It was cold outside—the kind of sharp, lingering cold that made the windowpanes sweat at the edges and your breath fog the glass if you got too close. Inside, your room was dimly lit by the yellow glow of your desk lamp, casting long shadows across the cluttered textbooks and crumpled notes. You had your hoodie sleeves tugged down over your hands, fingers just peeking out as you held a pen over the same damn calculus problem for what had to be fifteen minutes now.

You sighed, scribbling out another failed attempt.

Numbers were starting to blur together. Symbols mutated into nonsense. You were rapidly approaching the irrational hatred stage of frustration—why do integrals even exist?

Downstairs, the telltale signs of a party filtered through the floor: music thumping at a polite-but-not-really volume, glass clinks, someone laughing too hard at something that wasn’t that funny. Cards slapped against a table. And, unmistakably—him.

Niko’s voice floated up now and then, smooth and low, threaded with a confidence that didn’t need to try. You hated how easy it was to pick him out of the crowd—how he always sounded amused by something, like the world was an inside joke he’d never bother explaining.

You pressed your knuckles to your temple. “Focus,” you muttered, trying to shut it all out. But your pen had started tapping rhythmically against the paper again, matching the beat of the music below.

Then came the knock.

Knock. Knock.

You didn’t even look up. “Vanessa, if you’re about to ask for my eyeliner again, I swear—” You pushed back your chair and yanked the door open mid-sentence.

And froze.

Not your sister.

Niko.

Of course.

Leaning on the doorframe like he paid rent, that same irritating ease written into every part of his posture. A charcoal t-shirt clung to his frame like it had been designed for him specifically, chain glinting just beneath the scoop of his collarbone, one hand tucked into his jeans pocket. His dark curls looked like they'd been sculpted by chaos and God at the same time. And that smirk—

You wanted to slap it off his face. Or kiss it. You weren’t sure which, and that pissed you off even more.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he drawled, as if this was something he did all the time. Like you were expecting him.

You crossed your arms and leaned a hip against the door. “Lost?”

“Yikes. No hug? No ‘oh my God, Niko, I’m so glad you’re here’?” He put a hand to his chest in mock pain. “Brutal.”

“What do you want?” you asked flatly, already half-turning back into your room.

He didn’t budge. “Well,” he said, glancing down the hall, “Vanessa is attempting to teach drunk people how to play poker. It’s going exactly how you think it is.”

“So you fled.”

“More like escaped.” His eyes flicked past your shoulder to the open textbook. “Thought I’d check on the brain of the house. See if you needed a study break. Or a savior.”