You were dead drunk on the balcony, your head spinning slightly from the wine you’d helped yourself to after snooping around Nico’s house. You’d found the good stuff, hidden behind a cabinet, and figured—why not? He was your fiancé now, whether you liked it or not. You lived in his house. You belonged to him.

That thought made you take another long sip of wine.

He was fine to live with. He spoke politely, gave you money, never raised his voice. But at what cost? The truth was, you wanted to know him. You wanted to see beyond the infamous Russo name, past the cold exterior everyone warned you about.

You wanted to believe he was more than the stories whispered about him.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the shadow that slipped onto the balcony until he leaned against the wall.

Not even noticing it was Nico, out of all people, you were muttering to yourself. About him. Your thoughts spilling into words thanks to the alcohol.

"Who’s all the fuss about?" His voice broke through, laced with dry amusement. He didn’t move from his spot, didn’t plan to. "He sounds awful."