This chapter has been written from Nicolai's POV. Please enjoy reading this. <333

The morning sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the tile floor. Nicolai stood at the sink, scrubbing the remnants of last night's dinner off a plate with more force than necessary. The rhythmic scrape of the sponge against ceramic was the only sound in the room. His jaw tightened as he caught his reflection in the glass above the sink—eyes shadowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

He hadn't slept. How could he, when every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of Paxton's lips on his? The way he savagely bit his bottom lip. 

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

It was supposed to be Jace. Jace, who had been there for him through everything. Jace, who had smiled at him like he actually mattered. He wasn't just some casual crush; Jace had been safe. Dependable. The kind of person you could build a life around.

Paxton was none of those things and yet...

He groaned, scrubbing the plate in his hands harder than necessary, his fingers slipping as he tried to keep the thoughts at bay. He dried his hands quickly, but the task couldn't help him escape the memory of Paxton's lips—rough, warm, demanding—clinging to him like an imprint he couldn't erase. The guilt twisted in his gut, knowing what he had done, what he had allowed to happen, but there was something else too.

It had felt good. Fuck.

This had to be one of Paxton's twisted plays or some sick strategy to hurt Nicolai again because what the hell had Paxton been thinking? And why the hell hadn't Nicolai stopped him?

But now, worst of all, that asshole remained completely unaffected by the kiss, as if it wasn't giving Nicolai an existential crisis.

The faint sound of footsteps pulled Nicolai out of his thoughts. He turned just as Paxton walked into the kitchen, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. Paxton's hair was tousled, and he wore a baggy black hoodie. Nicolai couldn't tell if that made him look more disheveled or deliberately careless.

"Morning," Nicolai muttered, his voice clipped, almost like a challenge.

Paxton didn't respond. He walked to the counter and picked up his coffee mug, fiddling with it absentmindedly. His back was to Nicolai, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.

Nicolai clenched his jaw, the frustration simmering inside him threatening to spill over. He stared at the back of Paxton's head, the words he wanted to say tangling in his throat. The silence between them was suffocating, and Nicolai could feel it tightening around his chest.

He couldn't take it anymore. "You're going to act like it didn't happen?" he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"What do you want?" Paxton asked looking slightly bored.

Nicolai let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was sharp, every word dripping with sarcasm. "I want you to stop being a dick for a minute! The kiss, Paxton. You can't just pretend it didn't happen. You kissed me. You fucking kissed me."

Paxton's hand stilled on the coffee mug, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. He stared out the window, refusing to meet Nicolai's eyes. "It wasn't a kiss," he said flatly, his tone cold and detached. "It was a reflex. I was trying to shut your stupid mouth."

Nicolai blinked, the words slicing through him with precision. His mind racing to process what he'd just heard. Then the hurt settled in, followed closely by anger. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a dull thud of disbelief. "You don't bite someone's lower lip when you hate them, Paxton," he shot back, his voice trembling with fury that he could barely keep contained.

That got a reaction. 

Paxton turned, his movements sharp and deliberate. His expression was a mask of indifference. "Don't flatter yourself," he sneered. "I'm disgusted with myself for even doing that to you. You know, I'm not like you, Nicolai. I don't paint my nails and do yoga to make myself feel pretty."

Nicolai's hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. He refused to look away, even as his vision blurred with hot, stinging anger. "You're so desperate to tear me down, you don't even realize how pathetic you sound. You're a fucking hypocrite, Paxton. There's so much wrong with the world, and yet here you are, spewing hate at love. At people brave enough to embrace their truth, to feel something real. You make me sick."

Paxton's lips curled into a cruel smile, his eyes glinting with something dark and cutting. "You must be so proud of yourself for coming up with that sappy line," he mocked, his voice low and venomous.

Nicolai's chest heaved, the air in the room thick with tension. He could feel himself unraveling, the anger bubbling up, impossible to contain. His hands trembled at his sides as he took a step forward. "You think you're so above it all. But you're not. You're scared, Paxton."

Paxton's expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough. Nicolai saw it—the crack in his armor, the brief flicker of uncertainty. But it only made him angrier when Paxton's smirk returned, sharper and more biting than before. "And what about you, huh?" Paxton shot back. "You're the biggest coward I know, and everyone who knows you, knows it."

Nicolai's temper snapped. He grabbed the newspaper from the counter and slammed it against Paxton's chest, the sound loud and jarring in the tense silence. 

Nicolai sneered, his smile sharp and jagged. "You're not just a mean, bigoted bastard. You're also a cheater. Remember your hot weatherwoman girlfriend, dickhead? Now I can add 'cheater' to your list of stellar qualities."

Paxton's smug expression faltered, his jaw tightening as his eyes darkened. The space between them felt smaller, tighter, the weight of years of resentment pressing down like a storm ready to break.

"Firstly, I'm in an open relationship," Paxton said, his voice low and measured, though his grip on the counter betrayed his restraint. "And even if I weren't—which, again, I am—the kiss we shared meant nothing to me. It was just anger and frustration. So what exactly would I be cheating on?"

For a fleeting moment, neither of them moved. Nicolai's chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. Paxton had won this round. He hadn't just made a fool out of Nicolai—he'd made Nicolai feel small, insignificant, and then discarded him with the kind of casual indifference reserved for something utterly disposable. 

It burned, the humiliation sinking deep into his skin like a splinter he couldn't pull out.

"I hate you so much," Nicolai said, the words raw and fractured. His voice shook, but there was steel beneath the tremor. "I hate you like I've never hated anyone in my life."

Paxton leaned forward, his tone a sharp blade. "Good," he said, his voice rough. "The feeling's mutual."

"And the next time you want to insult me asshole," Nicolai snapped, his voice rising, "don't use lazy stereotypes. Not every bisexual guy paints their nails or does yoga. Maybe try educating yourself before you run that mouth of yours."

Paxton's derisive laugh was immediate, a sound that made Nicolai's skin crawl. "Oh, says the walking cliché," he retorted, stepping closer. His voice dropped into a mocking drawl. "You're practically the poster child for bratty gay stereotypes."

The words hit their mark, but Nicolai refused to flinch, round two was so on and Nicolai wasn't going to lose. "Bite me, Paxton," he hissed, his voice trembling with fury that felt too big for his chest.

Paxton moved without hesitation, stepping closer until their foreheads were almost touching. The air between them shifted, charged with something neither of them wanted to name. Nicolai's breath hitched, his body going rigid. He could feel the heat radiating off Paxton, the faint scent of his cologne—warm, woody, with just a hint of citrus—filling the space between them. It was maddening.

The height difference felt more imposing now than ever. As Nicolai tilted his head up, he was acutely aware of just how much Paxton towered over him, broad shoulders blocking everything else from view.

Paxton's hand clutched the counter, knuckles white, as if anchoring himself against the storm brewing inside. Nicolai's gaze darted to the trembling grip, then back to Paxton's face—the taut line of his jaw, the sharp flare of his nostrils, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. 

So, he wasn't as composed as he wanted to seem. Interesting. 

Point to Nicolai. The game was tied. For now.

His gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, to Paxton's lips. They were close. Too close. He could feel the pull, raw and dangerous. If he dared—if he tiptoed just a little—they might—

The doorbell rang.

The sharp sound cut through the tension like a knife. 

Nicolai flinched, the sudden noise yanking him out of whatever daze he'd fallen into. 

Paxton froze too, his eyes darting toward the hallway. He exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line, as if the interruption was both a relief and an annoyance.

"Saved by the bell," Nicolai muttered, his voice breathless and shaky, though the bitterness was still there, laced with something he couldn't quite name.

Paxton shot him a glare, his jaw tight, but something in his eyes had changed—just slightly, just enough for Nicolai to notice. 

With one last lingering look, Paxton turned and strode toward the doors to open it.  

Irene fucking Melenez.

Paxton's supposed girlfriend.

And just like that, the floor seemed to tilt beneath Nicolai's feet.

She was here, on the porch, in the flesh. Nicolai blinked, half-expecting her to dissolve; maybe this was just another one of Paxton's games. Irene had always felt like a fictional character, something Paxton brought up in passing, just another layer of the mind games they used to play, but she stayed. She was real.

She stepped forward, her stride smooth and confident. Everything about her screamed polished—elegant without being overdone. She had that kind of presence that drew people in, grounded yet razor-sharp.

Irene smiled at Paxton, and he returned it with a warmth that tightened something in Nicolai's chest. His lips curved, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes making him look—softer.

She reached out and hugged Paxton, and he leaned into it like it was second nature, brushing a small, deliberate kiss against her cheek. "Hey, Irene," he said, his voice smooth, his posture loose and easy.

Nicolai's hands clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he watched Paxton and Irene. It was easier to pretend he didn't care.

Irene's presence felt like a jolt of ice water, forcing him to face something he wasn't ready to acknowledge. 

Paxton was different with her—warmer, softer. Nicolai had never seen that side of him, not in the years they'd spent hurling insults and pushing each other away. And now, with Irene in their apartment, it felt like the gap between them had only widened.

Nicolai shifted his weight, eyes darting away, but it didn't change anything. The gnawing feeling in his gut remained, a constant reminder of how much he kept buried inside, how much he was too afraid to deal with.

Nicolai could have taken a step forward, could have said something to Paxton.

But that was the problem. He couldn't. The words felt like they were stuck somewhere deep inside him, where they always seemed to stay. So, instead, he stayed silent, watching as Paxton smiled at Irene, his hand naturally finding hers, the knot in his chest getting bigger. And for the first time, Nicolai wondered if he'd ever hated someone because they made him feel too much.