Pt. 1
Nico

The radio performance had gone better than Nico expected. His voice had held steady, his hands hadn’t slipped once on the keys, and the engineer had even given him a quiet thumbs-up through the glass when he finished. His first time on air, real air, broadcast to maybe fifty or sixty thousand people, if the host’s guess was right.

It had felt huge, even if the studio had been small and the host a little awkward. A few songs, a quick interview, and suddenly he was walking out into the late sun, his head spinning with it. His mom had been listening, of course. She’d called the second the broadcast ended, her voice thick with pride. “Mi amor, you sounded incredible. I couldn’t stop crying,” she had said. Nico had promised to tell her everything as soon as he got home, though he knew she’d probably recorded the whole thing already. 

He should have been riding the high for days. And part of him was; he couldn’t stop the small grin tugging at his lips every time he thought about it. But beneath that, woven tight through it, was something else. That smile on the TV screen. The one that had knocked the breath out of him just two days ago.

Nico woke late on Sunday, the kind of slow, unfocused waking where the sun felt too bright and his sheets too warm to leave. His phone buzzed against the nightstand, a single text lighting up the screen.

It was from Theo. Just a link, no message, no warning. Nico squinted at it, thumb hovering for a second before tapping through. A bookstore site loaded, half blurry with sleep.

Author Event: Jordan Blake — Book Signing, Today at 15:00, Midtown Books.

A stock photo of Jordan sat at the top of the page, sharp suit and the same curated ease that seemed to follow him everywhere. Below the image, a short paragraph explained the event: a signing to celebrate the release of his latest novel. No ticket required, first come, first served. Books available for purchase on site. No personal photos allowed, brief interactions only.

Nico’s stomach flipped so hard it felt like the mattress gave way beneath him. 

Midtown Books. Of course. Nico had passed it a few times, one of those gleaming, high-end bookstores in the city center, all glass storefronts and artfully arranged displays. The kind of place that felt more like a gallery than a shop. It wasn’t even far, just a short train ride away. Temptation was always harder to ignore when it was practically in your backyard.

He clicked the screen off, as if that could undo what he’d just seen. 

He should leave it alone, he knew that. Jordan hadn’t asked to see him again. And now, knowing who he actually was, not just someone with a nice apartment and sharp lines around the mouth, but someone whose name showed up in newspapers and bookstore windows… It all felt even more impossible. Jordan wasn’t just out of reach anymore. He was behind glass, behind velvet ropes and security, the kind of person people lined up to meet for thirty seconds and left giddy about. A man used to rooms filled with strangers who thought they knew him. Nico didn’t belong in that room. 

His phone was facedown beside him, his pulse ticking loud in the quiet. The logical thing was to forget it. To get up, get dressed, fill the day with something ordinary.

But his mind wouldn’t let it go.

Go. Just go. You don’t even have to speak to him. Just see him.

Nico pressed his fingers to his temples, as if that might squeeze the thought out. 

You’ll regret it if you don’t.

You’ll hate yourself if you do.

Both things felt true.

He tried to picture it: the bookstore, the strangers, the polite distance of it all. He wouldn’t be noticed. Wouldn’t be anything more than another face in the crowd. And maybe that was enough.

He decided it didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t going. Nico wasn’t insane. He wasn’t going to drag himself across the city to gawk at someone who’d shaken hundreds hands and smiled for twice as many strangers without once thinking about him. Nico wasn’t going to be the guy lurking in the back of the crowd, hoping for a glance, getting mistaken for a fanboy with boundary issues. 

No, thanks. 

Which was why he was now on the train, knees bouncing so hard they could’ve powered the carriage, quietly composing his eulogy: Here lies Nico Sanchez. Seventeen. Promising musician. Died of terminal poor judgment. It wasn’t like he could turn back now. He’d already paid for the ticket. And somehow, that tiny slip of paper had made it official. Like the ticket machine itself had looked him dead in the eye and said: Congratulations. You are now a passenger on the Sad Stalker Express. Enjoy your ride. 

He got off the train like a man on trial. The bookstore loomed a few blocks away, and with each one, his self-respect peeled off like a sticker in the rain.

By the time he stood outside the shop, Nico felt underdressed in his pink hoodie and shorts. The bookstore looked even more intimidating up close. It was the kind of place that smelled like money and old pages, with tall arched windows and a carved wooden door that looked like it belonged on a cathedral. The name of the store was etched in gold above the entrance. Nico hovered just outside for a moment, his fingers twitching at the hem of sleeve, then pushed his way in.

The inside was quieter than Nico expected, but not calm. The kind of hush that buzzed with expensive restraint. A few scattered armchairs sat tucked between displays, upholstered in deep green velvet, already occupied by early arrivals flipping through hardcovers with reverent hands. Staff moved around briskly in black name tags and well-fitted blazers, whispering into headsets as if they were running a tech conference, not a book signing.

A line had already formed, long, winding, and far too orderly for Nico’s liking. It snaked past the poetry shelves and down toward a roped-off area near the back, where a small stage had been set up beneath a wall of artfully spotlighted author photos. Two security guards stood at either end, arms crossed, scanning the crowd like someone might try to tackle Jordan mid-signature. Nico grabbed a copy of the book from a nearby table, nearly knocking over the neat stack in his rush, then hovered at the edge of the line, sizing it up. 

If he got in at the end, he’d be standing there for hours. And by then, Jordan might be gone. His heart thudding, Nico edged his way into the middle of the line, slipping between a couple arguing over whether they should’ve brought a second copy. He avoided eye contact, aware of the prickling stares at his back, judgmental and annoyed, but he didn’t move or apologize. He just kept his head down and stayed put, holding the book like a lifeline as he tried to look normal. Whatever that meant. 

This was so stupid. What was he even doing here? Nico was halfway through rehearsing excuse number six when the line crept forward again, nudging him closer to humiliation. What was he even going to say? That he just happened to be in the neighborhood? That he was here for his grandma, that he got lost and accidentally queued up, that he thought this was a coffee shop? Sure. Totally believable. Maybe he’d pretend he was a fan of literary fiction now, overnight transformation, no big deal. Or maybe he'd just act casual, so casual it bordered on medical concern. None of it worked. Every scenario ended the same: Jordan blinking at him like he was insane. Which, honestly, fair. 

And so, Nico didn’t have a plan. Just shaky legs, clammy hands, and a rapidly deteriorating sense of dignity. He told himself that he could still leave. Pretend he’d never come. But then the line shifted again, and suddenly he could see the stage. 

And there he was. Sitting behind a table, talking quietly with someone, looking perfectly at ease, like this was just another part of his day. He had on a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was a little messier than in the photo, like he hadn’t bothered fixing it after running a hand through. And still, he looked... unreal. Nico felt his breath catch before he could stop it. Of course people lined up just to see him. Jordan wasn’t just handsome, he was the most beautiful man Nico had ever seen. It felt almost unfair. Like beauty that obvious should come with a warning label. 

He glanced at the people ahead of him and wondered how many of them actually cared about Jordan's books, or if they just liked how he looked on the cover.

Another step, another breath, and just like that, Nico was standing right in front of the reason he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. 

It hit him then that Jordan might not even remember him. He didn’t even know what would be worse, if Jordan recognized him or if he didn’t. Both possibilities made his stomach twist. Recognition might lead to questions, or worse, that quietly polite tone people used when they were trying not to make a scene. But the alternative? Being met with a blank stare, like Nico was just another stranger in the crowd? That might actually kill him. 

Jordan didn’t look up right away. He took the book from Nico’s hands with the automatic rhythm of routine, already flipping to the title page, pen poised. Just another fan, just another signature.

Then he looked up.

It happened fast, the flicker of recognition, quiet and involuntary. Jordan’s brows drew in just slightly, a crease forming between them that hadn’t been there a moment ago. His hand stilled mid-signature.

Nico felt the need to apologize profusely, but his tongue felt like it didn’t belong in his mouth. If embarrassment could kill, he’d be a chalk outline by now. 

Jordan was the one to speak first.

“I thought you didn’t read,” he said, like it was an inside joke, except the tone didn’t invite laughter.

“Technically, I’m still not reading. I just… own the book now.” 

Jordan stared at him as if trying to determine whether Nico was being serious or having some kind of episode. Then he looked down again and began to sign, the sharp scratch of the pen absurdly loud in Nico’s ears.

Nico’s heart was a wrecking ball. He clutched the edge of the table like it might hold him together. “Sorry, I—uh—I was wondering if maybe we could talk? Not now, obviously. Just… Later, maybe?”

Jordan didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t soften. He finished signing the page, shut the cover, and handed the book back. Then he nodded subtly toward a woman standing near the corner of the table, clipboard in hand. “You can leave your number with my editor,” he said, like they were strangers.

And just like that, it was over. Jordan turned to the next person without pause, his smile turning on like a switch. He greeted them like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Nico lingered a beat too long, gripping the signed copy as if that might stop his hands from shaking.

He crossed to the woman with the clipboard, Jordan’s editor, he guessed, and scribbled his number. She gave him a small, professional smile as she took it, the kind that said thank you without meaning much else. She tucked it beneath a neat stack of papers. No questions, no raised brows. Just another name filed away, like this happened all the time.