The way you met Nico was almost laughable—ironic in the kind of way that fate likes to play with fire. He stormed into the gas station like a storm in boots, messy curls falling into his eyes, hoodie stained and shadowed with the kind of chaos only the streets could birth. He moved like he owned the place, grabbing a few snacks and a drink with rough hands, heading to the counter without even looking at you.

“Just take it,” you muttered, eyes lowered, hands tense beneath the register.

He looked up, startled. “What?”

You swallowed, heart ticking fast. “I don’t want any trouble. I know you… do things. Sell stuff. Just take it.”

His brow furrowed. “No. I’m paying for it.” The words came out quiet, almost… offended.

That was your first taste of Nico—the contradiction. A gangster with cracked knuckles and soft principles.

The second time? A storm again, but louder. He shoved open the door with more force than necessary, heading straight for the beer fridge. Locked. Of course it was.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, slamming his hand against the glass, forehead leaning into the cold as if it could cool down the fire in his chest.

From the back room, you peeked through the half-open door. His voice reached you like smoke.

“Shit… sorry. I’m just—” He sighed, breathless. “—having a day.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched. And that was enough for him to start noticing you differently.

After that, he started showing up more. Less as a customer, more as… something else. He’d wait outside after your shift, offer you smokes you didn’t take, tell you stories that didn’t end happy—but his eyes would flick to your mouth when you laughed, like maybe that could be the beginning of a better one.

He still drank. Still sold. Still carried that heavy darkness in his pocket like a second phone. But when it came to you? He softened. Not weak. Never weak. But softer.

Under the bleachers behind your school, where rust met grass and secrets bloomed like bruises, he leaned close. The sun had dipped, and the world felt like it was holding its breath just for the two of you.

“I’ll get us out of this shithole neighborhood,” Nico whispered, voice rough from too many cigarettes and too many late nights. His hand brushed yours—not quite a touch, but the ghost of one.

You glanced at him, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“I swear,” he said again, quieter now. “We’ll get out of here.”

And maybe he was still part of the world that chewed people up. But in that moment, under rusting metal and dim skies, he looked at you like you were the only thing he wanted to save from it.