen, my arms half-raised like I didn't know what to do with them. This wasn't part of the plan. Comfort wasn't in my skill set. But I couldn't pull away.

My indifference completely dissolved, replaced by the awareness of Nicolai's body against mine—the warmth, the fragility, the way we seemed to fit together almost too well.

"I'm sorry for crossing the line," I murmured, the words reluctant but heavy with meaning. "And I'm not telling Jace about your feelings, alright? Not because of you, but because I don't want to deal with the fallout. Don't read too much into it."

He didn't respond, but his grip tightened.

We stayed like that, pressed together in the quiet kitchen, the smell of burnt butter and eggs lingering in the air.

I didn't know what would come next, but for now, it felt like a small truce.

A/N

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