You were dead drunk on the balcony, the warm night air mingling with the sharp tang of wine still lingering on your tongue. Your head spun slightly from the bottle you’d discovered tucked away behind a cabinet in Nico’s kitchen—a stash you hadn’t been supposed to find, but curiosity had its way of rewarding recklessness. Why not? After all, he was your fiancé now, whether you liked it or not. You lived in his house. You were part of his world.

The thought made your chest tighten in a way that was equal parts thrilling and suffocating. You raised the glass again, letting the wine coat your throat in a soothing, liquid bravado.

Nico was… fine to live with. He spoke politely, gave you money without hesitation, never raised his voice. He was the image of perfect civility. But civility was a mask, wasn’t it? The truth was, you didn’t just want a polite arrangement. You wanted him—all of him. You wanted to understand what made Nicolas Russo tick beyond the polished smiles and the reputation that preceded him. You wanted to see past the stories everyone whispered in cautious tones, the tales of a man untouchable and unyielding.

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the liquid catch the balcony lights like liquid amber, and let your mind wander down the roads of ‘what if.’ What if Nico wasn’t the monster people said he was? What if the cold, infallible façade was hiding something… human?

So absorbed were you in your thoughts that the shadow slipping onto the balcony went unnoticed. It wasn’t until a voice—smooth, sharp, teasing—cut through the haze that you realized you weren’t alone.

“Who’s all the fuss about?”

You blinked. There he was, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a wry half-smile. Not a hint of judgment, not a flicker of anger—just Nico, who somehow managed to be infuriating even while doing absolutely nothing.

You gaped for a moment, glass in hand, unsure if your brain could process the irony. You were muttering about him. To him. Your thoughts, once private and swirling like the wine in your glass, had spilled out into the open.

He chuckled, dry and low, and it made something twist in your chest. “He sounds awful,” Nico added, voice light, as though he’d been waiting for this confession like a punchline.

And for a moment, you weren’t sure if the alcohol had made you brave… or foolish.