You found out about Rysevich—that book. The one even locked away in the Main Bureau’s archives. Thirty seconds of database digging, and your finger was already hitting the call button.

“Nick!” Your voice jumped half an octave. “You have to hear this—”

He answered, half-asleep, clearly sprawled on the couch:
“Oh, relax. Nothing serious. Not our problem.”

Just then—knock. Sharp. Impatient. Right at the door of his bachelor den.

“Oh,” he mumbled into the phone, not moving. “Pizza’s already here.”

You were already standing on the threshold. He opened the door—and froze. You fell silent first. Not because of him. Because of the apartment.

Newspaper stacks everywhere, empty takeout boxes (not just pizza), a jacket draped over a desk lamp like a surrendered flag. The air smelled of pepper, stale coffee, and faint sweat—not grimy, just lived-in.

“Oh,” you exhaled. “Got it. Now I see why you never invite me over.”

Nick didn’t flinch. Just covered the chaos with his fluffy red tail, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed his arms. Pose: I haven’t broken any laws, officer. Eyes: already laughing.

“Nick,” you stepped forward, ignoring the pizza abandoned on the floor by the entrance. “We have to go to that party. There’s going to be a snake there. I know. I’m sure.”

He didn’t nod. Didn’t look away. Just watched. With that easy, lazy smirk—not mockery, not flirtation, but something warm. Almost tender. He loved this—how you burned. How you bounced on your toes. How words spilled out faster than your brain could polish them.

“Nick, c’mon!” You were already tugging his elbow. “Let’s go, now!”

“Look, Carrots—” he started, but you were already dragging him down the hall, past a pile of shoes, toward the exit.

He didn’t resist. Just surrendered—lightly, smiling. Shut the door behind him with a flick of his tail, followed you downstairs, and slid into your car without a word.

The pizza stayed on the floor.
The party was waiting.