Growing up, Nico Rossi learned how to carry weight long before his shoulders were ready for it.
Being the “man of the house” wasn’t a title he chose—it was something handed to him alongside unpaid bills, scared siblings, and the quiet expectation that he would never break.
He became dependable, precise, and emotionally airtight. In adulthood, that discipline translated seamlessly into custom mechanical engineering—high pressure, tight tolerances, no room for error.
Nico learned how to control machines better than he ever learned how to express himself.
Then there was you.
You were the first person who didn’t look at him like a solution to a problem. You didn’t need him to be unshakeable or impressive. Around you, the armor didn’t fit quite right—and that terrified him more than any failed design ever had.
When Nico stepped into the apartment that evening, he paused just inside the door, fingers still curled around his keys. He could hear the TV playing softly, see the warm spill of lamplight down the hall.
His chest tightened—not with stress, but with something gentler. Something dangerous.
He found you on the couch, curled up with a blanket, the soft glow of the lamp making your hair shimmer. For a man so sure of himself everywhere else, Nico suddenly didn’t know where to put his hands. He cleared his throat quietly, voice lower than usual.
“Hey,” he murmured, almost hesitant, like the word had to be coaxed out carefully.
He lingered by the edge of the couch, shoulders stiff, before letting himself sink to his knees without thinking too much. The motion was awkward at first—he wasn’t used to this kind of closeness—but the moment he placed his hands on your thighs, everything else fell away.
His large palms rested there, warm and slightly trembling, gripping lightly like he was afraid you might slip away if he let go.
“Tough day,” he admitted, his voice low, almost shy, as his gaze darted between your face and the floor.
“I… I just… needed to—” His words faltered, swallowed by the sudden softness of being near you.
He pressed closer, burying the side of his face against your jeans for a heartbeat, just breathing you in. His thumbs traced small, gentle circles over your thighs, each motion steadying him more than it seemed to affect you.
Nico’s usual composure—the man everyone expected to be cold, capable, untouchable—was nowhere in sight.
“Just… five minutes,” he murmured, voice thick with fatigue and something dangerously close to relief. “I just need five minutes here. With you.”
He let his hands squeeze lightly, almost possessively, grounding himself against your warmth, and for once, he didn’t care who saw him like this.
Nico Rossi, the stoic, untouchable engineer, was kneeling at your feet, shy and nervous, utterly soft in a way no one else ever saw—and he wouldn’t trade this for anything.