Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

one

                Ellie looks at the name scribbled on the torn bit of lined paper between her fingers, worn-soft, creased, the ink nearly faded.

(You can’t tell your mom about this, El, you promise? She’d have my freaking head if she knew. She left that life behind when she had you. And everyone i—There’s a good reason she didn’t tell you, I can’t believe she kept that photo—)

Breathing in the stale, musty air of the subway as it rumbles over the tracks, Ellie flips open the back of her phone, slipping out the photograph she found— the only thing she’s ever found, that’s at all hinted that she even has a father and didn’t just…spring out of the ground like a cabbage-patch baby or bloom, flower-like, like Thumbelina.

It’s almost as worn as the paper, the photo folded and creased between her mother’s seventeen-year-old face and the boy beside her. They’re both looking into the camera, both grinning, both a bit blurred by the glow of streetlights behind them.

It’s not a good photo, not by any stretch, but it’s a snapshot in time, a freeze-frame moment from seventeen years ago… she’s been staring at it so long that it’s imprinted behind her eyelids; her mother and the boy blur together until Ellie finds herself in the smear of it. (His smile, the dimples that sit in the edges of a sharp-toothed grin. Her mother’s hair, the curve of her cheek and nose.)

She’s her mother’s daughter, always has been, but—

The train lurches a little as it slows and Ellie tucks the photo into the back of her phone again with unsteady fingers as she pushes to her feet. Some of the other people in the car do the same, it’s late enough that she’s aware she doesn’t quite blend in; too fresh-faced, too young looking in sneakers and leggings and one of her school sweaters, but she’s got pepper spray hanging from a keyring jangling around her wrist and she’s more nervous about finally, maybe meeting him to worry about anything else.

The paper crinkles in her hands and she looks down at it again, just as the subway doors open on a rush of warm, stale air.

Nicolas Cordova

                There’s a line-up outside of the club; men in dark trousers and button-ups, some looking like they came right from the office buildings around them. Girls in short dresses and high heels, sharp-cut pants and bold tops, their hair glossy and their make-up perfect under the glow of the streetlights.

The front of the club doesn’t look much different from any of the buildings around it. In the mix of the brick-faced, towering older buildings of New York and the glass-sided office buildings that tower even higher, Elysium stands out only because it doesn’t have any windows on the street level; the matte-black paneling that covers the lower level is nice, she thinks, and eye-catching, but Ellie’s seen more than a few all-black businesses around Manhattan.

It’s not that unique, she thinks, pulling a face and wondering just what’s so special about this club that makes it so popular. What’s so special about this club that her father apparently owns?

Elysium glows in a looping gold cursive above the door and sends a gold-tinted light spilling over the bouncers standing just in front of the building. Ellie lingers across the street, leaning just inside an awning for an older office building and pulls out her phone to make herself look busy.

Don’t be suspicious, sings on repeat in her head as she sneaks glances at the people in the queue, the dresses and the shoes and the men with glinting watches and shiny, leather belts, the glow of cell phones, the camera-click of photos…

She thinks she made a mistake coming on a Friday night.

Worrying her cheek, her mind runs over the last few weeks, where her plan to track the boy in the photo down went from not actually going to do it— to okay, we’re actually going to do this— to, currently: doing it.

Somehow, her brain decided that Friday would be the night he would most likely be there. And Friday night would be the night to find him, meet him, know him.

She debated going to the office listed as his main business, but— but she’d spent some time looking him up, debating the best way to approach him— once she decided that she was, actually, going to meet him. When her curiosity got the better of her. When Google had given her enough information to shift the boy in her creased, hidden photo, into a man with dark hair and hard eyes, a sharp, broad jaw and the kind of handsome that belonged on an ad or a movie screen, not in the (mostly) geriatric listings of other businessmen with more money than any one person should have.

There wasn’t a lot of information for her to find, most of it was business stuff that made her mind go fuzzy with terms she didn’t know, but she knows he’s got an office not far from here, that it’s something to do with investments and companies… and his mother runs a real estate company that’s also pretty like, successful.

She snorts, tilting her head back against the rough cement behind her head. Apparently, she’s related to a bunch of stupid-rich people. Who knew.

Not her.

All she knows, is the idea of walking into some Wall Street adjacent office building and marching up to a security desk in the middle of the work day and being like, hey, my dad owns this place and I’m here to meet him, but funny story, he probably doesn’t know I exist, any chance you could call him down for me?

Yeah, she thinks with a wince. That’s not happening.

So, operation: club-ambush, that’s like, a solid second choice? (At least, she thinks, if she needs to make a getaway, there’s a whole crowd of people to disappear into.)

With a sigh, Ellie pushes off the building and tells herself it is, that it’s now or never, you came all this way, you made the choice, you tracked him down.

Now or never.

Darting across the street, Ellie comes up behind the bouncers facing the queue of people waiting to get in. She worries her cheek and pulls in a steadying breath, her hand white-knuckled around her phone, looking up at the massive, bald bouncer with a sleeve of tattoos running down his right arm. Which, isn’t imposing, like, at all.

“Hey, sir?”

The bouncer either doesn’t hear or ignores her. She steps a little closer and tries again. “Excuse me, sir?”

The bouncer to the left of her, the one with the clipboard, looks at her and gives her a once over before his eyes flick to Bald Bouncer.

Bald Bouncer turns his head, just enough to look at her. “What d’you want, kid?”

Ellie feels her face twist, she knows she looks young, but kid feels like it’s a bit unnecessary. She doesn’t look like a kid. (But now more than ever, she wishes she’d dressed up. Just a bit.)

Good job, El. Way to think this through. Most exclusive club in the city and you show up in leggings and sneakers.

They are nice leggings though, she thinks, and if she’d dressed up, they’d probably just think she wants to sneak in underage— or Mya would have asked questions and wanted to tag along… so Ellie had to lie and sneak and pretend she was hitting the school track, instead of hitting the streets, Dad-Hunting.

It was all very well-thought-out, she thought.

Minus the whole, looking like a fourteen-year-old in front of a queue of supermodels and stupidly-good-looking people.

Like, a solid seventy-five percent well-thought-out.

“Yeah, I’m not a kid. I’m actually—”

“Nowhere near legal and not getting in?” Bald Bouncer finishes for her and turns away, checking the ID of the next girl in line before showing it to Clipboard Bouncer.

Clipboard Bouncer smirks at her, obviously entertained by his co-bouncer, before taking the ID and flipping a page on his clipboard.

Ellie huffs and taps his arm, he half-turns his head to listen to her. “I’m not trying to get in, I just need to talk to Nicolas Cordova, the owner?”

Clipboard Bouncer’s eyebrows tilt up, but he doesn’t look at her, waving in the girl waiting.

Bald Bouncer laughs. “Uh-huh, you and half of the city want to talk to him.”

“…Okay,” she says slowly, because what? “That’s nice. But I have a good reason and I think if you’d just like, maybe tell him my name—”

Bald Bouncer huffs and turns to face her completely, crossing his arms and looking down at her. “Listen, kid—” Ellie crosses her arms and meets him head-on, even though he might be a little bit intimidating. Just a bit. Bald Bouncer is big.

“I’m not a kid.”

“You twenty-one?” he asks, and at Ellie’s tight-mouthed silence, he snorts. “Then, you are absolutely a kid.”

“Legal age is eighteen—”

He shrugs. “Elysium is twenty-one plus. Come back in what, eight years?”

“Oh, c’mon—” Ellie huffs, uncrossing her arms, trying very hard not to stomp her foot, because that’s just ridiculous. “I don’t look thirteen.”

Bald Bouncer shrugs again, his lips quirking. “Under twenty-one looks all the same to me.”

“That’s— just—” she pushes out a breath. “If you’d just like, give him a message for me, I promise—”

“Listen, doll,” he starts, leaning down closer to her face like she might somehow listen better if he says it closer. “In the nicest way I can say this, you don’t belong here. At all. Go back to school or church or your mom’s house, wherever you snuck out from and if, if you really want to come back in eight years, I’ll be more than happy to check your ID then.”

“I’m his daughter.”

He blinks. Clipboard Bouncer chokes.

Bald Bouncer straightens and blinks again. “What?”

Ellie pulls in a breath because fricking right what— what the absolute Hell, Ellie. What the absolute fuck—

She grits her teeth, too late to take it back now, she thinks. “I’m… his daughter. And I’m not lying. So, if you tell him I’m out here, he’ll come get me.”

That’s a straight-up lie. She actually has no idea if he will or not, but it’s literally all she had going for her in the plan. One photo, telling them her mother’s name and a whole lot of stupid hope.

Okay, so maybe the plan was like sixty-percent thought-out.

She hopes she sounds more sure than she feels because she’s so nervous her hands are shaking and she has to curl them up beneath the sleeves of her jean jacket and cross her arms again to steady herself.

Bald Bouncer looks down at her for another long stretch of a minute that’s probably more like twenty seconds but seems impossibly like forever— before he turns to look at Clipboard Bouncer whose eyebrows are making a very valiant attempt to sink into his hairline.

Bald Bouncer turns back to her, his eyebrows sunk together as his eyes flick over her face like he’s some human-shaped lie detector. “Are you lying?”

Ellie shakes her head.

“Shit,” he pushes out, rubbing his hand over the back of his smooth head and muttering another shit. “Girl, If you’re lying…”

“I’m not. I swear,” she says as hope curls in her chest.

He glances back at Clipboard Bouncer, and they share a long look before he wordlessly reaches up to his ear and says something low enough Ellie can’t hear it.

The front doors open, music thuds and sinks out into the street before it shuts again. She’s half-impressed with how good the building soundproofing must be to keep all that noise in, but then there’s another man, in the same dark clothing as the other two, who walks out and wordlessly takes the clipboard from Clipboard Bouncer.

Ex-Clipboard Bouncer tilts his head at Ellie, lifting his arm towards the entrance in an after you gesture. “Come on, girl. Let’s see what the boss has to say.”

Ellie glances at him, pulling a face at boss, because it… because it somehow clashes with the businessman she found online, the corporate, well-suited man in the glossy, HD images in news articles. (And the boy, grinning in that little, seventeen-year-old, stolen photo.)

Bald Bouncer glances at Ellie again as she steps around him before he turns back to the queue and asks the next person in line for their ID.

Infiltration complete? She thinks even as she feels the unsteady shake in her body that’s all nerves and fear and the very real realisation that Nicolas Cordova could be an absolute asshole—

But her thoughts get wiped away as the front door opens for them, pushed open by two more bouncers inside, and the thud thud thud of the music wipes out every thought in her head.

Elysium is somehow more of a club than she expected and also, nothing like any club she’s been in before. Or any club she could have thought up, really. Not that she’s been to that many clubs since her mother moved them back to New York. All-ages clubs are not really in the same league as private clubs like Elysium.

It’s dark inside like all clubs are, lit by shifting coloured lights, but it’s bigger than she expected, fancier than she expected— even after reading all the articles about it and seeing some pictures. Massive light fixtures that spill blue and gold and pink light over the length of the main floor; the dancefloor is down a level, already filled with people moving to the heavy-thumping beat of the music. There are booths and lounges surrounding both levels, and ahead of them, and a huge staircase that goes from the dancefloor all the way up to another floor above them.

“This way,” Ex-Clipboard Bouncer says with his hand pushing against the middle of her back. “C’mon.”

Ellie moves, glancing between where he’s leading her and looking over the club, half-distracted by the sight of it all, just how it flows, colours and sections that split each are but keep everything flowing. How the lights shift, how the fixtures hang, the way the people all move…

Mya is going to kill Ellie for seeing it all without her.

They hit the stairs and the bouncer urges her up, following just behind her. The stairs are wide, and curve off to each side of the club and up all three floors. A massive, modern chandelier comes into view as they make their way up a level, the music fading a little as they hit the top. Another pair of bouncers stand on either side of the staircase, and she feels Ex-Clipboard Bouncer tug on her jean jacket.

Ellie stops, waiting and watching as a he says something to the bouncer on their right. Ellie can’t hear anything; they’re speaking too quietly and the music drowns everything out but her own mind running a mile a minute. (And her heart, beating just a little bit too quick; adrenaline and nerves maybe, she thinks, just a little bit of excitement caught up in fear.)

(How can’t she be, after all, just a little bit afraid? When so much of her plan, so much of the reason she’s here— is based purely on this childish, childhood hope.)

(Did he know about me? Will he meet me? Does he care at all? Will he like me?)

Ellie pulls in a breath and lets it out, looking around and trying to distract herself from the thoughts racing through her head.

There are more booths, a matte-black bar that curves in a semi-circle in front of her and sits beneath a massive, low-glowing chandelier. To each side, a large section of lounging booths lit by warm-gold and rose-gold lights, keeping everything softer than the lower floors and just a bit quieter.

 A few of the people hanging around the bar glance her way, and she wonders if they’re all co-workers because they’re all dressed nearly the same, sort of like businessmen, minus the ties and loafers… but there’s an edge to them that makes her a little uneasy, something in the eyes, or the way they lean and lounge in their seats. The edges of tattoos on some of them. The way they look at her— or at any of the other people that make it up to the upper floor while she’s standing there, a little lost, waiting on a man that might not want anything to do with her.

He might not even remember her mother’s fucking name.

Jesus, Ellie, she thinks, sixty percent planned, my ass.

(Did he know about me? Will he meet me? Does he care at all? Will he like me?)

Suddenly, Ex-Clipboard Bouncer steps back up beside her, his hand on the middle of her back; it makes her jolt a little, but he leans down and his breath is warm on her ear, voice raised just enough for her to hear.

“Name?”

Ellie swallows and licks her lips. “It’s…” she hesitates, her mother’s name on her tongue, the plan she had: her mother’s name, a photo, a chance just to see him, just once, in person. Just to know, she thinks, just to see, one way or another.

“Loren. Loren Evans.”

She hopes to God he remembers her. That there’s a reason her mom kept the photo, no matter what Aunt Jilly had said. That maybe— maybe he’d have a reason, too, if he had a photo of his own.

(That even if he left, even if he did know about Ellie and left anyway… maybe he’d be curious enough to see why she was here after seventeen years.)

He nods, straightening up before leading her forward and to the right, over to a section of booths that are near the far side of the curved bar.

He tugs her jacket again, a wait here that’s barely audible over the music, and Ellie stops, watching him walk over to the back of the curved booth ahead. He stops in the middle, where a man sits, his arm stretched out over the back of the seat, a drink in his hand that shines amber in the warm, gold-tinted lights above him.

Ellie’s breath stutters in her chest. Her stomach twists.

She knows that face. (In the tilt of his head, the sharp edges a smile in the blur of a photo taken in a moment seventeen years ago. In the serious, glossy images in the articles online. Dark hair, light eyes, an angled, broad jaw.)

And he’s looking right at her.

Even in the dim light, even tinted by the glowing lights of the club, Ellie knows who it is, it's something in the angles, the shadows, the tilt of his head—

Ex-Clipboard Bouncer leans down near Nicolas Cordova’s shoulder and says something into his ear. Cordova’s eyes don’t leave Ellie’s, even though it’s obvious he’s listening to whatever the man behind him is saying.

The moment stretches, Cordova’s eyes stay on hers until it feels like there’s nothing else at all around her, like she’s stuck in molasses, something syrupy-thick, the music dripping and pooling inside of her to blend in time to her heartbeat, a sticky thing in her chest, hitting her rib cage like a hammer, thumpthumpthump.

Cordova lifts his drink to his lips and takes a long, slow drink without taking his eyes off of her. He swallows, his tongue slips over his bottom lip, his lips move, his head turning just a little as he says something to the bouncer, but it all feels so slow—

So slow.

He’s still looking right at her.

And then there’s an arm closing around her upper arm and the moment fractures—and somehow, Ex-Clipboard Bouncer is right beside her, tugging her towards the bar.

Time restarts, the noise of the club, the music and the people around her, it all hits her in a rush, like she’s hit a fast-forward button—

Ellie glances back at Cordova before she can stop herself, his head turns to follow her as the bouncer leads her along the curve of the bar and to a set of doors behind it.

That’s him, she thinks, her mind stumbling and tripping around everything but just that one fact: that’s him.

She stumbles a little, Ex-Clipboard Bouncer leads her around the side of the bar to a doorway, where there’s another bouncer, and a half-heard conversation between them about take her and his office— but Ellie twists her head to look back and—

Her heart pounds, Cordova’s not looking at her, his arm is still spread across the back of the booth seat as easy as anything, looking like he didn’t just hear he has a daughter— that there wasn’t some girl saying she was his fucking kid—

Her heart pounds. Her stomach twists. She doesn’t think she’s breathing right. (Cordova lifts his drink, a shift of his throat, the dark stubble on his jaw—)

C’mon, Bouncer says, tugging on her arm and pulling her towards the doorway ahead, but Ellie pulls back, sucking in a breath, feeling like she can’t breathe—

She pulls in another, the bouncer frowns, reaching for her arm again, but her heart pounds like a drum, her head spins—

She can’t breathe.

                The chilled, night air hits her first.

Ellie pulls in a desperate breath, stumbling a little as she rockets out the door and into the street. She keeps her head down as she flies past the bouncers and the queue, darting around the far side of the building and down the next street and the next— until she’s spilling down into the next subway station and dropping into a seat just as the doors slide closed behind her and the train lurches forward.

She closes her eyes, her grip tight on her phone, the music still thudding in her ears as hard and steady as her heartbeat, thumpthumpthump, in her chest, his face stuck beneath her eyelids like the shifting coloured lights of the club. (His hand on a drink, the shift of his throat, the angle of his jaw, his eyes—)

She breathes in through her nose, breathes stale, musty train-air, like the traces of weed and cigarettes and old sweat can chase everything else out.

Ellie opens her eyes and stares at the poster across from her. If you see something, say something, it says in big black letters with a number for the MTA and NYPD beneath it.

Yeah, right, she thinks and tries not to think about anything at all.

                 The thing is, as the days pass, Ellie’s pretty sure that trying to not think about something, makes you think about it even more.

Like when someone tells you not to say uhm, but then all you can do is notice how often you say it? Like that, Ellie thinks. Nicolas Cordova becomes her uhm. The lull between words, between thoughts, between moments. He’s there. Stuck in that moment in the club. (His face, his eyes, his head turning to follow her.)

Stuck in her mind like an itch.

She doesn’t know what to do about it. How to scratch it without actually scratching it— because she can’t go back. She can’t— she won’t go back.

Because there’s no point, is there?

She’s spent so long thinking about the idea of her father, about there was this man that existed, somewhere in the world that was hers—

Not hers, she thinks, not hers, just— just—

Someone she was supposed to know, maybe. This cut-out shape in her life, the childhood idea of a father.

But he’s— (Lifting his drink, the shift of his Adam’s apple, the dark of his hair and the weight of his eyes.)

He’s something else.

He doesn’t fit. Doesn’t sit right. Scratches at her head and her chest until she’s breathing too hard and her insides feel like they’re all the wrong size.

No, she thinks, she can’t go back.

But he’s there all the same, no matter what she thinks about, no matter what she focuses on, that uhm itches at the back of her throat and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

So, like she has since that night at the club last Friday, Ellie rolls out of bed just as the sun is starting to rise across campus and slips into her workout clothes before heading out into the still-quiet dormitory hallways and out into the silent track field to chase that uhm out of her head. (Even if it’s only for a few hours.)

She knows the football team will be out running drills before long, so she sticks her earbuds into her ears and sets her playlist on her phone and stretches out with a little walk to warm up before taking off down the track.

The music beats in her ears in time with her feet hitting the track, a steady pace that picks up as the sun rises more and her playlist shifts into more beat-heavy songs. She breathes harder, feels the sweat along her spine, but her mind slips away into the music and it feels like the only time she isn’t thinking about him.

The senior boys on the football team start showing up on the field, some of them stretching out, others gripping energy drinks and still waking up; a few send her a quick wave and she waves back as she passes them.

She gets another lap in before she catches sight of Ethan, a can of Redbull in his hand and a beanie stuffed over his brown hair. He doesn’t wave but she can feel him watching her as she takes the curve of the track in front of him.

She turns her music up and hits the bleachers instead of doing another loop, jogging up the steps to put some distance between them, trying to focus back on her run and not on her ex-boyfriend.

It doesn’t work as well as it should.

With a huff, Ellie does one more round on the stairs before deciding she’s done, she can’t focus (or zone out the way she wants to) knowing he’s there. Her knees wobble a little on the trek down the stairs, and it’s hard, ignoring Ethan and the football team as they converge on the field below her, but she keeps her head straight, her eyes on path back to the main building, heading off the track field and back towards her dorm.

She takes the long way, giving herself a chance to cool down and catch her breath, winding through the hallways and across the campus. It’s cool inside, the air-conditioning pushing goosebumps over her damp skin as she tries to slow her breathing.

She cuts through the main building, the hallways a little busier than before, but Ellie shuffle-steps a few beats, sliding along to the music when the hallway is empty and Will Smith tells her to get Jiggy Wit’ it in her ears.

(Na-na, na, na, na-na-na)

Smiling to herself and turning in place with another little shuffle of her feet in time with the song, Ellie rounds the next corner and glances up to see if she can keep dancing unseen—

But there’s a man, leaning against the front desk, looking down at a pamphlet in his hands, and he’s got dark hair and a sharp jaw with dark stubble. Broad shoulders. A sharp suit.

Ellie’s breath catches.

Ellie’s breath stalls in her throat and she ducks behind one of the pillars in Trinity’s main entranceway. The man looks up, but not at her, the angle changing his face as he smiles, wide and white and so quick it’s something sharp, sliced between charming and cocky as he tucks the brochure he was reading into his suit pocket. His hand comes out and Ellie blinks as the Dean of her school steps into her line of sight. She takes his hand with a smile of her own, looking up at him because he’s tall—

He’s so tall.

Ellie bites her cheek, her breath uneven as she peers around the edge of the pillar, fingers crossed, toes crossed, a please don’t look up— little prayer on the tip of her tongue.

She watches them, but she only gets seconds more of watching before Dean Katherine is leading him towards her office.

Ellie curses, her heart pounding, a small part of her wants him to look up, to look back, despite how much she doesn’t want him to.

He doesn’t fit.

It makes no sense, she knows, a twisted feeling in her stomach, the same one that’s been there ever since she found a photo, a name and put the pieces of a man together into something like the shape of a father that wasn’t ever there.

She curses herself for going looking, for caring at all, but part of her, the part of her that went looking for him in the first place, desperately wants him to look up.

And then he does, just as he's heading into the Dean’s office, his head turning in slow motion, his eyes—

His eyes meet hers and it’s just like that moment in the club. Her music beats in her ears but it fades away until it’s nothing but this dull, distant thump blending and blurring into her heartbeat, until there’s nothing but his eyes on hers.

He stops, his eyes flicking over her—

His head turns away as something catches his attention in front of him, Ellie looks at his profile, her feet rooted, her mind empty but for the sight of him in front of her. His eyes flick back to her in less than a blink, but Dean Katherine’s manicured hand touches his arm and—

And Ellie turns on her heel, her music thumping in her ears, her heart even louder as she slips away as quickly and quietly as possible, telling herself not to look back.

Don’t look back.

The trek back to her dorm room is a blur, she isn’t sure she hears a single lyric or beat that’s still playing in her ears, her mind caught on the image of him, on the reality of him here. Here.

Here—how the Hell did he get here, she thinks, how the Hell—

Her key slips twice before she gets it into the lock. The door seems heavier than normal and the lock too loud in the quiet of her dorm room when she slides the deadbolt home behind her and leans against the door… like that will somehow keep the man and any thoughts of him out.

It doesn’t.

(His head turns, his hair shines thick and dark, the length of his nose and the carved line of his jaw and—)

Ellie breathes out.

Mya is still sleeping, tucked into her bed with the covers nearly over her head; just the curly dark of her hair peeking out. It’s too quiet in her dorm room, her thoughts too loud; she slips into the bathroom, turning the shower on just to hear something that isn’t her own heartbeat in her ears.

Leaning against the sink, Ellie breathes in the slowly-warming air as the steam curls and fills the small bathroom, her thoughts running like the hum of the shower water hitting the tiles.

How did he find me?

Did he find me?

It can’t be a coincidence, can it? Why else would he be here?

She thinks about the pamphlet in his hand, about his eyes and his face—

How the hell, she thinks, closing her eyes and trying to breathe slowly, steadily, to calm down—

How the hell is he here?

It’s not until she’s stripped out of her workout clothes and chasing the sweat from her body, that a thought drips to life in her brain and sticks to her like the soap-suds on her skin—

What if he’s already got kids? What if he’s here to look into them enrolling? What if they’re already here at Trinity—

(She isn’t sure what the feeling in her is, something stuck between nauseated and relieved and… and a jagged-edged disappointment that feels too much like heartbreak.)

What if he already has a daughter?

                Ellie shuffles a few steps, lip-syncing along to Watermelon Sugar in her ear. Post-workout, with the sun shining and no sight of— of hm— since Monday, she’s feeling more at ease than she has all week. She’s done her best to tell herself she doesn’t care about him or anything to do with him. Doesn’t care if he has kids, if he wants kids, if he came looking or if it was all some coincidence—

She doesn’t care.

What she does care about, is a few hours of working and escaping campus. The fallout of Ethan and their breakup and the lingering worry (hope) that Nicolas Cordova might appear around any corner, has made the last few days exhausting, and she wants to not think about anything but coffee and customers and co-workers.

That’s it. Coffee, customers, coworkers.

The Roastery is nestled nearly right in the middle of Trinity’s campus. The coffee shop is relaxed and low-key, run mostly by students that attend Trinity, making it the ideal meet-up, hang-out, study hub for students. Ellie might be biased, but she thinks it’s nicer than the overpriced Starbucks and some of the fancier, more modern coffee shops littered throughout the city.

She knocks on the door and shoots off a text to Andie, telling her she’s here, come let me in—

Behind her, reflected blurrily in the glass, a black vehicle pulls up along the sidewalk on the other side of the street across from the Roastery. Ellie glances at it briefly, because it’s early and most of the area is students who prefer to sleep in, especially Saturday morning…

She thinks, for a second, it might be Ethan— but the windows are tinted and it’s just a plain black, expensive looking vehicle that could belong to any number of the guys on campus who likes driving SUV’s or Rovers.

The lock of the Roastery’s front door snicks and Ellie turns and grins at Andie who smiles back and opens the door to let her in.

          Saturday shifts are busy and mindless, filled with coffee and baked goods, with customers and conversations as the hours pass and there’s a lull just before lunch hour. Ellie takes a minute in the lull, picking at a cookie and leaning against the sink behind the counter, watching Andie pour coffee beans into the grinder. Tara sits beside her, propped on the counter with a Cosmo open in her lap.

“These sex-tips are always so fucking awful,” she says, pulling a face at the glossy pages of the magazine. “I want to know who vets these tips.”

“I honestly don’t think they vet them, Tara,” Andie laughs, passing the bag of beans to Ellie to tie off. “I think they just look for the most ridiculous ideas and roll with it.”

“Pure shock value,” Ellie says with a grin. “Like watching pimple popping videos online. So gross you can’t look away.”

They laugh until Tara shakes the page again. “Like this, listen to this,” she clears her throat and sits straighter, grin wide as she swings her legs a little. “Hold his penis in one hand and lightly slap it with the oth—” she breaks into a laugh. “Tap it back and—”

“I can safely say that no man would want you to do that.”

Ellie swears all three of them jump as a deep voice interrupts Tara and her misguided sex-tips. Coffee beans scatter as Ellie fumbles with the bag in her hands, turning to face the counter and the man standing there.

All three girls stutter back into order, standing straighter, slipping off the counter, the magazine flops hollowly onto the floor with a splat that’s just loud enough that it should be funny— if Ellie wasn’t completely stuck, frozen in place and staring at the man across the counter.

He looks down at the magazine, the corner of his mouth twitching up at the bright pink cover and its 25 SEX TIPS TO TRY TONIGHT— before his gaze slowly, surely, drifts from the magazine to Ellie’s sneakers, and slowly, surely, slides all the way up to her face.

Their eyes meet.

“Hello,” he says, with his eyes steady and heavy and focused on hers.

Ellie feels frozen, her breath stuck in her chest; the brown bag of Fall Blend beans gripped in her hands. She takes him in in less than a second, tall, broad-shoulders in a dark suit, light eyes, dark hair that looks just long enough that it could fall over his forehead if it wasn't styled in a perfectly imperfect sort of way off of his forehead. He’s taller than she thought, enough that she's looking up at him, despite being on the other side of the counter and a few feet away. Younger too, she thinks, and can’t help but think of the sharp-edged grin of the boy in her photo.

It’s the closest she’s ever been to him.

Nicolas Cordova, nothing more than blue ink and a blurry photo. Nothing more than a Google search. Nothing more than a man in a club. Nothing more than—

Dad.

There's something entertained and teasing in the crooked smile on his mouth and the crinkle near the corner of his eyes as he looks at her and only her as the seconds stretch out.

She can't tear her eyes away, he watches her, like he's waiting for her to catch up, like he's perfectly fine just watching her as well, waiting as Ellie's brain staggers into comprehension.

Andie restarts first, stepping in front of Ellie and towards the register. “Sorry, sir, that was— I mean, I’m sorry, what can we get for you?”

“Just a black coffee,” he says without looking away from Ellie for another too-long moment— until he does and he’s smiling at Andie and adding, thank you.

His eyes flick back up to Ellie and her heart pounds, the Roastery fades in her eardrums until all there is, is him in front of her. The space between him and her. (Him at her school. His profile. The look in his eyes. Him in the dark of the club. His eyes on her. The tilt of his head and the shift of his throat.)

He looks away.

Andie rings him up, and Ellie thinks there should be noise, shouldn’t there? The cash drawer should ding when it opens, there should be that clink of coins, another hollow clink when he drops the change into the tip jar before he turns away.

Turns away without his coffee, she thinks, which means he’s not leaving. Which means Andie must have told him to find a seat. Which means he’s staying—

Andie nudges her, the noise of the Roastery rushes back in like a wave.

Coffee, El. What are you doing?

Ellie wants to argue, her mouth opens, she glances at Cordova, his shoulders broad in a suit jacket as he walks to the back of the shop. The way he seems too big for the space. Or maybe, she thinks, he’s just too big for her reality.

He doesn’t fit.

(An itch, an uhm, a stolen photo she shouldn’t have.)

He turns away, taking one of the bench seats against the back wall, she watches him slip one of the buttons on his jacket open before his eyes flick to hers over the glass display case for pastries and—

Ellie turns away, feeling like she’s about to burst apart with nerves, because how is he here? How did he— How does he know she works here? Was it an accident? A coincidence?

She thinks about him at Trinity. About the club last Friday.

It can’t be a coincidence. There’s just no fucking way—

How the hell is he here? Why the hell is he here?

(Does he really have a daughter a kid here already?) But then, how has she never seen him before?

“Oh, my God,” Tara whispers, but it’s too loud and too excited to be anything near quiet. “Oh my God, did you see him? Did you— God, he’s gorgeous. He’s like—” she makes a noise in her throat, her head turning to look at Cordova, peering over the glass case for pastries. “Jesus. That should be illegal.”

Ellie swallows, wincing and busying herself with the coffee as Andie laughs and nods, stealing another peek herself before turning back to the register and the next customer walking in.

Tara slips up beside Ellie at the coffee machines, her voice low and eager. “Can I take him—”

“No,” Ellie says before she can stop herself. “I mean— I guess—”

No, you can’t. No, he’s my dad. No—

No, she winces, he’s not your dad. He’s just a guy that knocked up Mom. He’s a sperm donor. A random guy you happen to share DNA with.

“Let Ellie do it,” Andie says, flapping her hand against Tara’s arm, trying to get between them and to the espresso machine. “We don’t need you drooling into some dude’s coffee because you think he’s hot.”

“That’s not hot,” Tara says with a rush of an offended inhale. “Are you blind? That’s— that’s art.”

Oh my god, Ellie pushes out under her breath, scrunching her face, feeling something hot and unsteady in her stomach, (because she knows, she sees him, saw him, looked at him—)

Andie snorts and shakes her head. “Yeah, well admire from far away. Ellie, you think you can manage serving him without drooling all over him?”

Ellie nods, her hands unsteady as she pours and watches the stream of black coffee flow from the pot and fill up the mug; she breathes in, trying to steady herself, to bring herself back to reality in the strong smell of the dark roast. “Sure,” she says and hopes her voice sounds steadier than she thinks it does. “This coffee will be drool free, Andie. I promise.”

Andie laughs as Tara huffs and crosses her arms.

“You’re so mean,” Tara whines, glaring at Andie before peering over the glass again. “That’s… no, come on, he’s gorgeous, I just want to get a closer look—”

“How about you get a closer look at the muffins in the back?” Andie says with a grin. “Timer’s about done. If he’s still here when they’re done and you’ve cut them up, you can offer him a sample.”

Tara opens her mouth, looking at Ellie like she wants to beg for the mug in Ellie’s hand, but Andie’s nudging Ellie forward, he’s waiting, Jesus you two, move. Customer. Go. Muffins. Go.

Ellie goes.

He looks up from his phone when she rounds the counter, but somehow, she feels like he was already watching her. His lips tilt into this small sort of smile that she doesn’t know what to do with as he sets his phone down on the table in front of him, watching her walk towards him.

Her heart pounds inside her unsteady chest, pulling in shallow, anxious breaths she hopes to God he can’t hear.

His hair is inky-dark, swept back off his forehead and styled off to one side, shining in the low, hanging lights that hang from the Roastery’s ceiling.

Cordova leans back in his seat a little, his eyes sinking down her and back up as he puts one arm out over the booth back against the wall.

She swallows, stepping up to his table and setting his coffee down as carefully as she can with unsteady hands. He watches her, silent and too big and too— too—

His eyes move over her face, Ellie’s breath catches— they have the same eye colour.

“Hello,” he says, his voice low and rolling into her, pitched like it’s only for her to hear.

Ellie swallows, tearing her eyes away from his and glancing back to the counter where Andie’s busy with another customer and Tara’s still gone, sulking in the back and dealing with the muffins. Thank God.

“How the— What are you doing here?” she asks, crossing her arms and forcing herself to look at his face, to meet his eyes because— because he’s just a guy. He’s just a man. You went looking for him. He’s here. You went looking and he’s here and you need to deal with it.

Deal with it, Ellie.

Her sixty percent has steadily dropped down to twenty. Maybe even fifteen.

Past-Ellie should have thought all of this through so much fucking better.

“How do you even know—” she shakes her head, glancing back at the counter and taking a half-step forward, dropping her voice lower. “You should go. This is—” she shifts, looking away and shaking her head again. “I made a mistake.”

Cordova reaches for his coffee, lifting it up to his mouth and swallowing a mouthful. “Did you?”

Ellie glances at him, swallowing her nerves. “Listen, I don’t know how you found me, but I don’t think—”

“You could ask me,” he says, his mug clinking lightly back down on the table, his other arm still stretched over the booth back, looking far too at ease compared to Ellie and her nerves that make her feel like she’s about to fly apart at any second.

She blinks at him, is he serious? Ask him what?

“Anything you want to know,” he says, his eyes steady on her.

“I don’t—” she starts and cuts off as the questions, curiosities, stupid little childhood thoughts swell up like that stupid uhm she can’t get away from.

Did you know about me? Did you leave anyway? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you know about me? Why did my mom have that picture if she never wanted you in my life? Why didn’t she ever tell me who you are? Why did I spend seventeen years not knowing you? Who are you?

Do you want me now, or is it too late?

Jesus, she thinks, cringing away from that thought, you’re not a child. You wanted to know who he was, now you know. Curiosity satisfied. Move on.

Right?

He doesn’t belong in your life. He doesn’t fit. You don’t need him.

Their eyes meet, Ellie’s heart trips because they really do have the same eyes and she wonders if he sees it, too. They don’t look anything alike, he has no reason to believe her, but— she has his eyes, doesn’t she?

“Ellie?” Andie’s voice breaks Ellie out of the moment and she startles, tearing her eyes away from his. She turns away before he can say anything else, keeping her eyes on the glint of the lights in the glass display case in front of her, telling herself not to look back. Not to turn back.

Keep going, she thinks, keep going.

Behind the safety of the counter, Ellie takes over the till as Andie starts filling orders behind her; she smiles her customer-service smile and laughs her customer-service laugh and through it all, Nicolas Cordova watches her…

Like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather do.

Chapter Text

Two

                Ellie sneaks a glance over the glass display case, watching as Tara balances the tray of sample muffins on one hand and uses the other to talk enthusiastically to Cordova.

As she still talks to Cordova.

(Enthusiastically being another word for the way she tilts her head, the way her hip juts out, the way her hair swings, the way her laughter rings, bright and clear across the Roastery.)

“Honestly,” Andie laughs and shakes her head, following Ellie’s line of sight. “I wonder if she’ll actually bag his number.”

Ellie scowls as her stomach twists, turning away from the sight of them and focusing on the bright chime of the bell as a new customer walks in.

It’s hard to keep herself focused on work. Hard not to turn her head, to tilt up on toes and peer over the counter. It’s hard not to look.

Especially because every time she ventures out from behind the counter to bring someone their drink or wipe a table, she can feel him watching her. No matter what she does, no matter what she tells herself to look at, no matter what songs play on the speakers above them, all Ellie can focus on is him.

It’s nearly one by the time he leaves; pushing up from the banquette seating along the back wall, rebuttoning that one loosened button on his suit jacket. She’s pretty sure every girl in the Roastery watches him drag his hand through his hair, (like there’s anything even wrong with the way it looks, dark and thick and stylish) pick up his phone from the table and head towards the door.

“See you next time,” he says with a crooked smile as he walks by the counter. But his eyes, she thinks, meet hers one last time as he passes, and she knows, somehow, in some way, that he was saying it just to her.

“I’m so gonna bang that,” Tara says behind her, eager, giddy, filled with a determined excitement.

Ellie’s stomach lurches.

(She wonders if it’s just wishful thinking, maybe he wasn’t saying it to her. Maybe— maybe Tara is standing there thinking exactly the same thing Ellie is.)

                The rest of her shift drags by like time has slowed and dulled in the absence of—

No one, she thinks, no one.

It’s just that the sun decides to sink behind the clouds and leave the day an off-cast grey. It’s just that she’s hungry and tired after a long Saturday shift. It’s just…

Nothing, she thinks. Nothing.

She trudges back to campus, fighting her mood as she turns her key in the lock and slips into her dorm room.

“Heyhey,” Mya says from behind her phone, lying on her back on her bed. “How was work?”

Strange, Ellie thinks, but shrugs even though Mya can’t see it. “Fine,” she says instead, dropping her bag at the foot of her bed and dropping herself, face-first down onto her duvet. You remember last Friday when I told you I went running really late? I actually went Dad-Hunting and— funny story, he showed up at work today.

Hey, have you ever heard the name Cordova, before? Any students with that last name?

How likely is it, do you think, that the guy who knocked up my mom seventeen years ago, also knocked up someone else and now has kids my age that go to my school?

Like, pretty likely? Or not at all likely and he really was here to see me?

Was he here to see me? Or was I just… coincidence. Convenience.

Bad fucking luck.

“Long,” she says, instead of all…all that.

Because that’s… that’s a lot.

Mya hums. “There’s a little shindig-y tonight, wanna go?”

Ellie pulls a face into her blankets, because she doesn’t, but also does— because there’s too much stuff in her head and maybe getting out of her head is what she needs. “Where?”

“Carnegie.”

Ellie groans because it’s the boys’ residence, of course it would be there—turning her head to scowl at Mya, who’s already looking at her with a hopeful wince on her face. “I know. Marcus said he’d do his best to run intervention.”

“Marcus is full of shit. He’ll be fucked-up before we get there.”

Mya winces again. “I mean, probably. But…” she huffs as she rolls off her bed and crosses the narrow distance between her bed and Ellie’s and drops down next to her, jostling them together as she tangles their legs together. “Please? You need this, you’ve been like, off all week. It’ll be fun. We can ignore Ethan if he’s even there.”

“I haven’t been off all week.”

Lies, she thinks, she’s definitely been off all week. Ever since… (the shine of lights against a glass, the shift of his Adam’s apple, his eyes—)

Mya pulls a face. “You’re right, it’s been like, right since school started.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, even though her mind readily supplies her with the reason for why she’s been off since school. (And it’s all wrapped up in one man with broad shoulders and dark hair and her eyes. Or, his eyes, really. Eyes that he gave her.)

“Hey, come on, you like to pretend you’re all like, tough, but you got Bambi eyes. It’s all right there,” she motions to Ellie’s face with one hand. “Right there, in those big ol’ doe eyes.”

“I do not have doe-eyes,” Ellie huffs, fighting a smile. “And I am not Bambi.”

“I mean…” Mya laughs when Ellie elbows her. “If the doe-eyes fit.”

“Fuck off,” Ellie laughs. “I’m tough.”

“Like that Bambi gif,” Mya grins before twisting her face into a snarl. “The one where he’s all grrr.”

Ellie pushes up and reaches for her pillow, smacking it down into Mya’s face. “I am not Bambi! I’m super tough!”

Mya shrieks and tries to grab the pillow back, laughing and curling up to protect herself from Ellie’s onslaught.

“Say I’m tough!”

“Never!”

“Say I’m super tough!”

Mya’s answer is a shrieking laugh as she rolls and tumbles off the bed to escape Ellie’s pillow-attack.

                In the mirror, Ellie tilts her head and looks at herself; her hair needs a trim, she thinks absently and fingers a piece of her hair that brushes near her ribs. She glances at her face again, make-up free, and she’s… okay, a little wide-eyed, but definitely not doe-eyed.

And she definitely doesn’t look thirteen. Or like Bambi.

In the mirror, her eyes are the same blue-grey as ever, a little tint of hazel around the pupil. (Cordova looks at her, his eyes on hers, his arm thick and stretched along the back of the cushioned seat. Whatever you want to know.)

She tilts her head again, looking at her cheekbones, the shape of her jaw, (the turn of his head, the dark stubble on his jaw, the way his mouth—)

They don’t look anything alike.

Shaking her head, Ellie grabs her mascara from the makeup holder on the sink and leans forward, ignoring the colour of her eyes as she tilts her head and drags the wand over her lashes.

A lot of people have blue-grey eyes, she thinks, they’re not that unique. So what if they’re similar. So what. (But that little ring of reaching hazel right around the pupil, her mind supplies, how common is that?)

The alarm on her phone goes off: thirty minutes to her shift at the Roastery and counting.

Pushing out a breath, she turns away from the mirror with a huff and an eye roll, feeling stupid for thinking there would be some answer in her own face. (Like what, she thinks, you think something would be different just because you got his eyes? It doesn’t matter. They’re just eyes.)

Nothing’s changed.

She changes out of her school uniform, pulling on a long-sleeve Roastery t-shirt that says: Have A Brew-tiful Day across the chest and a pair of leggings before shoving her earbuds in her ears and heading out the door.

“See you,” she calls to Mya, and catches the have fun, the other girl calls back just before the door shuts.

It’s a five-minute walk to work but Ellie cuts across the tree-lined campus that borders her dormitory to save some time, coming out onto the street closest to the Roastery.

There’s a young guy, leaning against a black vehicle idling on the edge of the field, holding a cigarette in a tattooed hand. She watches him lift it to his mouth and sees the tattoos crawling up one side of his neck as he pulls in a breath and lets out a plume of smoke, but glancing away when his head turns towards her.

She feels a little guilty for the quick, he doesn’t look like a Trinity student, that pops into her head.

Scowling at herself, Ellie wonders if entitlement is something you can catch. Like being at Trinity with all its superficial, spoiled students has infected her. Made her judge-y for something so stupid like tattoos.

And then she feels guilty for that, too, because not all of them are that bad, not all of them are spoiled rich kids with trust funds. It’s just a lot of them.

A solid eighty percent, at least.

She smiles at the guy and gives him a little wave because three years ago, it was Ellie who didn’t fit in. Three years ago she was the one that didn’t belong at Trinity. (The girl from New Rochelle. The girl whose mom was dating a teacher. Professor Hethridge’s pity project.) The only reason Ellie’s here at all is because she’s just lucky enough to have a mother who met a guy who happened to be a teacher— and also like, pretty rich and somehow, a decent enough guy to give enough of a shit about his girlfriend’s teenage daughter— that he pulled some strings to get her into a school that she otherwise would never have had a chance to get into.

Trinity isn’t cheap.

The guy’s head tilts and his lips quirk at Ellie’s awkward wave, but he doesn’t wave back, just looks away and pulls out his phone.

Ellie shrugs it off, cutting across the street and flips the song to something brighter and happier to try to boost her mood before work, (trying to ignore that little bubble of something sitting in her stomach that might just be a very little bit of nervous hope that he might come back.)

But she's ignoring that, so.

                Woah, dude look at that car—

Ellie glances up from the milk jug she’s wiping out, looking at the group of freshmen near the front windows; the boys tilting their heads to peer at the silver, sleek-looking convertible that’s pulling up in front of The Roastery.  

Through the large front windows, Ellie watches a man slide out of the front seat, wearing dark sunglasses and a light-grey suit with a crisp white shirt. He stands beside his car, his black hair shining in the setting sun; the glint of his cufflinks as he rights his jacket, the flash of a watch on his wrist as he pushes his hand through his hair and rounds the front of that sleek silver car and—

“Oh-holy shit, it’s him,” Tara says beside her, slapping Ellie’s arm. “Ellie look— look at him.”

Ellie steps away, flapping the cloth in her hand at Tara with a huff and a scowl. “Stop it, oh my God, I know. I’m not blind.”

She’s pretty sure everyone sees him. She’s pretty sure there’s not a set of eyes not on him. Through the glass of the front door, Cordova’s eyes are hidden by his sunglasses, but he’s tall and broad and he fills the doorway as the chime goes and he’s—

Ellie steps back, her heartbeat ticking faster in her chest— before she stops and grits her teeth and makes herself stay. She’s not going to run away, she tells herself, he’s the one that shouldn’t be here. Not me.

He’s the one that doesn’t belong.

The Roastery is for students. Teachers. Not— not whatever the hell he is.

He doesn’t fit.

“God, he’s fucking gorgeous,” Tara whispers, adjusting the neckline of her Roastery shirt and running a quick hand through her hair. “How do I look?”

Ellie scowls, but her eyes dart to Cordova closing in on the counter, peeling off his sunglasses as he gets closer. “He’s just a guy—”

“Uh, that’s not just anything. That’s like, stupid-hot. And someone I really want to bang me stupid.” She rolls her hand, eyes flicking between Cordova walking towards them and Ellie beside her. “Come on, how do I look, Ellie?”

Ellie huffs, trying to ignore the lurch of her stomach at the idea, imaginings, unwanted images that pop up in her brain of Tara and— and him— she swallows, tearing her eyes away from Cordova and looking down at her hands, twisting them into the cloth she’s holding too tightly. “You look great, you know you do.”

And she does, Tara always looks perfect in that way that never looks like she really tries all that hard. Auburn hair, perfect makeup, and a body with curves that make her look like she’s a real-life Insta-girl but without the ego. It’s almost annoying, it should be annoying… but she’s also a pretty nice person.

Unfortunately.

Ellie kind of hates her for it right now. (Except that hate is more like a twist in her stomach, a lurching feeling when she thinks about Tara at the side of his table, his smile and his laughter low and warm.)

Tara grins instead of answering, turning to face the counter, bouncing a little as she steps closer; it makes her breasts jiggle and Ellie schools her face, biting her cheek to try to ignore the tightness in her stomach.

“Hey there,” Tara says over-sweetly, bracing her hands against the counter and leaning forward a little. Ellie’s eyes flick up to Cordova— and then away when their eyes meet. “I knew you liked my muffin the other day. Come back for more?”

Oh gag, Ellie thinks, her face twisting as she turns away, no matter the itch in her mind and on her skin to look at him again. To meet his eyes. To see—

Nothing, she tells herself. Nothing.

Cordova’s laugh is as low and warm as she remembers it, and her skin prickles at the sound of it. That itch to look at him gets stronger and harder to ignore as she tries to distract herself, dumping a pot of coffee that probably wasn’t quite ready to be thrown away-- but she tells herself it was close enough and really, it’s just good service isn’t it? Keeping the coffee fresh— and reaching for the beans still waiting to be ground.

“Just a coffee today,” he says behind her and she tries not to listen as Tara says something else and he pays, tries not to focus on his voice saying thank you— trying to ignore when Tara eagerly goes about making his coffee next to Ellie and rambles on about his eyes and his lips and—

God, did you see his hands? I bet he’s pack—

One tablespoon, two, three… she counts each, measuring more carefully than she normally does until Tara’s slipping around the counter with Cordova’s coffee in hand and a smile on her face that’s toothy and eager, wish me luck, El!

She tries not to listen but it’s like his voice is this… this thing that buzzes inside of her, this sound that she can’t help but focus on.

That uhm that she can’t get away from.

Thank you, he says and she can practically see the curve of Tara’s hip as she leans against his table. Tara, she says, you’re very welcome…

Ellie hits the button, the mechanical whirr and the grind of the beans against the blades drowns out his answer.

                Ellie wipes down the table, keeping her eyes on the glare of the lights reflecting up at her in the wet surface of the tabletop as she drags the rag over it, ignoring Cordova’s eyes that she can feel—

she glances up before she can stop herself.

He doesn’t look away.

Most people would look away, she thinks and frowns at him across the café, at being caught staring.

But she looks away first, and that prickle of awareness of someone watching, that itch of knowing you’re being looked at, lingers as she heads back behind the counter.

(She wonders what she was expecting, really. What did she think was going to happen when she met him? That something was going to click into place? That something would feel more whole?)

(If anything, she thinks, everything feels tilted. Not whole.)

                Ellie folds the pumpkin scone inside the waiting bit of parchment paper before sliding it into the display case.

“Looks good,” Andie says behind her as she steals one of the damaged scones off the baking tray, “Is that the new recipe from Marianne?”

Ellie nods, reaching for the next scone and the next piece of parchment. “Yeah, think she added more cardamom than last year, and there’s a bit of cinnamon-y, vanilla-sugar on top. They’re good.”

Andie nods around her bite, chewing as she speaks. “They are,” she swallows. “She try to recruit you again for the bakery?”

Ellie grins, sliding another scone into the display case. “Sure did.”

Andie laughs a little, taking another broken piece of scone. “At least you have a backup plan, huh? If you can’t decide what you want to do after Trinity, you know you can work for her.”

Ellie snorts a laugh as the shop bell chimes. “True. Pretty sure mom and Paul would kill me, thou—”

“Oh, look who it is,” Andie hushes, popping another bit of scone in her mouth and wiping her hands on her apron before turning towards the counter. “Thank God Tara isn’t here.”

Ellie frowns, looking up and fumbling the scone in her hand as Cordova walks in and towards the counter, the parchment crinkles loudly. (She absolutely doesn’t blush when he looks at her.)

Hey, what can I get for you, she hears Andie say, but it’s Cordova’s voice her mind latches onto.

“Just a black coffee, please,” he smiles back at her, his eyes flicking over to Ellie again before focusing back on Andie as he pays and then heads to his regular seat along the back wall.

“Take him some of the fall blend sample when you take him his coffee,” Andie says absently, turning back to the counter and the next customer as they step up to the till.

Of course, why not, Ellie mumbles, turning to the coffee machines and grabbing a mug and the coffee pot. “Sure thing.”

She grabs their small espresso cups on the way around the counter, letting it dangle off her finger as she heads towards him.

He’s waiting, watching, because why wouldn’t he be, she thinks with a scowl. Why not.

She sets his coffee and the espresso cup down, glancing at him, her teeth in her cheek as their eyes meet like. She wishes it didn’t happen so much. She looks away, swallowing before pulling in a steadying breath.

“Fall blend,” she says and tries not to wince at how stupid that sounds without explanation. “It’s a sample, I mean. We give them out, you know. Seasonally to like, let people try it.”

His lips quirk. “Thank you, Ellie.”

Her stomach tightens, she fills the cup and she’s pretty— no, she’s absolutely sure the carafe has never been this slow at pouring coffee out of its dumb little spout, ever— and it’s too quiet between them but she can’t bring herself to look at his face because she’s afraid— no, she’s not afraid, she’s not— she just doesn’t want to deal with his eyes and her eyes and how much they might be exactly the same, that’s all.

All she can do watch the slowly filling cup and let him look at her while telling herself don’t look up, don’t look up.

“How are you?” he asks, as the dark coffee sways higher and closer to the lip of the cup and she thinks close enough to full, Andie won’t see if you ripped him off of a little bit of sample coffee.

It’s free, anyway. He can’t complain.

Ellie can’t stop herself from looking at him, but she looks away again and glances back at the counter, at Andie serving another customer. “I’m… I’m fine.”

Anything you want to know, he’d said.

Nothing, she thinks, there’s nothing.

She steps back, Cordova’s jaw tightens, a tensing-tendon beneath the dark of his stubble, something almost— almost like disappointment flickers in his eyes— but that’s— that’s stupid.

(What’s he got to be disappointed over, she tells herself, nothing. Nothing.)

Ellie turns away, because it’s a mistake, him coming here, her ever going to his stupid club. That night. The photo. Her fucking conception—

It’s all a mistake.

She doesn’t look back.

                Cordova shows up for every shift Ellie has over the next two weeks, ordering one coffee, drinking it slowly, too slowly, she thinks, before he leaves. Sometimes all he has is his phone, others, a laptop. But always, always he spends most of his time watching her… even on the days Tara is in and Ellie has to watch the other girl flirt like her life depends on it.

(And then listen as the other girl regales whoever will listen about whatever part of Nicolas she’s lusting over in that moment. Lips, hair, hands, jaw, shoulders… Ellie’s heard about them all.)

It leaves her a little on-edge at work, too keyed into the chime of the bell, waiting for a shouldn’t-be-familiar set of shoulders, a well-dressed man to enter into a café that gets mostly students and teachers and a few random 9-5’ers. He doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense.

Everyone looks at him when he’s there. This too-tall, too well-dressed, too attr—

He doesn’t fit.

But he comes anyway.

(And she doesn’t know what to do with that.)

                September shifts into October, and on the what (she won’t admit she knows) is the official three-week-anniversary of him showing up at the Roastery and the four week anniversary of that first night at Elysium, Ellie sets his coffee down a little harder than she means to. “You know, this doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

 Cordova’s smile is quick and titled with something entertained as his eyes flick over her face.

“No?” he asks, shifting in the soft seat that still looks too small for him, too worn, his arm too large as he props it over the back of the seat. He’s in a suit again, just like every time he comes in no matter the day or time or weather, but today the buttons on the white button-up shirt are undone and there’s this slope of tanned skin and it makes him look—

Ellie bites her cheek, crossing her arms and steeling herself as she looks at him.

“There’s a Klatch, like, two blocks from here.”

He smiles again, his hand curving around the mug; her stomach tenses as she looks at it, thinking about what Tara said about his hands. “The coffee’s good.”

“It takes you hours to drink one cup,” she says before she can think the implication of her words through. He, unfortunately, doesn’t miss it.

“Does it?” He tilts his head, fighting a grin.

Ellie shifts in place, her sneaker squeaks on the floor; she hopes her face isn’t as red as it feels. She doesn’t like, watch him, she tells herself, she’s just aware of him. How can’t she be, he’s the one watching her, after all. “I just— you aren’t exactly the like, target clientele, you know?”

“No? I thought this was a coffee shop,” he looks down at his mug, making a show of checking his coffee before looking at her again, she barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. “You make coffee, a customer buys it. Supply and demand. Didn’t think there was a focus group for coffee.”

At that, she does roll her eyes, but the bell chimes behind her and she looks towards the door, watching as some students walk in and (she is absolutely not disappointed) bee-line for the counter.

“Of course there is,” she says, taking a step back but hesitating to turn away. “It’s a college campus. We’re all over-caffeinated students and tired teachers.”

He grins. (Her stomach does nothing.)

“And Klatch is more my scene?” he asks, with this crooked smile and look in his eyes that’s… that’s focused and steady and… and something like warm, she thinks.

His phone lights up on the tabletop, vibrating lowly and barely noticeable as Taylor Swift sings lightly through the speakers above them; Ellie glances at it but Cordova doesn’t look away from her.

You probably wouldn’t get stared at so much, she thinks, but all she does is shrug. “Not even the teachers wear suits like yours.”

He glances down at himself, his lips quirking when he looks back at her. “So, it’s the suit?”

Ellie shrugs again, glancing back at the students still staring up at the menu boards, before looking back to Cordova. “You stick out.”

“Maybe I like the atmosphere here.”

She snorts. “It’s literally over-caffeinated students and tired teachers.”

His eyes flick over the shop and then back to Ellie, his gaze warm as he smiles, slow and crooked. “The staff, then.”

She sinks her teeth into her cheek as her pulse trips and she steps back, edging towards the counter and the waiting students. “We’re definitely over-caffeinated students, too.”

He laughs. (Ellie’s stomach does absolutely nothing.)

                “Seriously,” she says as he steps up to the counter, in a three-piece grey suit, a deep red tie knotted around his neck, looking so out of place in the comfortable, jeans, t-shirts, sweat-pants café that it’s almost jarring.

He shrugs, his smile spreading slowly as he looks at her. “Came from work.”

Ellie doesn’t know what to do with the idea that it’s after six and he… apparently just left work and came right here. Came to… to what? To what?

(The why are you here, is sticky and bitter in her throat like burnt coffee, why do you keep coming back? Do you know how many years I wondered about you? Did you ever know about me? Wonder about me? Are you here for me? Or is it just… convenience. Coincidence. A mistake.)

Ellie swallows and shakes her head. “I can draw you a map, Klatch is really close, I promise. Or the Bluestone in the park. That’s pretty fancy.”

He grins. “I’m terrible with maps.”

She rolls her eyes at his smile and fights the one itching at the corners of her lips as she punches in the black coffee. “Nothing else, sir?”

His chin lifts just a bit, his eyes narrowing. “No, thank you, Ellie.”

Her insides twist at her name in his mouth, the easy way he says it, like it’s… it’s familiar to him. Like it’s… it’s something. Her heart trips at the way he looks at her when she glances up at him when his fingers graze his when she takes the ten-dollar bill from him.

“Keep it,” he says when she looks away to start pulling out his change.

She opens her mouth to argue because he always leaves too much and the others might like it but it chafes at her.

But before she can say anything, the next customer in line clears his throat and Cordova turns away and heads towards the banquette seating along the back wall like he always does.

Ellie absolutely does not watch him go even as she tries to serve the next customer. (And does not have to ask him what kind of milk he wants twice before keying it in right.)

“Ellie,” Andie says, sliding up beside her at the coffee machine when she turns to make both orders. “He’s not… bugging you, right?”

Ellie doesn’t miss the glance Andie gives her, the lilt of concern… and understands suddenly, how his interaction with her might look.

“Oh God,” Ellie says, nearly dropping the mug in her hand. “No! No, it’s not—” her stomach lurches, her mind filling with (His hands and his smile and Tara saying, bang him—I bet he’s pack—) “He’s— it’s—”

She can’t get the words out, the father itches in her throat, the dad scratches at her tongue.

“It’s not like that, I swear. He’s—” her mind rolls through excuses like a flip-book, but none of them fit until— “He’s friends with my mom. They uh, know each other. Pretty well. That’s all. He’s not like, trying to—” she cringes and laughs awkwardly. “Do anything. With me.”

Andie nods, glancing over her shoulder at Cordova; she’s tall enough to see him over the case without really peering over it, unlike Ellie. “Alright, just checking. I mean, he’s hot, don’t get me wrong, but he’s gotta be like thirty and, you’re you know, in high school. Totally get having a crush—"

Ellie jerks back, the mug clatters against the counter and she fumbles to catch it, barely saving it.

“No!” she says too harshly, her face twisting and when Andie’s eyebrows climb her forehead and her eyes widen, Ellie cuts herself off and takes a breath. Setting the mug down on the metal grate on the coffee machine.

“I just meant… no, God no. He’s like an old family friend, that’s all. I just didn’t… didn’t want Tara like, you know, pestering me to hook them up. You know? So, I didn’t say anything.”

Andie’s face shifts in understanding, letting out a little ah and a nod. “Oh, yeah, that’s true. She definitely would. She’s been trying to track when he comes in, don’t think she’s realised yet that he only does when you’re here.”

Ellie blinks. He does?

Andie pulls a considering face, like the new information of Ellie knowing him changes her perception of… of what she thought their interactions were. (Which is—something sticky and hot in her stomach, something that makes her insides twist and her pulse pound.)

(But it’s nothing. Nothing.)

“It’s kinda cute,” she says with a smile, while Ellie’s mind is ricocheting between only when you’re here and the idea that Andie thought Cordova was— was interested in Ellie. “Visiting you at work, I mean, my brothers used to do that when I first started working, but they were way more annoying and didn’t look like a walking Dolce and Gabbana—”

Only when you’re here.

It takes everything in her not to turn and look at him.

Only when you’re here.

(Coincidence, convenience. Two birds. Him in her school. Him in the club. The boy in the photo, seventeen years ago. Ellie’s mind whirrs.)

She closes her eyes and takes a breath.

(It’s nothing. Nothing.)

                Ellie glances at the clock when the bell chimes and she looks up to the weirdly familiar sight of Cordova walking through the front door. She isn’t sure what she feels when she sees him, only that her heart skips and her belly flips and something like, surges inside of her and—

And it’s— she doesn’t know what to do with that, either.

The clock ticks closer to ten, there’s only one table of girls in the front corner and two boys in the stool seats in front of the windows.

They close at eleven and it’s been a quiet, dull Wednesday where she absolutely did not watch the door waiting for—

He only does when you’re here.

Ellie’s already swept and wiped down the machines while Andie counts the safe and finishes up some of the paperwork in the back; Wednesday nights are usually slow and there’s only an hour left before close, they both know the routine.

Cordova steps up to the counter and he’s still, somehow, in a suit, but he’s tie-less with the collar of his button-up is open and loose, and his hair looks less styled than it normally is.

If she— if I cared, she thinks, she’d say he looked tired.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says, with this lower, rougher voice than she’s heard before, and it— it’s a hot thing in her stomach that makes her insides— something—

Baby girl

Baby girl.

Her pulse trips and she can’t get her mouth to work, watching Cordova reach into his pocket, slip out a wallet, a ten-dollar bill. “Make it strong, hm?”

She blinks at him, he tilts his head, his hand hovering between them. “All right, Ellie?”

She wonders if he even noticed what he called her. (Who does he call that? Why would he call her that?)

Baby girl

She nods, biting her cheek to steady herself, a brief, bright flicker of pain to bring herself back into reality before she pushes out an answer. “Sure.”

He smiles, it’s crooked and soft… and he does, she thinks, look tired.

She watches him walk to his regular seat and only turns away when he turns to sit and would catch her staring, facing her at the counter like he always does.

She doesn’t even care that she just cleaned the machines, she realises, as she pulls down a mug from the racks against the back wall above the machines and starts in on his drink.

It’s only after she starts, that she decides on what she’ll make him.

                The chocolate sauce slides over the rim of the glass as she sets the whip-cream topped mocha down in front of him.

Cordova frowns, looking at it and then at her. “That’s… something.”

Ellie fights a grin, sliding a spoon across the tabletop. “It’s strong.”

“It’s…something,” he says again, looking leery as a bit of whip-cream melts down the side, smearing into the chocolate sauce.

“It’s good,” she says, trying not to laugh at his face. “You look like you could use a bit of sugar.”

“Think that’s more than a bit.”

She does laugh at that, biting her cheek and crossing her arms when his eyes flick quickly from the glass to her face with… with something like— his eyes shifting over her face like—

Something.

(Paul would literally fail you so hard, Ellie, she berates herself for her inability to think or use her words, best in his Lit class, my ass.)

She feels her cheeks flush as he looks at her and she swallows against the whump-bump of her heart in her throat.

“You like this?” he asks, his eyebrows tilting up.

Ellie nods, clearing her throat. “Coffee’s only good when it’s got ten pounds of sugar.”

His face twists. “Ellie,” he says as if it pains him. “The Italian in you is crying right now.”

“I don’t—” have Italian in me, she cuts off and frowns, because what—but his meaning sinks in a second later.

Italian.

He’s Italian.

He looks at her and neither one says anything, Two Feet sings lowly over the speakers in this low, lulling beat that makes everything…slide.

Someone laughs at another table, a spoon clinks, a mug thunks, but it’s distant, far away, like the sugary slide of chocolate sauce and whip-cream over the rim of the glass.

He breathes out a little breath that’s almost a laugh and his leg shifts beneath the table, nudging the chair out across from him with a dark, shiny leather shoe against the leg of the chair; it scrapes over the wood floor, sitting crooked and away from the other half of the table.

Cordova picks up the spoon and holds it out to her. “Come on, sweetheart. Have some with me.”

Ellie’s heart skips a beat. Sweetheart. Sweetheart. It’s warm, fond, curls out of his mouth and hangs between them like the beat of the music, like the little bit of sugar still on her tongue when she licked a bit of whip cream off her thumb while she was making his drink.

She doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s… he’s—

(Baby girl. Sweetheart. Ellie… it’s all so… he says it so...)

His stubble is dark against the sharp, broad angles of his jaw, his lashes dark, his hair pushed back but falling, mussed to one side. His eyes— their eyes—

He doesn’t fit, she thinks, he’s not what he was supposed to be. (A thousand ideas of what a father should be and he fits in none of them. Older, softer, sweater-vested. Uncaring, beer-bellied, indifferent to daughter.)

Ellie takes a step back, Cordova’s jaw tightens, that flicker of something near disappointment in his eyes she saw before. And it is, she thinks, disappointment. Irritation. Something edging near frustration.

“Ellie—” he starts, but she turns away, her mind racing, every question she’s been fighting down for weeks, months, her entire life burning in her throat, her chest, (him behind her eyelids. Seventeen in a blurry photo. The glint of his glass, his hand through his hair. Her mother, her grandmother, growing up without him. It’s just you and me, Peanut, that’s more than enough, isn’t it?)

(Convenience. Coincidence. Him in her school. Only when you’re here. A daughter, a daughter, a daughter—)

She turns back. Cordova looks at her, his eyes on her face. “Do you have kids that go to Trinity? Is that why—”

He blinks, his brows sink together, his eyes dart quickly over her face like he can see— like he can understand more than just what Ellie’s rushed question is asking. (Are you here for me? Or am I just convenient? Coincidence. Bad fucking luck.)

“Jesus. Is that what you thought?”

Ellie swallows, her heart pounds. It’s too much, he’s too much and she can’t, she can’t—

She turns, but there’s a tug on the waist of the apron on her hips, something warm and heavy, tugging her back, Cordova’s up and straightening out of his seat, and she has to look up because he’s tall, he’s so tall and—

“I’m here for you.” Cordova’s other hand Closes around her upper arm, and that one long finger tucked beneath the hem of her apron tugs her towards him. “Ellie—”

There’s a noise, the bell chimes, one of the two remaining tables of students are loud, heading out into the night, and she didn’t— she didn’t even hear them—

And the other, she realises, is staring right at them.

At the way his hand circles her arm, the way he towers over her, the way his finger is hot and tight right against her hip, even through the fabric, holding her closer to him, to stop her from walking away.

He’s too close. (Too tall, too well-dressed, broad-shouldered with a crooked grin and this, this thing about him that makes her—makes everyone—)

(He’s gotta be like thirty and you’re, you know. In high school.)

He must realise it, too.

His hand comes off her arm slowly, like it’s not anything the way he’s touching her, his palm sliding, just a little over her bicep, like there isn’t anyone watching— he straightens and it’s like… like the moment never happened, he sinks back into the seat behind him, one leg stretching out beside the table because he doesn’t fit anywhere in this place but—

But he’s here, all the same.

Ellie glances at the other table, the whispers she can’t actually hear, but in her head, they’re real, too loud and too curious.

She reaches for the spoon, slipping into the seat across from him on impulse, (with Andie’s voice in her head making this thing with him into something it’s not—) pulling the mocha towards herself, her fingers sticky on a bit of whip cream on the glass.

With one arm, lazy and lax over the top of the booth seat, Cordova watches her, easy as anything. Like it’s nothing. Like they’ve done this a hundred times. (Like she can’t still feel the heat of his hand on her arm or the tug of his grip on her hip.)

(No matter the beat of her heart, the tick of her pulse, the way she’s never been so aware of anyone, the way she is him.)

‘’I’m here for you,” he says, quieter and lower than before, watching as she dips the spoon into the whipped cream and drags it through the chocolate sauce. “No one else.”

Ellie breathes out, sticking the spoon into her mouth so she doesn’t have to talk around the lump in her throat.

(Let me walk you back to campus, he says when the last table slips out and it’s just him standing next to the table with Ellie standing in front of him, holding the half-empty mocha and hesitating to walk away even though she knows she should. Even though Andie is waiting for her behind the counter.

Ellie shakes her head. He doesn’t push, but his chest shifts with a slow breath as he lingers a second more, looking down at her. And then he nods, looking away and lifting his hand in a flick of a wave and a smile to Andie before heading out the door.)

The chime, she thinks, has never sounded so lonely.

Chapter Text

Three

            I’m here for you.

I’m here for you.

Thursday blurs together. Ellie wakes up with the sliding, dream-warm memory of a hand on her hip and slides out of her bed, out of her dorm, all the way onto the school track. Slides through her run and then off the field before the football team shows up; slides through the hallways and back to her room. Slides through a shower where the hum of the water sounds like

I’m here for you.

All of it just… slides.

Through classes, through her friends' chatter and laughter, Ellie hears him, sees him, that uhm in her throat, a feeling on her arm, his eyes and his smile and every look, every moment over the weeks since that night she saw him first.

I’m here for you.

(There was more than just his hand on her hip in her dream, she knows there was, but she ran from that on the field, chased it out of her head like she could sweat him off, drip out the images and imaginings and push him out of her head and body on every hard breath and pump of her heart as her shoes pounded over the track.)

But she wakes up on Friday with the sound of his voice and his hand on her hip that lingers on her body the entire day, no matter how real it isn’t—wasn’t, hasn’t ever been— And it leaves her anxious, unsettled, her stomach twisted with something she can’t, won’t, refuses to think about—

            "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Professor Hethridge stands at the front of the classroom, his voice tilted in anger, Pride and Prejudice splayed open in his hand as he reads. “Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation: ‘I am not.’ Lady Catherine seemed pleased. ‘And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?”

I’m here for you.

 "‘I will make no promise of the kind.’”

Ellie’s cheek is warm in her palm, the classroom fades in and out, until it’s just… just him in front of her, watching her from across the small café table; sweetness on her tongue, his eyes, this heavy, heart-thumping, pulse-tripping weight…

I’m here for you

She blinks. Professor Hethridge— Paul, tilts his voice, imitating Elizabeth Bennet’s refusal to give Laday Catherine what she wants to hear, and Ellie wonders, as she watches her soon-to-be-stepfather, if Cordova had looked more like Paul— if he had been… softer, sweater-vested, pushing forty or… or just— just—

She doesn’t know.

But maybe— maybe the reason Cordova seems to not fit is because of Paul. The only real frame of reference Ellie’s ever had for what a father could be, is Paul… in all his sweater-vested, pushing forty, soft-spoken glory.

Maybe that’s why, she thinks. That’s why Cordova is so… so jarring. Her brain has already labelled a box in her mind and filled it with this idea of what a father could be, coloured it in over the last three-plus years of Paul being in her life, and Cordova—Cordova fits into none of it.

Everything about them is opposite, she thinks, and it’s not even that Paul’s unattractive, because objectively he isn’t… it’s just… he’s just—

She doesn’t know.

Time slides, Professor Hethridge drones on in a buzz of sounds as he reads sections of the chapter; the October sun shining over the classroom, spilling weighted and warm from the arched classroom windows. The room is stuffy and warm and she turns her cheek, looking out over the tops of trees and towards the cityscape, stretching out into the distance from the third-floor classroom windows.

I’m here for you.

She feels restless, unsettled, itchy— anxious with something like… like you’re expecting something to happen, she thinks, like that moment your foot misses a step and your whole body is just… just wired, on edge, hot and unsteady and fluttery. Expecting a fall that doesn’t come.

(Or maybe it’s not that you were expecting the fall at all, really. But that you were expecting stability. The ground. Something there to stand on.)

She needs to do something. (Or wants, maybe. Wants to do something. Anything to get that uhm out of her throat.)

Beneath the desk, on the plaid of her school skirt, Ellie thumbs open her phone and fires off a message to Mya.

wanna go out tonight

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mya shift in her seat, but she doesn’t look, keeping her cheek, hot and smushed in her palm, waiting for the vibration of her phone.

uh yes. Dumb question. Where?

dunno don’t care. Somewhere we can dance and drink. Off campus?

200% down. Marcus was talking about that bar near the Edison?

think he said it’s over 21?

I ’ll text him

Time slides again, Paul voice buzzes, Ellie only half listens, her attention sliding back out the window, the stretching city, the warmth of the sun and the man who… is somewhere out there, isn’t he?

Existing. As a real person. This idea that Ellie’s had in her mind for so long, this empty shape—

And he’s real. He’s— (I’m here for you.)

The bell chimes, shrill and sharp, Ellie jolts in her desk, rolling her eyes at Mya’s quiet laughter at the desk next to her. “Shut up,” she hisses, fighting a smile as she slips out of her seat and gathers her books to shove them in her bag. “Like you’re any better.”

“Yeah, but the teacher isn’t my pseudo-stepfather,” Mya teases and laughs when Ellie shoves her with a laugh.

“Hey, that’s—”

“Miss Evans,” Professor Hethridge’s voice interrupts her and both Ellie and Mya freeze, nearly out of the long rows of desks, eager to get out the door and to their lunch break. “Stay a minute.”

Ellie pushes out a breath, glancing at Mya who pushes out her bottom lip as she keeps going. “Meet you in the caf?”

Ellie nods and heads towards Paul’s desk, lingering at the edge of it as he shuffles some papers into a neater pile as the last of the students file out.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks, leaning against his desk and reaching out, touching the back of his hand to her forehead. “You seemed a little… off in class.”

Ellie’s eyes flick to the still open door and the students streaming towards the cafeteria or outside like salmon surging upstream. She steps back a little, tilting her head away, and then winces, looking at Paul. “Sorry.”

But he only fights a smile, dropping his hand and looking at the door. “No, I’m sorry, was that embarrassing?”

 Ellie can’t even be mad, he just… doesn’t really get it. What it’s like to be… this weird sort of other in a school full of rich kids. To not really be different in any meaningful way, but also somehow, to be different in a way that makes all the difference.

“Kinda, sorry,” she says with a scrunch of her nose. “No offense. Just… you know.”

“Not cool, mm-hmm,” he says with a smile as he crosses his arms and leans against his desk. “Stepfather for a teacher, I get it. Awkward.”

Paul drags out the sound into something teasing and Ellie can’t stop herself from smiling, huffing a laugh and crossing her arms. “Pretty much. I mean, I’m sorry, Paul, you’re just not the cool teacher.”

Ooff, he pushes out, laying his hand over his chest. “You wound me. I really thought I was getting up there with them this year. Building a rapport, you know? Reeling in the cool points.”

Cool points, she laughs, rolling her eyes. “I think you lost some just for saying that. And pretty sure, Professor Langley still has you beat… or like, any coach.”

“It’s always the jocks, isn’t it? Ruining everything.”

Ellie laughs again, nodding and thinking about Ethan for a flicker of a moment. “Literally.”

Paul’s smile fades a little at that, like he’s thinking about Ellie’s first real relationship and how… absolutely amazing it all panned out. Thankfully, he doesn’t bring it up.

“You are feeling okay, though, aren’t you? No one’s bothering you?”

Ellie nods, her tongue already forming a lie so she just doesn’t blurt out: Hey, Paul, don’t tell Mom, but guess what? I met my in-real-life dad. My actual 100% father. The man my mother would literally never talk about. I found him.

Funny, right?

 “Just a bit of a headache, really,” she says instead, because that’s still a lot.

“Need some Tylenol?”

Not really, she thinks, but shrugs and watches Paul move around his desk and open one of the drawers; the rattle of pills as he shakes two out and hands them to her. “Let me know if you need anything? Did you want to come home this weekend?”

Ellie closes her hand around the two little pills and shakes her head. “No, I’m working Saturday night, and there’s a study group on Sunday? Pretty sure.”

He nods, even though he’s frowning a little. Ellie braces for him to say something about her work schedule, a constant point of contention between them, actually, the only real point of contention between them, but still.

When he doesn’t, she relaxes, glancing towards the door again, the quiet hallway. Paul’s lips twitch. “Go on. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you anymore with my lame teacher status.”

Ellie laughs, backing towards the door. “I’m sorry. There’s just not any way to make Pride and Prejudice or Shakespeare cool to most teenagers. It’s not you. It’s totally them. Who thinks kicking balls is better than Regency Romance? Losers, that’s who.”

He grins, rolling his eyes. “A fact I am well aware of, Ellie. Believe me. I see the essays.”

“You’re totally cool to me though. Hashtag, coolest prof ever.”

He laughs. “Hashtag, don’t really believe you but I’ll take it anyway, thank you.”

“Way, way too long for a hashtag, Paul, you just lost a couple of cool points.” She pulls a wincing face and steps backwards as he grins at her. "Keep trying, though. You'll get there."

“Hashtag— uh, you know I don’t even know how long a hashtag is?”

Ellie grins. “Hashtag, educate yourself.” She shakes her head, faking disappointment. “And I thought you were the smartest professor.”

Paul laughs. “Twitter is a cesspool. I refuse to engage with it. Now get out of here before I make you hashtag lines on the board.”

Ellie laughs and spins on her heel, waving off Paul’s call your mother, please! as she heads out the door.

            There’s a knock on the window just as Ellie’s stepping out of the bathroom, adjusting the neckline of her white, long-sleeve shirt and wishing, not for the first time, that she had a bit more curves to her chest than she actually does. The shirt would look a lot nicer with a bit more cleavage, she thinks.

“Leave it,” Mya says like she can read Ellie’s mind. “Your titties look amazing, they’re perfect for that top.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, tugging at the neckline again and looking down at her chest as Mya yanks on the window, pulling it up and letting Marcus lean in.

“Ladies,” he says with a grin. “Are we ready?”

“Like two minutes,” Mya promises, shooting away from the window and towards their shared closet. “Just need shoes.”

From outside the window, a voice groans, Why aren’t you ever ready, Kamel.

Shut it, Peterson! Mya yells from the bathroom before Ellie shushes her and waves at the two boys outside of her window; Marcus grins at her and gives her a little chin tilt as he leans against the frame. “You look good. Heard this was your idea, you ready to bang Conte out of your system?”

Ellie shrugs, grabbing her belt from her bed and sliding it through the loops of her jean shorts. “I don’t need to bang Ethan out of my system, he’s not even in my system at all. He’s like— not even a factor. Not even a blip. I just wanted to get out, you know?”

He shrugs, narrowing his eyes before he nods. “With no chances of running into an ex, yeah, I get it.”

Ellie pulls a face, because yeah, that too, she thinks, grabbing her heels and her phone without her wallet case so it fits in her back pocket, before shooing Marcus away from the window and straddling the frame before hopping out and smiling at Chris in greeting. “The others gonna meet us there?”

He nods, looking down at her in the half-dark of the field that stretches the back of Wharton Hall. “Sure are. I think it’s just Jacob with Sara, though. The others are hitting Aura.”

Ellie frowns, gripping Marcus’ shoulder as he stays in front of her, letting her balance as she slips her heels on, working the straps over the top of her foot and heel before switching to the other foot. “How the hell are they getting into Aura?”

He snorts. “With the fake ID’s I keep telling you you need to get?”

Ellie pulls a face. “They never look real.”

“These do,” Chris says behind her and Marcus grins.

“Even with your baby face,” he says pushing a hand over Ellie’s face until she smacks his hand away with a laugh she turns into a scowl.

“I do not have a baby face!”

“You do,” he grins, and then looks back at the window, moving to help Mya down, already in her heels, when she shoos him away.

“I’m good, don’t touch,” she flaps her hand. “And it’s not baby-face, it’s Bambi-face.”

He looks back at Ellie, tilting his head before pulling a considering face. “I can see that. You do that nose scrunch thing.”

Ellie’s nose scrunches before she can stop herself and she scowls at the three of them when they laugh. “Oh, fuck off. Let’s get going before security does its rounds.”

            When O’Malley’s comes into view, the music is already thumping and there’s a small queue trailing from the front door. The bouncer, apparently, is Marcus’ cousin which is just… all sorts of convenient for us, Ellie thinks.

At the front of the queue, Marcus and the bouncer do one of those one-handed, one-shoulder slap dude-hugs before he waves them all in, only giving a passing glance at their definitely underage ID’s.

The music and atmosphere pour over them, a thumping bass-beat of some pop remix, that sinks into her chest and turns her nerves into bubbles and makes everything she’s been thinking about over the last… however long it’s been since she found that stupid photo that she’s still carrying around in her other phone case—

Disappear.

Marcus buys the first round and they all hang out near the bar for a while before slipping out into the crowd with Chris, scoping out the girls in the club and the night’s prospects.

“Must be nice to be a footballer,” Ellie says into Mya’s ear. “Why do they get to be tall and look over twenty with just a bit of facial hair?”

“Because we’d look super weird with beards,” Mya grins, leaning back, her elbows against the bar and scanning the crowd. “And also, we don’t need to look over twenty, we just need to look somewhere in the range of old-enough.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ellie says with a grin, putting her finger under her nose. “I bet I could totally rock a handlebar.”

Mya rolls her eyes and smacks her hand, “You’re an idiot. We’re supposed to be luring men in to buy us drinks, not faking moustaches.”

“We could just buy our own. Skip a step, go right from drinking to dancing, no boys needed.”

“That’s just… no. We could have gone to a dorm party if we wanted to do that. The luring is the fun part.”

Ellie pulls a face, poking Mya’s breast in her bustier top. “Luring is a lot easier when you have lure.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mya laughs. “Let’s ask the mirror what that face do and then we’ll compare it to my boobs.”

“Bambi’s best friend was a skunk, you know,” Ellie says with a pout. “And I’m pretty sure that was only because the skunk felt bad for him.”

Mya’s head tilts back with her laughter, Ellie grins and laughs, “Bambi was decidedly not a lure-er, okay? This is all on you and your boobies.”

They both laugh, but Mya grabs Ellie’s hand on pulls her towards the dancefloor. “Oh, whatever, Bambi, let’s go dance, let them come to us.”

It’s easy to get lost in it, bodies and music and alcohol, they press together and drift apart, coming back together in the press of the crowd, until there’s a body pressed up behind Ellie and she’s moving, sliding, the bar a sea of colours and beats and hands around her.

A sweaty grip that slides off Ellie’s hip, brushes the skin over the waist of her shorts, over the tense, shifting of her stomach, their bodies pressed together as they dance. Scott or Scout or something, he yells into her ear, voice nearly lost beneath the music, pulling her hips into his.

Mya dances just in front of her, meeting her eyes every so often, eyes brighter and warmer as the hours pass and the guys they’re dancing with buy them drinks, their bodies filling up with liquor and laughter and that drunken ease of a night out.

            The hours slip by and Ellie knows she’s past the point of drunk and spilling right into fucked up; Scout or Scott or whatever’s mouth is sliding along her neck and his voice is in her ear. He’s saying something and Ellie blinks into the pulsing lights and tries to find Mya... sees her dark, curly-haired head a few bodies away, and tries to pull forward towards her.

The hands on her hips pull her back and Ellie laughs, knocking them off her, she wades through the bodies and pushes closer to Mya, who grins at her only for a second, before letting her face get eaten by the guy she’s dancing with.

Scout or Scott reappears, pulling her to the side of the dance floor, plying her with another drink Ellie only takes a sip off before she excuses herself to the bathroom because she’s hot and the world’s spinning a little too quick.

In the bathroom, the music goes dull, a drum of a noise when the door shuts, another girl gives her a half-smile as she glances at herself in the mirror, dragging her hands through her hair. Ellie slips into a stall, stumbles through getting her shorts down and wishes she were in flats when she almost rolls her ankle standing back up; laughing as the button on her shorts eludes her fingers and she has to lean against the wall to focus enough to get them done up.

In the mirror over the sink, Ellie scrubs her hands, sticky from alcohol and sweaty from dancing and the heat of the bar. Her hair wild and messy from the heat of the dancefloor; the straight lines Mya had pulled it into long since worn away.

She chases a bit of smudged mascara from underneath her eyes and pulls her hands through her hair, wincing at the tangles, ignoring the spin of the world as she tries to focus on one spot.

The music hits her like a heat wave when she steps back out, pushing into it and through the dancefloor towards where she left Scott or Scout or...whatever.

She finds Mya instead, who breaks away from her college boy and pulls Ellie into her, their bodies moving together while the college boy that isn’t Scout or Scott or whatever, presses up behind Mya.

She sees Chris in the crowd as she turns in Mya’s arms and moves loosely, liquid-y to the beat of the music around them. Time slides again, her head tilted back against Mya’s shoulder, the music thumps.

“There is literally the hottest man ever watching you right now.”

Ellie blinks. The ceiling spins a little, or the lights do, or she does, she isn’t sure. Her mouth is a little dry and she needs another drink, she thinks. “Huh?”

“At the bar, look…”

Ellie blinks and focuses on the bar, the world spinning a little more than she thinks it should— she might be a bit more drunk than she realised but—

But then, there’s this man leaning against the bar and he’s got dark hair and broad shoulders and— and there’s a laugh in her chest, bright-edged like the lights above her, this bubble of a feeling, sliding out of her just like her smile, sticky and too sweet like that last shot she downed, still coating her tongue.

Ellie grins, and from across the bar, Cordova grins back at her. This wide, white smile as quick as anything. Like her smile sparked his.

Or something stupid like that, she thinks in a haze as she pulls away from Mya, her body moving like… like a magnet being pulled to his side. Pushing through the bodies to reach the edge of the dancefloor and then closing the small distance between it and the bar and Cordova, waiting for her.

Watching her. Still smiling.

Ellie steps right up in front of him, too close maybe, too quick, her feet bump into his and she stumbles a little, her body too loose and too sticky, stuck, magnetized and bright— (I’m here for you)—his hand coming out to steady her, warm and wide on her hip as she curls her fingers into the white of his button-up shirt on his chest and tugs him down.

Cordova leans down as Ellie tilts up, like it’s this automatic, magnetic thing that they both just do. Her knuckles pressing against his chest, hot skin bleeding up through the thin of his starched shirt, (because he’s somehow still too nicely dressed. Somehow, he still doesn’t fit.)

But she’s weirdly, stickily, happy to see him.

Which is… weird, some non-drunk part of her mind says. You’re weird. This is weird. Why are you happy?

But she is. Weirdly. Brightly. Stickily.

Like this bit of sugar on her tongue, melting slowly and filling her up with sweetness. (Weird, Ellie, she thinks, super weird.)

“You’re stalking me,” she says into his ear, pushing her voice higher so he can hear it over the thump of the music.

“Am I?” he says, his voice warm and deep; the smell of his cologne on his neck, the width of his shoulders and his hand, sticky-hot against her side. (It’s actually not sticky at all, some part of her mind tells her, it’s dry and a little rough, his thumb on her lower stomach, just beneath the bunched-up hem of her shirt, his fingers long and curved around her lower back. But, in her mind, in the moment, his palm is this sticky thing that makes her mind spin.)

(Or maybe that’s just the alcohol, she isn’t sure.)

Ellie nods, Cordova leans back a little, still leaning close to her, looking down at her, a crooked smile on his face, his eyes… are pretty, she thinks, as they meet hers.

“Yup. You are. You came to my school and you don’t even have kids there, and Andie told me you only show up at the café when I’m there and—” she pulls a face, tilting her head. “Which is weird, you know? Do you like, drive by real slow and like, peer in the windows? Or do you call and scope out the staff? How do you know when I’m on? That’s weird. You’re weird. And a stalker. Cause you’re here, too.”

Cordova’s crooked smile stretches into a grin, his eyes shifting over her face. “You’re pretty drunk, huh?”

Ellie shakes her head. “Nope. I’m—like, great. Super. You should buy me a drink!”

“Should I?” he asks his smile tilting back into a smirk as he straightens because he’s tall and she’s not and he can’t have been comfortable, she thinks, being bent over so she could talk into his ear.

She nods, pushing her knuckles against her chest. “Yup. Yes, absolutely.”

His head tilts and his hand comes up between them; Ellie’s skin prickles, like this surge of an electric current, flowing out the tips of his fingers when they brush her temple, the side of her head, pushing lightly into her hair, tucking a loose, wavy piece of hair behind her ear.

“How about I take you home instead. I’m thinking you might’ve already had enough.”

She blows out a puff of air, pulling a face. “That’s boring and also— also, I’m not supposed to go home with strangers. We have rules. Sisters before misters. Uteruses before…before uhm… dudes! We always leave together so, nope, I can’t.”

He chuckles. “I meant your dorm, sweetheart.”

I knew that, she thinks, because of course— of course, that’s what he meant, where else would he take her?

Ellie scrunches her nose. “That’s boring. I don’t want to go there. I’m supposed to be out tonight drinking and dancing and not thinking. And you should buy me a drink because it’s your fault I’m here, anyway.”

His eyebrows sink together, Ellie wants to press her finger there, right in that little crease between his eyes and chase the look away, but it smooths out again before she can make her alcohol-loose arms work properly.

“My fault?”

She nods, “Mmhm, you’re like, a lot. You know? Like, a lot. You keep… popping up.” She laughs, swaying forward and grinning up at him. “Like some sort of… of stalker-person.”

Cordova lifts his hand, rubbing his fingers over his mouth while looking down at her, he looks away, out over the dancefloor, shaking his head, fighting a smile.

Ellie knocks her knuckles against his chest. “Hey, hey. Pay attention. Buy me a drink, Mister Stalker-man. You owe me.”

He looks back at her, breathing out a quiet laugh that she can’t really hear over the thump of the music, it’s more the tilt of his lips, the shift of his chest beneath her knuckles, still pressed against him.

“You already have my attention,” he says, Cordova’s fingers skim her cheek, slower than before, tucking her hair behind her ear again, she wonders how messy it is, what he sees when he looks down at her, what he’s looking for, as his eyes move over her face.

He leans closer, his stubble scrapes her cheek. “And it’s Nico.”

She blinks at him when he straightens up, Nico?

His lips tilt, seeing the confusion on her face. “It’s Nico, not… Mister Stalker-man.”

Ellie blinks and then laughs, swaying forward and into him again, her tongue touching the back of her teeth as she tastes his name, dragging it out. “Ni-co.”

She giggles and grins, swaying back, bumping into the person behind her a little and laughs out too many apologies, feeling Cordova— Nico’s hand spreading on her hip, his palm hot on her side, pulling her closer to him.

“Ni-co,” she says again, and there’s this, this thing in her stomach or limbs or something that makes her want to lean closer, to tuck herself into the width off his chest, or arms or something— but she leans back enough to put her hand out between them. “I’m Ellie.”

He smiles, wide and white and toothy with a laugh as he slides his hand into hers. It’s big, long-fingered, completely dwarfs hers. (It almost makes her laugh, but it also doesn’t because her stomach tightens and her pulse trips and a little electric current passes through her body from head to toe.)

“Yeah, baby, I know you are.”

But she’s drunk, and the lights are shifting and the music is the reason her pulse feels so weird and that feeling in her stomach is just the burn of alcohol, isn’t it?

Yes, yes, it absolutely is.

“Cause you’re a stalker,” she says with a grin and he laughs, and Ellie feels… bright. (But that’s just tequila or vodka or rum.) “Who keeps popping up.”

Her hair tickles her cheek again, and this time, when Nico lifts his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, Ellie beats him to it, lifting both of her hands to her head, she’s unsteady on her feet, her knees a little weak, but Cordova’s hand steadies her.

“Is it a mess? It’s a mess, isn’t it. It’s super hot in here and I was dancing,” she pushes out with a whine, something tense in her stomach at the idea of being… messy? Looking bad? She doesn’t know, but tries to smooth her hair with her warm, slightly shot-sticky (ugh, gross) palms, to tame the wild and wavy mess from a night of dancing. “You saw me right? Dancing?”

Cordova smile is small, he breathes out this soft huff of a laugh, stepping a little closer to her, both of his hands coming up, overtaking hers on her head. Ellie drops her hands like they’re made of lead as the pads of his fingers brush her cheeks, his thumbs skimming over her temples, the baby hairs at her hairline, his fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head up (or does she tilt her head up? She isn’t sure, it just sort of happens) before sliding his hands through her hair, pushing it back and over her shoulders.

She can feel the heat on the back of her neck, the tangle of her hair, a cooler brush of air before it settles again and it feels just as hot as before. One of his hands comes back up, brushing a stray strand off her cheek before his thumb slides over her chin, his knuckles tucking beneath it, holding it lightly.

It’s way hotter in the bar than she thinks it was before. It has to be. She can feel the heat on her cheeks and the back of her neck. In the soft inner curve of her elbows. She thinks she’s more drunk— or less drunk and more unsteady? Like that drunk where you’re not happy and loose with alcohol anymore but like, more the drunk where you know you’re too drunk and sliding head-first into fucked up and it burns in your stomach, hot and heavy?

That drunk.

“I’m going to take you home,” he says lowly, his eyes moving over her face. “We’ll get you something to drink there, okay? Whatever you want.”

Ellie opens her mouth, part of her mind says: there are no drinks back at home, but she’s too hot and unsteady and his thumb is just—

He means her dorm, right? That’s what home means?

She shuts her mouth and blinks at him; his thumb warm, and the fingers beneath her chin tighten a little, moving her chin up and down in a little nod. “Okay?”

Ellie blinks, his lips twitch up and he nods for her again, his eyes flicking over her face before he huffs a little laugh and his hand drops away from her chin. “Good.”

“Mya—My friend—”

“I know. I’ll get her,” he says as he steps away. “Stay here.” He looks back at her once, like he’s making sure she’s listening to him. “Hey. Stay here.”

Ellie blinks at him and wants to tell him she’s not a dog, but all she can do is nod again before he turns and walks away.

Ellie watches him, taller than everyone, a dark head of hair disappearing into the crowded dancefloor… and wonders, as she blinks at the place he was, if any of that actually just happened.

Did it happen?

Did she hit her head?

Is she drunk-dreaming?

He isn’t actually here.

She’s over a toilet, isn’t she, porcelain-praying. A tequila-oracle.

She touches her chin.

Did that just happen?

Her fath— Jesus Christ, she thinks and drops her hand, he’s her fucking dad. That’s your father. Your in-real-life dad— the one you’ve been thinking about your whole life— What were you fucking doing—

Nothing, she tells herself, she wasn’t doing anything. That wasn’t anything.

Right?

Ellie turns to the bar, tapping the top with her hand and waving down the bartender. “Can I have two melon balls?”

The bartender eyes her for a second, and she isn’t sure if he’s doubting her age or her state of fucked-up-ness, but she tries to hide the shake in her hands and the unsteadiness that feels like she’s about to tremble right out of her skin by acting more sure than she feels; reaching into her back pocket for her phone and the emergency twenty she keeps there. Sliding it across the sticky bar top with a smile.

“Keep the change.”

(As far as she’s concerned, this is very much an emergency and the twenty is living up to its purpose.)

The bartender eyes her again when he sets the two shots down, but Ellie’s already grabbing one and knocking it back.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks, leaning his palms on the bar, his voice carrying just over the thump o the music. He’s cute, she thinks, with nice hands and arms and she thinks about flirting just because she should, right? That’s what she should do?

She shoots him thumbs up, licking the taste of the melon ball off her lips before wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. “Peachy!” she says with a grin, even as the shot rolls slickly down her throat and burns in her stomach. “Perfect! Couldn’t be better!”

Her knees wobble a bit, she waves off the change he tries to give her, reaching for her second shot and lifting it to her mouth to knock it back, swallowing the sickly-sweet taste of it, when a hand closes around her wrist but ha— she thinks, too late.

You’re too late, she thinks, Everywhere. You don’t fit.

I don’t need you. I’m perfect, peachy. Couldn’t be better.

Jesus Christ, Ellie, she hears behind her, but the world’s definitely spinning a bit more than she thinks it should because that’s her fucking dad, isn’t it? That voice, and the hand that’s touching her cheek now, tilting her head up.

But she’s perfect, peachy, couldn’t be better.

“Got my own drink!” she says with a laugh, trying to focus on something, the stubble on his jaw, maybe, or no— that’s not working, his nose? His mouth is moving. Her dad’s mouth is moving, he saying something in his dad-voice. With his dad-jaw. And his dumb, dad-hands and his dumb, dad-shoulders and his dumb, dad-face—

“You’re stupid,” she says pushing out her bottom lip and breathing in cologne… dumb-dad cologne, she thinks and laughs, muffled into his chest. His dumb, dad-chest. The world’s moving, her knees feel funny, like she’s walking forward and sideways all at once. Her stomach churns.

The world spins.

She breathes in his cologne.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

            Ellie wakes to a soft, yellow stream of sunlight and blinks into a blue-tinted, cloudless sky.

Her head pounds, she rolls over with a groan in her throat, pulling a thick white duvet over her head—

And then bolts upright.

What the fuck— scrambling up, Ellie slips out of the bed, tripping on twisted sheets and looking down at herself— letting out a shaky breath when she sees that she’s still dressed, still in her jean shorts and white shirt, and she doesn’t feel… she doesn’t feel like she did anything, but…

She swallows, ignoring the pounding in her head that beats in time to her pulse, the lurch in her stomach that’s made up of too much alcohol and too little food.

God, she thinks, where the hell am I? Where’s Mya?

Where the hell is my phone?

Tossing the covers, Ellie searches the bed, the sheets, looking for her phone, but it's just white sheets and an empty bed.

“What the fuck,” she pushes out, shaking out her hands and blowing out a breath as she looks around the room. “What the fuck.”

It’s early, it has to be, the sun is still painting everything in that early-morning bare-blue glow, but the city that stretches out from the window— and she thinks that window isn’t even the right word, because it’s just glass— just a glass wall that shows a stretching New York skyline and a clear view of Central Park, which is— which means that somehow, Ellie’s not even on the right side of the city.

Holy shit, Ellie thinks, hugging herself and trying not to panic, where the fuck am I?

Ellie turns, looking over the large bedroom, the smooth, dark floors, the rumpled white bedsheets covered by a thick white duvet, a grey throw blanket untouched at the end of the bed. (Distantly, she notices the empty, untouched other half of the bed, still perfectly made up. Because obviously, she’s stupid, obviously she fucked up but—but she feels fine and she’s still dressed and the bed matters.)

And then there’s a noise, noises, she thinks, steady sounds like someone climbing stairs and Ellie panics, or tells herself not to panic even while cursing herself for not taking her pepper spray last night— last night where? She can’t even remember. She went with Mya and Chris and Marcus, right? They went—

The noise gets closer, Ellie grabs a matte-black, steel looking lamp off the side table, pausing when two little white pills roll and fall to the floor at her feet and she nearly knocks over a glass of water that wobbles dangerously as she yanks at the lamps cord.

She blinks at the glass of water. (A cool slippery glass, a warm hand, just a sip, baby, come on)

She blinks.

(A hand on her chin, okay?)

The doorknob turns, the door pushes open, Ellie tenses, lifting the lamp like a baseball bat with her unsteady arms, her stomach tense and knotted when—

A man steps in, (across the bar, through a crowded dancefloor, dark-haired, broad-shouldered and he smiles at her.)

“Oh my God,” she says, as Cordova (Nico, Ni-co, her tongue touches the back of her teeth, her voice lilting out his name as he looks down at her) steps in, his eyebrows tilting up as he takes in the sight of Ellie, lamp in her hands like she's Babe Ruth up to bat. “Oh my God, you asshole.”

(A car ride, a hand on her cheek, a gentle, low voice, saying it’s alright, the world shifting, being carried—)

There’s humour in the corner of his mouth like he’s fighting a grin. “Well. You certainly know how to make an impression, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart, the name twists something in her stomach, his voice rough-edged, some mix of… of amused? Teasing?

Something.

 “I— what—” she starts, but he takes a step closer and Ellie steps back, feeling like her arms are about to give out. Like she might be sick again. Like she really, really wants to run.

He lifts his hands. “Easy, now.”

“You go easy,” she hisses because what the fuck is going on?

His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Are you going to hit me? Or you think you could put my lamp down for a minute so we can talk?”

His arm comes up from the side, slow and steady like she’s some wild thing, a stray in an alley he’s trying to tame; ignoring the way Ellie tenses, gripping the lamp tighter until his hands are on hers and he’s easing her grip loose.

“There we go,” he says lowly. (A hand on her forehead, brushing through her hair on a pillow, a star-like blur of New York City at night, don’t go, her hand wrapped around his as she curls into cool sheets.)

Oh my God, she thinks and doesn’t even realise he’s set the lamp on the bed next to them until his hand is up and touching her forehead and she’s lurching back, her skin burning.

She stumbles, Nico reaches for her but she stutters back again smacking his hands away. “Don’t—” she pushes out, feeling hot and unsteady as her heart pounds and stomach twists. “Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t remember much of last night, huh?” There’s something in his voice, Ellie isn’t sure what it is, (something like that moment in the Roastery, let me walk you home?)

Disappointment, she thinks, is that it? Is he disappointed she doesn’t remember last night? How drunk she was?

God, she thinks, how embarrassing.

“Why am I here? How did… shit,” she winces as her head pounds harder. Thinking is too hard and having him so close is not helping.

“You were…” he pauses tilting his head at her. “You really don’t remember?”

Her skin prickles in embarrassment, (the taste of a melon ball, cold and sweet. The taste of a melon ball, warm and bitter.) Her head throbs, and she feels the meanness in her chest like a self-defense shield she can’t stop. “So, you what, kidnapped me?”

(A car ride, Mya’s voice saying, I’m a terrible friend I’m sorry, El.)

His eyebrows sink together, his mouth opens and then shuts and then he laughs, low and amused but with something tense in the set of his shoulders. “Don’t think you can kidnap the willing.”

Her cheeks burn, (a car ride, his hand smoothing her hair back, his cologne beneath her nose, don’t go—)

She glares at him, even though she must look ridiculous, bare-foot she barely reaches his chest and he’s all… put together and clean and she’s— absolutely not. “I was— I was totally fucked— I don’t— Where’s Mya?”

His jaw tenses, his eyes narrow. “I took her back to your dorms. We didn’t think you’d be able to make it through the window. And I also didn’t trust your friend to not just let you pass out somewhere.”

(Don’t go, I won’t throw up again. I promise.)

Ellie trembles, pushing out an unsteady breath, crossing her arms and hugging herself. Nico steps closer, his cologne is there, fresh and warm and it turns her stomach because— because— (his stubble on her cheek, that same smell beneath her nose, her lips, wanna stay with you.)

Nico reaches for her, his hand brushing her arm but she jerks back, a noise in her throat. What did I do? Why did I say that?

(She’s drunk and her mouth is bitter and dry and he’s beside her, lifting her out of a backseat, his hand on her cheek, her forehead, it’s cold and he’s so warm and he smells so good and she’s pretty sure she mumbles something about it but he doesn’t say anything, just lets her cling onto him and Mya’s there, somewhere behind her, snuck out— Hey. El? El? Come on, we gotta climb in if you want to sleep.)

Her face twists, something burns at the back of her throat and it’s not vomit or alcohol, but embarrassment and anger and shame because what the fuck was she thinking? Why did she say that to him? She doesn’t need him. He’s just…he’s just an idea—  a curiosity—  a question she wanted answered and now it is and it’s done and she should go—

“I want to go,” she forces out, shaking her head and stepping back when he reaches for her again. “I’ve got— I’ve got work later and Mya’s probably worried and I— I should go.”

“Ellie—” he pushes out as he reaches for her again, his hand closing around her arm to tug her closer.

“Where’s my phone?”

He tugs again. “Hey, look at me.”

Ellie shakes her head, biting her cheek and staring at the shiny-black button on his black shirt. She hears him push out a heavy breath, his hand tightens on her arm as he takes a step back, dragging her with him as he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her between his knees.

He’s somehow, still taller than her, but it brings their heights more in line and there’s nowhere to look but at him. Nowhere to hide when his hand catches her chin and he holds her face to his.

She hates it. (He’s too close, it’s too weird. Why is he— why is she even here?)

“What’s going on in that head,” he says in a way that’s not really even a question, with his eyes on hers and in the bright, morning sunlight, there’s no way to avoid how much they look like her own. Because he’s— he’s her dad.

His hand lifts, his eyes follow, tucking her hair behind her ear (the thump of music, his hands around her face, smiling at her while he smooths her hair back) “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Ellie lies, her tongue thick in her mouth as he touches her chin again, his thumb warm on it, tilting her head up a little more. Their eyes meet again, she kind of hates how much it feels like he can read everything going on in her head and she has absolutely no idea what’s going on in his.

He looks at her for a too-long stretch of a moment where all Ellie is, is aware of his body, his knees just on the outside of her thighs, his chest and arms and that weird, stupid want to press herself against him.

But his hand slides off her chin and he touches her side, lightly instead; it’s so hard not to move away, to not flinch from the heat of his palm. She isn’t sure which touch is worse. (Better? Something.)

(It’s all twisted. Her head hurts.)

She isn’t sure it should be anything. She shouldn’t care, right? It shouldn’t be so— so—

“I put some things in the bathroom,” he says with his thumb (just under the edge of her shirt) rubbing a small little circle on her hip. It’s all she can focus on. She twists a little, his hand slides off her hip and he must get the idea because he lets his hand fall without saying anything. She sees a tendon tense in his jaw and feels like it must be so obvious that she’s— that his touch is so—

 “I think you should have a shower and wake up a bit more, we can talk after, this was probably a lot to wake up to all at once.”

“I can shower back at dorms,” she says, but he’s nudging her back, standing up from the edge of the bed like she didn’t say anything at all. He leads her into a bathroom that’s made up of marble and more glass and it’s a bit ridiculous how nice it is.

There’s a fluffy white towel folded and waiting on the marble counter next to the sink, and next to it, a toothbrush and a little bath-puff. Ellie stares at it.

It does something to her stomach.

“They didn’t have much at the bodega around the block,” he says, moving towards the sink and crouching down to open the cabinet beneath the counter, Ellie watches his shoulders, the stretch of his starched shirt and the perfectly-styled dark of his hair. “And I wasn’t sure how long you’d sleep for.”

Did he shower here this morning? Did he— While I was—

She blinks the thought (broad shoulders and shower water and dark, wet hair) out from beneath her eyelids, crossing her arms as her insides lurch a little and she swallows around the sudden trip of her pulse in her throat.

Pills rattle in a bottle, Nico shakes two out into his palm before putting the bottle back into the cabinet and straightening up and holding them out to her, two little white pills in the palm of his hand.

Her head spins, mind tripping back to yesterday, to Paul doing the same, to watching him in class, to comparing him to the man in front of her now.

God, she thinks, how is this real?

She isn’t sure what she’s feeling, what her insides are doing, only that her eyes flick up to his and he’s nothing like Paul— and how is she supposed to—

She takes the pills, ignoring the warmth of his hand and the weight of his eyes; his hand hovers between them for a second and she thinks he’s going to touch her again, but he steps around her, heading back into the other room. Ellie twists her neck, watching him head back to the rumpled side of the bed and pick up the glass of water still sitting there.

Right, she thinks, because there were two pills on the floor because he… he left a glass of water and some Tylenol after he (tucked her into bed, his hand smoothing her hair off her forehead, her hand gripped tight around his, tucked near her cheek on his pillow.)

Ellie looks away, her body rushing with embarrassment, a hot surge of it that makes her tremble, how old are you? Gripping his hand like some kid—

Kid, her mind screams, his kid. His kid.

The glass is still cool when he hands it to her, she wonders when he set it out, if he’s been checking on her or if he’s been there— but no, she thinks, the other half of the bed wasn’t touched—

She isn’t sure what to do with the idea of him sleeping next to her.

She swallows the pills, Nico takes the glass from her hand after she takes another mouthful of water. He hesitates, just for a second before he turns away, picking up the towel and the shower puff and walking into the large, glassed-in shower.

Ellie watches him unfold the towel and then fold it over a rack in the shower, setting the puff down on a bench next to it before moving to the other side of the space and pressing a few buttons on the wall next to some inlaid shelves in the marble. There’s a little electric chime as he presses something else, and then the patter of water hitting the tiled floor.

She doesn’t tense when he walks back over to her, but she feels weird, like she’s outside of herself and watching all this happen. Maybe she’s still drunk, she thinks, maybe she really is just passed out somewhere and this all just alcohol-induced delusion.

Wishful think— No, this isn’t— she’s never dreamed about this. He’s always just been… a thought. An idea. Nothing like this.

Why would he— Why does he care?

Does he care?

“The panel controls the temperature, I’m not sure how hot you like it,” he says, with his hands tucked into his pockets, looking so easy and relaxed while Ellie feels seconds from flying apart like— like she’s a little dandelion fluff and one word or breath or touch from him will just— just woosh—

But he doesn’t.

Does he care?

“Take as long as you want, I’ll drive you back to campus when you’re ready, alright?”

She just needs a minute, she thinks, just a minute away from him to breathe and get herself together and she’ll be fine. Perfect. Peachy.

Ellie nods.

Nico looks down at her and for a second, she thinks he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. The moment passes, he pushes out a long breath through his nose. “Okay. Call me if you— you can call if you need anything. I’ll just be in the other room.”

He steps around her, Ellie stares at the place he was until she hears the door click shut, leaving her alone in the cool bathroom with only the humming patter of the shower and her own dizzying thoughts she’s trying to ignore.

She turns her head, catching sight of herself in the mirror, at her eyes, rung in smudged mascara… and turns away before she can think about eye colour or kids or caring or whatever— stretching her arms up to yank off her shirt as she walks into the slowly steam-filling shower, focused only on the idea of hot water and burning away a few layers of skin and thoughts and memories she doesn’t know what to do with.

(Stay, she whines into his neck as he lays her back down onto his bed and his hand is so big around hers that she’s really just gripping onto his palm, but he leans back and the bed sinks as he sits next to her, his other hand brushing her hair out of her eyes, even though they’re heavy, sticky with sleep and she can barely keep them open. It's so hard to stay awake, no matter how much she wants to. I will, he says with his thumb brushing slowly over her cheekbone, go to sleep, baby girl, I’m here.)

Chapter Text

four

                Ellie stretches her arms up, tugging her shirt over her head as she walks into the shower. It’s warmer than the rest of the bathroom, steam building up inside the glassed-in space, but large enough that half the area isn’t touched by the water falling from the ceiling a few feet away.

It’s ridiculous, she thinks, but it’s warm and she isn’t sure she realised how cold and tense she was until she’s standing in the shower, half-naked and feeling the warmth of the hazy steam.

With a shiver, she shucks her shorts and underwear in one go, stepping out of them and dropping them onto the small black bench by the towels.

Stepping towards the rain-like shower and holding out her hand, she tests the water temperature, biting back a groan at how perfect the temperature is as the water hits her skin… and laughs a little at the idea that maybe shower temperature preference is something she inherited.

But then, that idea brings along the man that she might’ve inherited that preference from— and she isn’t, at all ready to think about him.

Not while standing naked in his shower.

Which she isn’t. It’s just a shower.  A ridiculously-nice shower that doesn’t belong to anyone specific, at all.

Nope.

Tilting her head back, Ellie holds her breath as the hot water hits her face and helps strip away every thought that isn’t just about washing off that sticky feeling of a night of drinking and dancing. (And throwing up, a little voice says at the back of her head. But she isn’t listening to that, so…)

The water hits her and it’s like being naked in the middle of a perfectly too-hot summer day during a sun-shower. Like it’s heating her up everywhere all at once, every breath-full of steam, every gently sliding trail of hot water flows around her and over her until there’s nothing behind her eyelids; no embarrassment, no men who don’t fit, no broad shoulders, no smiles across a bar or too-hot hands— it’s just blackness and heat.

It’s amazing. Ridiculous.

Amazingly-ridiculous.

At least until she opens her eyes and reality inevitably slips back in on the patter of the water against the tiles beneath her feet and the hazy, resurfacing memories of the night before.

(Employee bathroom? She hears someone say, no, she thinks, not someone, Nico, with his smooth, low voice that rolls into her all along her side. She’s moving again, her stomach lurches, the world spins, there’s another voice, a man saying: she okay? But then there’s a toilet and Ellie’s sinking down and tasting melon balls and strawberries and the bitter, hot taste of alcohol surging from her stomach. There are hands in her hair, gathering it up behind her head, Nico’s voice, a lulling sound that eases the lurching of her stomach—)

Jesus, she thinks with a rush of embarrassment, closing her eyes again and breathing in steamy air, what the hell, Ellie.

Slicking her hands through her hair to push it off her forehead, Ellie blinks into the steam and water and steps towards the shelves that are set into the wall; she reaches out, lifting a black bottle of shampoo and sniffing it; it’s definitely not her coconut smelling stuff back at dorms, but it’s nice, in a vaguely masculine, clean-smelling sort of way.

She isn’t, she tells herself, going to spend any time thinking about whose shampoo it is, or soap, or shower, or anything like that. It’s just soap.

It’s just a shower.

A ridiculous-amazing shower that doesn’t belong to anyone specific.

Exactly, she thinks, but as the smell of his shampoo fills up around her, her mind drifts to the night before, to the vague, blurry memories of him in that small employee bathroom; crouched beside her, smoothing her hair back from her face, letting her drop her head into his neck, his hand wide and slow on her back. Let’s get you home, hm?

It’s not all there, just pieces and parts, little bits in blurry flashes, her embarrassment rolling beneath all of it… and beneath that skin-prickling, stomach-churning embarrassment is this weird feeling of having fucked up.

She doesn’t know what to do with it. Why it’s there. Only that it is, this sinking feeling that he— that she—

That she made a total and complete fool of herself and he won’t want anything to do with her now.

Ellie clenches her eyes shut. It’s good, right? You don’t need him. It’s totally better this way.

She met him, they talked a bit, she knows who he is, he knows who she is… done. Good. Okay.

She doesn’t need or want anything else, she thinks, as she scrubs out the shampoo harder than she probably needs to and reaches for the conditioner. Paul is… kind and nice and loves her mother and treats Ellie like his own kid even though he doesn’t have to.  And that’s… that’s enough, she thinks. That’s more than enough.

Her head throbs.

Ellie chases the water out of her eyes and looks around his bathroom, the smell of his shampoo and conditioner is warm and heavy around her, sticking in her nose, sinking into her lungs… it’s distracting, unavoidable. This weird little itch along her skin that she’s in a man’s space, (that man across the club, at the bar, slipping out of a convertible.)

That she’s in her father’s space.

That he exists here, that—

Nothing, she thinks and steps out of the spray to grab the bath puff and the little bottle of body wash. Nothing.

She scrubs at her skin, breathing in the slightly vanilla smell of it and doesn’t wonder why he bought it for her. (He didn’t have to, did he? He could have just forced you out the door. He could have taken you home last night—)

But no, she thinks, she had to beg him, didn’t she?

Some desperate, drunk little girl, clinging onto him like— like—

Her head throbs.

Stupid, she thinks, you’re so fucking stupid.

Ignoring the ache in her throat, Ellie tilts her head back into the spray one more time, letting the conditioner and soap slick off of her and waits until that thickness in her throat fades.

Because it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It’s absolutely better this way.

She lets out a breath before turning to the shower controls on the wall and poking a few buttons until the water shuts off.

The towels are heated.

Because of course they are.

Wrapping herself up into the fluffy white towel, Ellie shivers and grabs up her clothes before she slips out of the shower and makes her way back to the double-sink vanity that sits a little higher than she's used to, the edge reaching her middle rather than her hips.                       

It makes her feel even more like a kid.                                                                                                                 

There’s toothpaste in a little holder, one toothbrush, an electric razor beside and little jars lined up along the top of the vanity. For some reason, the one toothbrush does something a little funny to her stomach.

She slides her fingers over bottles and jars, before giving in to her curiosity and picking one up. It’s a thick white cream, a moisturizer with a faint, clean smell. She sticks her finger into it and steals some, rubbing it onto her face and not feeling at all guilty for the little theft.

There’s a bottle of cologne next to it, and she eyes it, her finger sliding lightly over the top— but her insides twist at the memory of his neck, the heat of it, the smell—

And she reaches for the new toothbrush, instead. Ripping the package open, she doesn’t think about him buying this for her, either.

With a freshly minty mouth and a shiver, Ellie dries off as much as she’s able to, feeling weirdly way more naked outside of the shower even though she’s wrapped in a towel and relatively more covered.

It’s probably the cold, she thinks, eyeing the door again.

She wonders if he actually is just waiting for her out there, sitting in his bedroom and maybe… maybe thinking about her, too.

Her head throbs again, a flash of memory blurry behind her eyelids, his arms under her, her forehead in his neck, the shift of his body as he climbed stairs, a wall of twinkling stars.

The window-walls, she thinks. The city at night.

He’s probably just hoping you aren’t throwing up again, she thinks and cringes as she shakes her underwear out of her shorts because she really doesn’t want to put them back on when she’s feeling as clean as she is.

Pulling on long sleeves is hard with damp skin, and she ignores the beat of her pulse behind her eyelids as she tugs them on, fighting with the neckline of her shirt and wishing she had a sweater or wore a bra or anything to hide the fact that her shirt looks way too revealing in the daylight compared to the dark of a bar.

Closing her eyes, she breathes out, willing her head to stop pounding, before remembering that Cordova got the pills he gave her beneath the sink. Chewing her cheek, she debates the idea of asking him before getting them, but figures… he brought her here, didn’t he?  Regardless of it maybe just being pity or something, him bringing her here and leaving her alone gives her at least a little bit of permission to just… get it herself, doesn’t it?

Right?

He’d probably appreciate not having to do anything more for her, wouldn’t he? Cleaning her up after getting fucked-up was probably more than enough for him, right?

Right.

Eyeing the cabinet beneath the sink, she debates it for another second, before her head gives another dull throb and she pushes out a short breath and crouches down. There’s nothing much beneath it, some cleaning supplies, a few hand towels, three really big first aid kits which is… weird, she thinks. But maybe he’s just like, an overly cautious guy?

Frowning, Ellie reaches for the bottles lined up on one of the shelves, when her eyes land on a black box and her curiosity gets the better of her… but she’s barely pulled it off the shelf before she’s dropping it, and stumbling up and back from the sink.

Oh my God, she thinks, shaking out her hands as the image of the gold lettering in XXL searing itself into her brain.

“Oh my God,” she whines under her breath, covering her face and squeezing her eyes, those are condoms! Those are— this is why we don’t touch shit that doesn’t belong to us, Ellie!

Except a random, obtrusive, fucking weird part of her brain pipes in: huh, guess he got better at using condoms.

Which, no, she thinks, shaking her head and wincing, just no— she isn’t going to think about him and sex and condoms because of course he has sex, that’s the whole reason you’re even here—

Oh my God, she pushes out, oh my God, stop.

Reaching back under the counter without looking, Ellie fumbles the pill bottle with a curse, hating the too-loud clatter of the plastic bottle, the high rattle of the pills— hoping he isn’t actually just sitting there waiting for her as she raids his cabinets. She catches the bottle on the floor, praying he can’t hear anything while she shakes out two more pills and tosses it back under the sink without looking.

Too bad, she thinks. Wasn’t me.

She’s absolutely not thinking about anything other than Tylenol, water, and the headache still rolling around in her head. Yup.

That’s it.

Leaning over the sink, Ellie slurps some water from the tap before wiping her mouth, swallowing the pills and pulling a face at herself in the mirror. Stop being so weird, she tells herself, stop it.

She rights her shirt again, pulling the towel off her head and scrubbing it over her scalp like she can shake out everything in there before finger-combing her hair and pushing out a breath as she glances at herself in the mirror.

She looks pale in the light of the bathroom. Young without makeup. Stupid standing in his bathroom.

Seventeen going on seven, chasing an idea, wanting to know more, not being satisfied with what she had.

Should have been, she thinks as her mother says: it’s just you and me, Peanut. That’s all we need, right?

Right, she tells herself, eye colour doesn’t mean anything. He’s nothing like her at all.

She looks around his bathroom again, the marble, the big bathtub near the windows, the rain-like shower. His suits. That car. All those articles about billionaires and businesses. Forbes and Financial Times.

He’s nothing like her. He’s nothing like her mom. For a second, she debates calling Aunt Jilly and demanding answers but— but the truth is—

He probably knew all about her and left, didn’t he? Probably went slumming, some rich kid at seventeen, some wild night out in some Lower Manhattan bar her mother used to go to, picked up a girl and had some fun and didn’t want anything to do with the consequences that rolled around nine months later.

Or maybe, he was like Ethan and charmed his way into her mother’s life until something else caught his eye—

Mom would never put up with that, she thinks. No way.

The box beneath the sink is bright behind her eyelids. No, she thinks, he’s probably got women throwing themselves at him. Look at him. You think he’d settle for a wife and kids when he was what, seventeen? Eighteen?

You think he wants some stupid seventeen-year-old kid now?

Ellie stomach sinks, her heart thumps and she blinks at the ceiling before looking back at herself.

“Don’t be a baby,” she whispers. “You don’t need him.”

 She can do this. Walk out, thank him for not letting her throw up all over herself in public, and then get him to take her back to campus. Easy.

Easy.

Life will go back to normal, she thinks, combing her fingers through her hair and blinking at herself, making sure she doesn’t look like she’s been having some stupid emotional breakdown in his bathroom.

 Paul and mom will get married. He’ll officially be what he already was. You don’t need two dads—

You don’t even need one dad, she tells herself, pushing away from the sink and heading towards the door, before stopping and turning around; grabbing her wet towel and folding it, slipping back into the shower and grabbing the shower puff and the little bottle of body wash and setting them with the towel and toothbrush, all piled neatly together.

Good, she thinks, putting the wet puff on top of the towel, that’s good.

The door is heavy when she pulls it open, the bedroom chillier than the bathroom when she steps out, and it’s all tinted in a soft yellow glow from the morning sun spilling in through the glass wall that’s been… opened, she thinks, opened like an accordion. Big sections of the glass pulled back, opening out onto a balcony and— and to the man leaning against the balcony’s railing.

Ellie sinks her teeth into her cheek, hesitating in the empty space, glancing at the still unmade bed, the evidence of… of nothing, she tells herself, it’s nothing.

It’s fine, she thinks, it’s great. Time to make him take her back to campus. To get back to normal. To forget any of this happened.

Pulling in a breath, she steps onto the balcony, seeing the slight turn of Cordova’s head, the subtle shift of his shoulders… and then, the little black rectangle beside his elbow.

“Kept going off while you were sleeping,” he says, as Ellie steps up beside him and picks up her phone as he turns his head to look at her. “I didn’t want it to wake you up.”

Ellie glances up at him, feeling weirdly caught by how big he is, even leaning with his elbows on the railing, only his head turned to look at her. She’s overly aware of herself; her wet hair, her thin shirt, the hard peak of her nipples in the chilly early-morning breeze.

His eyes are—

She isn’t sure what to do with it. With any of it, so she thumbs at the home button, seeing the messages piled up on her screen. Mya, Chris, Marcus, Jilly and Mom.

Mya’s are the ones she clicks into first, feeling her cheeks heat as she scans the messages flowing in around midnight.

You know him!!! WHow theuh whaattt!

hes so hottttt

Ellieeeeeee. Who is heeee

yor telling me evrthing in the mrning u know tht right??? so maaaadd

And then another from ten minutes ago.

Baraely concious, your aalive right?

Ellie types back:

Alive. Be back soon.

 

Mya’s answer pings back in a second.

 Coffees?

Ellie sends a sure back before skimming the other messages, her friends checking in and wondering where she went, a missed phone call from her mother, a text asking for a call back…Ellie shivers, the October breeze chilly in the early morning.

“Everything all right?” he asks as she fires a text back to her mother, telling her she’ll call her soon.

Ellie nods, tucking her phone into her back pocket because she’s fine. She’s great. She’s perfect. Peachy.

Couldn’t be fucking better.

“Yup, can you drop me off at the Roastery instead of my dorm? I want to grab a coffee for me and Mya,” she lies, swallowing everything and anything else that wants to come out of her, feeling Cordova looking at her for a stretch of a moment before he looks away, back out over the city; Central Park stretching big and green in the middle of all that metal and glass and concrete. His chest shifts with a breath but he’s silent.

She looks at his profile, the line of his nose, the dark of his hair— before tearing her eyes away and looking out over the city. It’s a pretty view, she can’t imagine it comes cheap. She can’t imagine anything in this place is anything less than ridiculously expensive.

She thinks again about him sitting across from her in the Roastery, his suit, even tie-less and jacket-less, looking out of place. Ridiculously out of place.

How fucked up, she thinks, as she spots her campus in the distance, nestled right there on the west side… that he’s been almost directly across from her for years. Just the stretch of a park between them.

He’s been here the whole time. (He could have, she thinks, been there the whole time.)

Cordova straightens off the railing, pulling Ellie out of her thoughts as he silently heads back into his bedroom; she follows him quietly, stopping a few steps into the bedroom when she realises he isn’t heading towards the door to the right, but another door to the left.

She chews her cheek, waiting in the quiet, knowing the other door is the way he came in, but—

Should she leave?

But he’s coming back a second later, unfolding something big and black. A zippered hoodie, she realises just as he steps in front of her and lifts his arm, holding it out for her.

“You look cold,” he says with his eyes steady on her face, the hoodie hanging limply between them.

“I’m…” she hesitates because she’s supposed to be leaving. Because she’s not going to see him again, right? Because—

But she’s reaching out, her hand closing around the shoulder of it, just below where he holds it. Ellie’s fingers brush his.

His skin is warm.

She takes It, and it’s only because she’s cold, she tells herself, only because she feels half-naked. Too young, too exposed in her bar clothes— she shrugs the hoodie on, pulling it around herself, stretching her arms into the too-long sleeves, hating that it’s soft and warm and somehow, wraps that same clean, masculine smell she found in the shower, all around her.

Because of course it does.

It’s huge, draping off her, and Ellie curls her hands into the overlong sleeves and hugs herself, chewing her cheek and trying to focus, because she’s fine. It’s fine. Peachy. Perfect.

Couldn’t be better.

The silence stretches; the bed, unmade behind him, makes her skin itch.

She turns, heading towards the door he came in, the way out, the way away—

Cordova follows, a quiet, too-large presence behind her.

She’s weirdly thankful for the hoodie.

                It’s a loft, she realises, a sprawling, huge space that spreads out beneath the black metal staircase they’re making their way down.

Around her, there are more massive windows, exposed brick walls and dark wood floors, sections of the space defined by the furniture and rugs; a kitchen ahead, near a large wood dining table, a section of couches around a wall-mounted tv, another section of couches nearer the window-walls.

She remembers… coming in through a door, the shifting of his muscles carrying her, a soft light over that marble island in the kitchen ahead of them.

She remembers… his hand on her foot, the thump of a shoe hitting the ground.

God, she acted like a child, didn’t she? Being carried and babied— so drunk she couldn’t even take her own shoes off.

Her stomach twists, sinking like a stone, and her face twists for a second, feeling overwhelmed, caught, fucking stupid— No one wants someone they don’t know— some too drunk, fucked up girl getting sick all over them and then basically forcing themselves to be kidnapped because they’re clinging onto him and begging—

She fights the embarrassment in her stomach, the lurch of her insides, it doesn’t matter, she tells herself, it’s done. It’s fine. Perfect. Peachy.

He’ll take her back to campus and it’ll be fine. Totally fine. He won’t come into her work anymore. She won’t have to listen to Tara gushing about him. Or flirting with him. Won’t have to deal with him watching her or waiting for her or wanting to walk her home.

It’s good. It’s—

Totally fucking fine.

Her throat aches, her head throbbing dully behind her eyes; she has to blow out a wobbly breath, blinking back the heat in her eyes as she heads towards what she’s pretty sure is the front door. If her shoes, neatly lined up neatly beside his, are any indication.

There’s a suit jacket hanging off one of the high stools around the kitchen island, and behind her, as she pushes her feet into her heels, Ellie catches Cordova picking it up and shrugging it on from the corner of her eye.

It’s a weird, slow realisation, (that isn’t really even new, she thinks, it just hits her all at once,) that this is where he lives. This is her dad’s house— That this man is her dad and this is his home.

And then, as she gets her heels on and Cordova steps around her to get the door: she’ll never be here again.

That this is it, isn’t it?

End of story.

Everything’s going to go back to normal and that’s good, that’s great, that’s what it should be. He was only ever just an idea anyway. Just a curiosity. She knows who he is. Where he is. (his hands pushing into her hair, his thumb on her chin. His eyes—)

She doesn’t need him or want him in her life. He was just a picture. A bit of an outline she needed to fill in. (His arms around her, acid in her throat, tilting into the heat of him.)

He doesn’t fit into her life. Doesn’t belong in it.

There’s a short hallway outside of his front door, an elevator ahead and an exit sign glowing over a door to her right. Cordova’s back is broad and straight in his suit jacket, his hair short and dark along his nape.

(It’s stubbly beneath her fingers, his skin hot; his cologne, his pulse, the sound of his voice rumbling against her forehead and cheek.)

The exit sign blurs a little, Ellie blinks at the ground, swallowing around a lump in her throat.

Don’t be a baby, she tells herself. You’re seventeen. You don’t need him. You never have. What’s wrong with you? It’s better this way. Paul’s great. Mom’s happy. Think about what she would do if she found out about him? About you being here.

He had to take care of you, didn’t he? You basically threw yourself at him. What else could he do? Probably felt guilty—

The elevator dings, Ellie drops her head and lets her damp hair hide her face when Cordova steps to the side to let her step in before him. The space feels too small when he follows her on, pressing one of only the three buttons on the panel.

She won’t be back though, so it doesn’t matter that it’s kind of weird, does it?

Cordova leans against the wall beside her, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and from the corner of her eye, watches him type out a text before pocketing it again.

The elevator makes her stomach twist more as they head towards the ground because this is it, she thinks, this is it.

He hasn’t said a word, has he? (He was across a park, just one lousy park for years.)

When the elevator slows to a stop and the door dings, Ellie steps out, feeling him following as they step into a large empty underground parking garage. It’s cold and smells like oil and metal and Ellie hugs herself, looking at the shiny, fancy cars parked on either side of the lot. She wonders how many people live in the building because there aren’t that many cars.

Upper East Side, she thinks, and wonders how many of them actually even drive cars in the city or just get ferried around by drivers.

She bets he has a driver, too, and that convertible is just to show off. Everyone knows driving in New York is crap, no one actually wants to deal with traffic and parking. But then, when Ellie hesitates beside that shiny silver Convertible he drove to the Roastery, Cordova’s hand touches her lower back lightly, and he points her towards a big black SVU type of vehicle and there’s a jingle of keys and that be-beep of unlocking doors as the headlights flash.

SUV’s are apparently very popular right now, she thinks, remembering the ones she saw at work, the one that tattooed guy was leaning against. There’s been a few around campus lately, actually.

Cordova steps around her, pulling open the passenger door and Ellie ducks her head again, not wanting to look at him, at whatever might be on his face. The door shuts and Cordova rounds the car, slipping into the driver’s side and starting the car.

He still hasn’t said anything. Ellie’s pretty sure her stomach is a knot as he pulls out of the lot.

All they have to do is cross the width of Central Park, that’s it.

She’ll be fine. He can go back to his life and she can go back to hers. She’ll call her mom because that’s what she should do. The woman who raised her. The woman who was there when he wasn’t. The one who struggled, worked, put herself through school to make a better life for both of them.

Jesus, she thinks, maybe that’s what this is about. What if he’s worried about child support? What if he thinks Ellie’s mom sent her? What if he thinks Ellie’s after a handout?

(He came looking for you, some part of her mind says, he came after you— but it’s buried beneath last night and this morning and the silence now. He said he was here for you.)

She doesn’t want him to think that, she realises, she doesn’t want him to think that she’s… needy. She’s not. She’s never— She wouldn’t—

She wishes Grandma was still alive. She’d like to climb into her old bed in New Rochelle and hide beneath the covers for a week.

Her head throbs, her stomach lurches, Ellie closes her eyes and breathes out shakily, tilting her forehead against the glass, feeling the gentle hum of the car moving towards the west side of the city and trying to block out everything that isn’t that hum.

Throwing up on him, throwing yourself at him— all while he’s what? Feeling obligated? Guilty? Worried about seventeen years off child support?

(His smile across the bar. The quiet, empty Roastery. Let me walk you home.)

His hand touches her shoulder, fingers brushing her hair back like he’s trying to see face. “Ellie—”

Ellie tenses, she can’t stop it— his hand pulls away, the silence in the car stretches like it’s this thing filling up the air around them.

She swallows an apology, even though it’s thick in her throat. She’s terrified it’s not an apology at all, but more begging. More questions. Some fucked up mix of all three—

I’m sorry, don’t be mad, don’t leave again. I don’t want money. My mom doesn’t know I’m here. Why did you buy me those things? Why did you come after me? Did you know about me? Would you have stayed?  

 “I’m fine,” she pushes out and hopes it doesn’t sound as thick as she thinks it does.

He goes quiet again, but she hears him push out a breath, she itches to loo k at him but watches the city slide by instead.

It doesn’t matter, she thinks, it’s all done anyway. Everything can go back to normal.

Her campus gets closer, Cordova turns towards the Roastery and Ellie isn’t sure if she’s breathing right. Her throat is thick and achy, her teeth sunk into her cheek; the world’s blurring a little, and she doesn’t know how to make it stop.

He parks a storefront down, in front of a flower shop that Ellie’s never been into. Ellie knows it’s time to go. Time’s up. That’s it. Back to campus. Back to real life.

It’s fine. Perfect. Peachy.

Couldn’t be fucking better.

“Ellie—” he starts, but she doesn’t want to hear whatever excuses he might make, doesn’t want to hear goodbye, so long, nice meeting you but—

“Thanks,” she says before he can say anything more. She reaches for her seatbelt, glad her hair is still pulled over her shoulder and half hiding her face because she can feel how warm it is, how thick her voice is, and can only hope he won’t say anything as the buckle clicks free. “For driving me and—”

“Ell—” he starts again, but she’s got her hand on the door and the pushing it open as she swallows around the ache in her throat. Do you care about me? Why haven’t you said anything? Are you mad at me? Do you want to know me? Did you ever know about me?

“Sorry for throwing up on you,” she pushes out, hating the wobble in her voice as the car dings with that door-open sound. The morning chill pushes in, Ellie moves to slide out but then there's a hand closes around her arm, a rough-edged curse behind her, and the click of a buckle as he tugs her back into the car.

Ellie shakes her head, a noise slipping out of her chest before she can bite it back, the questions piling up in her throat, the burn of embarrassment, memories, the clawing, unavoidable want for more she’s desperately trying to ignore. The world blurs and she thinks she might not be breathing right, her teeth clenched, trying to hold back that ache in her throat that’s threatening to spill out.

“Let go—” she hitches, because she’s not going to cry, she thinks. She’s not. She’s fine— she’s—

Being tugged back as he leans around her and pulls the car door shut again. There’s a hand on her chin and nowhere to look but at him, she opens her mouth to tell him off— to get angry, to tell him to mind his own fucking business— but what comes out is something weak and wobbly:

“Did you know about me?”

Cordova’s face does something— she doesn’t know what it is, only that and she hates it— she hates it— and the car is painfully silent for the aching stretch of a second before Cordova curses, low and angry and he’s hauling her across the dash and onto his lap.

She struggles as the world tilts, tensing and pushing back as the world blurs because she’s crying even though she’s fine, she’s fine—

“Stop,” he says, in this rough, low voice that she can barely hear over her own thudding head and heartbeat as he catches her hands and holds them against his chest. “Stop, Ellie.”

She shakes her head, but he’s too strong, too steady and she’s crying harder and she hates it, she hates it— embarrassment burns in her gut even as she buries her head in his neck, his hand curving along the back of her head, tucking her into him more.

“I’m s-sorry,” she sobs, shaking her head, her fingers curling into his shirt. “I—”

He shushes her, his other hand rubbing over her back, letting her cry into his neck, cling on to him like she really is a child—

“I didn’t know about you,” he says quietly, this steady low rumble that rolls out from his chest and into her. “Baby, I didn’t know.”

Ellie shakes her head and cries harder.

                She isn’t sure how long she cries for, only that her face is hot and her eyes feel heavy, her chest an unsteady thing with every little hitching breath she breathes into his neck. His jacket is wet, her tears soaking into the collar of his shirt; her nose feels stuffed and gross and she hates how tired and drained she feels while there’s this kernel, ember, low thing in her chest that feels... Relaxed. Comfortable. Like she could stay tucked here, with his heartbeat thumping into her ear… forever.

She maps the moments in the slowing beat of his heart beneath her cheek; and there's this weird, distant comfort, nearly buried in the low-burn of exhausted embarrassment, that his heartbeat isn’t as steady or slow as it should be.

His hand moves in these slow, warm strokes over her back, her shoulder, down the curve of her side where she’s tucked against his chest. His other arm, thick and warm around her back, his hand hot and huge, spread wide and cupping just above the back of her knee.

She keeps looking at how big it is, how much of his fingers she can see on the top of her thigh.

It’s… weird.

It’s nice?

It probably shouldn’t be, should it?

She doesn’t want to move as much as she thinks she should. It is, she tells herself, mostly because she doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to face him and have him comfort her more than he already has. Like a child.  A kid.

Like his kid.

Ugh.

But eventually, she feels his hand stop its slow stroke on her side, coming up to touch her cheek, his fingers threading into her hair and she knows her time is up.

With her face away from his neck, she can feel the heat in her cheeks, the blotchy mess of her face; his hand curves to cup her cheek, thumbs brushing beneath her eye, his thigh shifting beneath her, pulling her a bit farther away from his neck.

She hates how much she wants to tuck back into him and hide.

It’s embarrassing.

But he’s looking at her, and the way he looks at her makes her lip wobble with that burn of embarrassment and that lingering confusion that’s all jumbled in— in him and her and everything she’s been wondering about since childhood.

Something she can’t name passes over his face, a tilt to his eyebrows, a tightness in his jaw— his eyes moving over her face, something searching, something honest and unavoidable as he smooths her hair back, thumb catching the slow to gather, slow to drop, heat of her tears.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says roughly, chest-deep in a way that rolls through her. “You're killing me here.”

Ellie doesn’t know what to do with that, with any of it, so she leans forward, tucking her head back into his neck and lets him press a kiss to her temple and hold her again.

A momentary weakness, a moment, she tells herself. Just one

                Ellie leans against the inside of the car door, still perched on his thigh, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, too big and bunched around her middle, covering the tops of her thighs, looking at her fingers and not him or his hands because it’s just… easier.

“You don’t have kids, then?”

Cordova shakes his head, his hand curved and warm around her ankle where her feet are perched between the seats, his thumb stroking lightly over her skin. “Just you.”

She nods, chewing her cheek as her stomach twists with how easy he says it. The simple acknowledgement of what she is to him. “Never wanted them?”

He’s silent for a beat before huffing out a quiet laugh and tapping his thumb on her ankle bone. “I want you if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t, but she can’t lie and say it isn’t nice to hear. She’s definitely not going to cry again, you loser— She nods, twisting the fabric in her hands.

On her lap, her phone vibrates again. It’s an excuse, an escape she thinks she’s desperate for. (Even if part of her doesn’t want to move at all, and might, actually, really not want to leave. At all.)

“…I should get going. Mya’s probably dying.”

He’s quiet for a beat, Ellie glances at him, he looks like he’s going to argue but his chest shifts with a breath and he nods instead. “If that’s what you want. What did you want for you and your friend?“

Ellie frowns in confusion.

“Coffees.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he’s patting the back of her thigh and urging her towards the passenger seat. She goes with her thigh tingling at the heat of his hand; this subconscious awareness of his strength doing all of the work for her. Hard muscles, thick arms. It’s impossible to not notice how easily he moves her around. Like she really is a kid.

Ugh.

He reaches over her and buckles her seatbelt again, a stupid, crooked smirk on his face at her scowl. “Cute face.”

“Shut up. I can get them, I don’t need—”

“Mmhm,” he says and leans back. “But I’m going. So tell me what you want before I order you both plain black espressos with no sugar.”

She scowls harder, even as a little part of her latches onto the idea that he remembers what she said about coffee and sugar. “I can come in—”

He snorts and glances back over his seat, checking traffic before opening his door. “Looking like that?” he says as he moves to stand, turning to look at her as he rights the line of his jacket, buttoning one in the middle. “Think your coworkers might call the cops on me.”

“Chicken,” she mocks, even though her body flushes with another wave of embarrassment at the acknowledgement of how she knows she must look. She can feel it, she doesn’t need to see herself to know he’s right.

“Heard CPS is a nightmare, honestly.”

CPS—

“Hey!” Ellie squawks as he shuts the door and grins at her through the glass. “I’m not a kid!”

She reaches for the belt buckle, but he points at her, his voice hard even through the glass. “Stay there. I mean it.”

She scowls at him. “This is child endangerment, then!”

He laughs as he rounds the car, muffled and distant as he walks away, but it's there, his laugh. She isn’t sure what her stomach does, but it does something and she sags back into the seat, watching him walk away.

It’s only when he’s disappeared into the café that she realises she never told him what to order. She debates following him just because he told her not to and she’s not a kid, and it’s her work—

But she pops the visor down, looking at herself in the mirror, seeing the flushed, redness of her face that screams I just had some sort of mental breakdown. Ask me about it!

With a groan, she wipes at her face, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out, pressing her fingers on her cheeks to try to chase out some of the blotchy redness. It doesn’t work well, instead, she reaches for the window controls and rolls down the tinted window, letting the cool morning breeze slip into the car in an effort to cool her skin down.

Eventually, the bell above the Roastery door chimes again and Cordova comes out, a takeout tray in one hand; he has three drinks, and Ellie grins because two of them are piled high with whipped cream.

She laughs, dropping her head into her hands before pressing her lips together to school her face as he rounds the car and slips in; handing her the tray but plucking the plain coffee out and setting it into the coffee holder between the seats. It’s then she sees the paper bag sitting tucked on the other side.

Her stomach growls, and by the smell, she knows that it’s a buttery croissant. “How’d you know what to get?”

“Asked,” he says easily as he shuts the door and settles into the seat. “What drink would that cute little girl who works here get if she were hungover and in desperate need of caffeine?”

Cute— what—

Ellie’s pretty sure her mind blanks out. Cute. She blinks at him. “You— what?”

He snorts, glancing at her. “Think they’ve seen me enough by now, they know we know each other.” He shrugs, looking away as he pulls out into traffic. He glances at her when the silence hangs between them. “I asked what you’d order, that alright?”

Ellie nods, looking down at the drinks, not sure what to do with that information. She wonders who he asked. She kind of really wants to ask. “Did you—” she swallows, she isn’t sure why it matters. “Did you say who you were?”

She can feel him looking at her, from her peripherals, his head turns between the road and her, driving one-handed. Too relaxed, she thinks. She doesn’t understand how he always seems too relaxed.  “No. I wasn’t sure what you had told them.”

Ellie fiddles with the paper bag in her lap, chewing her cheek, not sure what to do with the relief in her stomach.

He’s quiet for a beat, her campus looms in the distance, a pocket of older buildings, emptier, tree-lined streets, the area almost entirely made up of university buildings and dorms. Libraries and bookstores. A few cheap places to eat tucked around the sprawling city campus that feels almost like its own little pocket of space away from the hustle and crowds of New York.

“We should talk—”

“Can you pull along the field up there? It’s quicker for me to cut across it,” she says, interrupting what she knows will be a lets talk about this sort of conversation and she just… just doesn’t want to talk about it.

Like, at all.

It’s surprising, she thinks, she’s spent so long thinking of all the things she’d say to her father when she met him, if she met him— and now she just… doesn’t want to.

Cordova sighs, pulling up alongside the stretching empty field that sides her dorm building. He turns the car off, Ellie chases a bit of leaking whipped cream off the cup of one of the caramel-covered Frappuccinos with her thumb.

“Thanks,” she says again, relieved when there’s no wobble in her voice this time, no tears burning behind her eyes. “For last night and—”

“Don’t thank me,” he says with a frown, turning and opening the door to climb out. He rounds the car, Ellie balances the tray in one hand and reaches for her seatbelt, glancing at him through the glass until he gets to her door and opens it.

He holds his hand out, she hands him the tray and he sets it on the roof before his hand is back, waiting for her to take it. She hesitates, he waits, bending a little to look at her.

He lifts an eyebrow, Ellie isn’t sure why she’s hesitating, he just cradled her while she cried. She was on his lap— She scoffs at herself, sliding her hand into his. It’s warm, it swallows hers, (she remembers it, in the dark, the size of it on her cheek, the size of it in hers, her fingers curled around his palm.)

Her insides trip.

It’s stupid.

She hops out of the vehicle, he’s somehow taller than she remembers, even though there’s this flickering memory of his chest and the warmth of his body beneath his clothes. The smell of his cologne, shampoo or soap, whatever it is, lingers in the space between them.

Pulling her hand back too quickly, Ellie curls her fingers into his hoodie sleeves—

Right, she thinks, hoodie, and lifts her hands to the zipper.

He reaches out, catching it before it’s an inch down. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

He huffs a little laugh, his lips quirked, overtaking her fingers and zipping it back up. “What time are you working?”

“Four to nine,” she says without thinking, his knuckles brushing her skin before it falls away and he’s reaching for the tray to hand it to her.

“I’ll drive you home after.”

What?

“I— It’s like, five minutes to walk,” she argues, frowning up at him. She doesn’t need him to take her home. She doesn’t want him to, right? She—

(Has some little part of her that’s something like relieved or happy or something at the easy way he brings up seeing her again.)

“I don’t need—”

He shrugs, his smirk crooked and entertained as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Too bad. I’ll see you at nine.”

Ellie scowls at him, but her phone vibrates again. She knows Mya’s waiting and she can, she thinks, bail on him later, can’t she? If that’s what she decides to do. She doesn’t have to see him again if she doesn’t want to.

She looks up at him, over to where her room is and then back again.

Move, she tells herself, what are you waiting for?

He tilts his head, a smile still playing on his lips as he steps back to lean against the side of the vehicle. “Go on. Before I kidnap you again.”

A laugh slips out of her, her cheeks warming at the reminder of what she said to him when she woke up. She looks up at him, the longer hair on the top of his head moving slightly in the breeze, his eyes steady— for a second, he seems completely serious— but his lips quirk more and he shifts just a little, leaning back a little more, looking so— untouchable, she thinks, confident, something— with his broad shoulders and the crisp white of shirt against his skin.

Ellie takes a step back, and then another… before forcing herself to turn around and walk away.

She can feel him watching her the whole way, and at her window, before she knocks, Ellie looks back and lifts her hand in a wave.

In the distance, Cordova smiles and waves back.

                “If you fucked him, I will both hate you and love you forever,” Mya says as she yanks open the window and takes the tray from Ellie’s hands. “Seriously. Love and hate. I’m stewing in jealousy right now. Who the fuck is that? Where’d he come from, Olympus?”

Ellie laughs as she pulls herself through the window and stumbles in. “Shut up, oh my God. He’s no one.”

“Uh, no,” Mya says, dropping back down onto her bed and sucking greedily at her Frappuccino. “No, that’s not no one. That’s—” she shoots back up, grabbing at Cordova’s hoodie. “Oh my God, you’ve got a hoodie! That’s a hook-up outfit! Are you even dressed under that? I bet you don’t even have underwear—”

Ellie flaps her hand at her. She doesn’t have her underwear on, and her nerves go all twisty inside of her, that Mya’s right even a little bit. Even if it’s just because she tucked her underwear into her pocket and not that he— nope. She’s not even going to think about that.  

“Get off! Go— you’re so annoying! It’s not a hook—”

“You’re holding out on me! I can’t believe it! We got best friend tattoos and now you won’t tell me about the literal hottest man I’ve ever seen dicking you down—”

Ellie’s insides burn up. (Condoms, a messy bed, his voice rolling into her body—) Her heart thuds, her mind pitching like she doused herself in cold water. “There was no dic— Jesus, shut up for like two seconds!” She flaps at Mya’s hands to get them to stop tugging at the hoodie. “There was no dicking! He’s just a friend!”

Mya pouts, her mouth opening—

Ellie flaps her hand in her face, “And those were Henna tattoos last summer and you messed mine up! I had BBF on me for like, ever!”

 “Best beautiful friend, remember?” Mya grins around her straw. “And don’t change the subject.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, grabbing her drink from her nightstand and dropping back onto her bed, leaning back against her pillows and dragging her stuffed bunny into her lap. “Nothing happened, really. He’s—”

My father, she thinks, my literal, irl dad.

She isn’t sure why it sticks in her throat, why she can’t just say it— but she can’t. It’s lodged there, the truth, the reality. The guy she chased down just to know him.

She can’t say it.

It’s just no one’s business, that’s why, she thinks, he didn’t say anything either, did he?

She isn’t even sure if she wants to see him again, right? So what’s the point of saying anything yet?

Right. None.

“—An old friend of my mom, he comes into the Roastery sometimes. It’s not a big deal, sorry to disappoint, but there’s nothing— it’s— it’s just not like that.”

Mya pulls a face. “Uh, so? Make it like that.”

Ellie blinks at her, her eyebrows tilting up. “He’s like, the same age as my mom? He’s—”

“El, no offence, but your mom is like, a baby-mom, she’s what? Thirty-two?”

“Four,” Ellie says with a frown. “But that’s—”

“The kind of guy you break some rules for? Yup, absolutely.”

Ellie shakes her head, licking a bit of whipped cream on her finger despite the tense, empty heat in her stomach. It’s hunger and hangover, that’s all.

Mya’s fingers tug at the neck of the hoodie, Ellie looks at her, her eyebrows tilting up.

“Hickey check,” she says with a grin. “Had to be sure.”

Ellie laughs and slaps her hand away. “Stop. Seriously. Nothing happened.”

“I’m really disappointed you’re dressed under there, not gonna lie. You spent the night with him.”

Ellie’s body does something with the way Mya says it, but she shrugs. “Sorry, but it’s just not like that. He just—” Took me home. Let me sleep in his bed. Bought me shower stuff.

Took care of me.

Her heart thuds.

She really wasn’t paying attention this morning, was she?

He took care of me.

She glances at her window, and for a second, imagines him still there, imagines being able to run back across the field and like— (step up to him, wrap her arms around him, press an apology into his chest because she’s two thousand different types of stupid,) apologise.

“He’s just like... a friend of my mom. Well, they used to be. It’s not—” Ellie scrambles, feeling guilty for lying, for lying more—because her mother can’t know, which means Paul can’t know, which means… she has to lie, right?

Right.

“Uh, they’re not close anymore, so don’t like, say anything to my mom. Or Paul.”

“Ohhh,” Mya says, dropping down beside Ellie. “So like, friend-friend.”

Ellie’s inside coil tight at the implication, even though she knows, logically that they— that they dated or hooked up or— or fucked.

Because Ellie exists.

Ellie scrunches her nose, not knowing what to do with that pit in her stomach at the idea of her mother— of him— that they—

“I mean, maybe?” Ellie lies, poking her straw in and out of her drink before taking a sip and trying to bury that feeling in sugar and caffeine. “I dunno.”

“That sucks. He’s so hot. What’s his name?”

Ellie swallows the sweet, bitter-edged coffee, thinking bout (his voice, his hand on her chin, looking down at her with a smile. His finger in her belt loop, I’m here for you.)

“Nico,” she says and takes another sip. “It’s Nico.”

                The bell chimes, Ellie looks up from wiping down a table, her heart skipping a beat when a man walks in. Too tall, too well-dressed to miss as he looks over to the counter before his eyes scan over the rest of the café—

She can’t stop her smile when his eyes land on her, and in a moment that’s almost exactly like the blurry memories of the night before, Nico smiles right back.

“It’s a five-minute walk,” she starts as he closes the distance between them, he’s got something wrapped in tinfoil in one hand, she glances at it while she’s stuck standing at the side of the table with the rag and squirt bottle hanging lamely in her hand.

He shrugs, his smile crooked. “It is.”

“It takes you way longer just to drive here.”

“Maybe,” he says, stopping in front of her.

“It’s stupid.”

“I disagree.”

Ellie huffs, biting her cheek to hold in her smile. She spent the afternoon trying not to think about him, convincing herself that he wasn’t going to come, but—

But he’s here.

She looks at the oblong, tinfoil-wrapped thing in his hand. There’s a smell to it, something greasy and savoury that makes her stomach rumble in hunger.

“What’s that?”

“Hangover special,” he says with a grin, peeling open a bit of the tinfoil to show her two hot dogs, still steaming inside. “Best there is in the city.”

Ellie laughs, looking up at him. “Seriously?”

“Tried and true. Guarantee it.”

He’s… crazy, she thinks, he’s too much. He’s—

(Took care of her.)

“You’re dumb,” she says, ignoring the thump of her pulse, too loud in her ears.

He huffs a laugh. “Maybe. You ready?”

“Yeah, I just gotta… I’ll be right back.”

He nods; she takes a step back before turning on her heel and slipping behind the counter. Andie lifts a brow at her in question, a smile twitching on her lips. Ellie shrugs.

“Good to bounce?” she asks, already stepping back towards the swinging door that leads to the back of the café. When Andie nods, Ellie grins and turns. “Thanks!”

She washes up quickly, shucking her apron and fixing her leggings and sweater before looking at herself in the mirror. She’s not excited he’s here. It’s no big deal. He’s just…walking her home.

It doesn’t mean anything.

She grabs her bag, her jean jacket… and takes an extra minute to fix her hair. He brought her a hot dog—

Fighting a smile, ignoring the bubble of excitement in her belly, Ellie turns on her heel and heads back out to him, pushing out a steadying breath as she goes.

He smiles, pushing open the door, tilting his head into the city-light filled night as the bell chimes. “After you, sweetheart.”

                Nico pushes her backpack from her shoulder as they start walking, ignoring her protest and leaning away from her reach before shrugging it over his own; his hand pushes against her spine, steering her to keep walking down the street. “Don’t argue, you won’t win.”

With an eye roll, Ellie goes, watching as he unwraps the foil halfway down the street, the parchment wrapper crinkling as he hands her one of the hot dogs, still shiny with grease, topped with mustard and a thick strip of bacon.

She takes it, her mouth-watering as she takes her first, too big bite. It’s amazing.

“So good,” she groans, speaking around her mouthful. “Thank you.”

He laughs warmly, taking a bite of his own. “Much better than that Frappuccino, hm?”

She makes a noise in her throat. “Can’t argue that right now.”

“You had anything other than that today? Hope you ate the croissant at least.”

Ellie shrugs, picking at a piece of the soft bun and popping it into her mouth. “Got a muffin at work.”

He frowns at her but she ignores him, knowing she should have eaten more but her stomach’s been a knot all day thinking about him, tonight, last night… everything.

Food was the last thing she wanted.

“Mya said thank you, by the way,” she says before he can say anything. “You didn’t have to get us both one.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to take you to breakfast but…” he trails off. “Maybe another time.”

Ellie doesn’t know what to say to that, the idea that she was so caught up in her head, so convinced he wanted to get rid of her... and in reality, he wanted to take her to breakfast?

It's... weird. Comforting. Brings back a little tinge of embarrassment for her (apparently completely unnecessary) breakdown.

Stupid, she thinks, taking a too-big bite of her hot dog and looking at the looming sight of her dorm building ahead.

There’s the same black SUV from the morning parked at the curb ahead, nearly exactly like it did only a few hours ago. She wonders why he didn’t just pick her up.

Maybe he wants to spend time with you, the back of her head itches, it’s not that deep.

No ulterior motive, no guilt, no worry about child support?

Maybe.

He bought you a shower puff and a toothbrush.

Their arms brush, Ellie pushes her thoughts away, taking another bite, enjoying the greasy thick bacon, the savoury taste of the hot dog, the bite of the mustard.

It’s really good.

They cross the street; at his vehicle, Ellie isn’t sure if she’s supposed to say goodnight and keep going across the field and let him leave, because it is late, and just because he bought her a hot dog doesn’t mean he wants to hang out with her outside of her dorm— but Nico’s hand catches the back her jacket and he pulls her around the other side of the SUV.

He sets his hot dog on the hood, Ellie leans against the side, taking a smaller bite this time, not because she’s trying to drag it out, or anything, it’s just… it’s good. She wants to enjoy it.

He opens the passenger door, reaching in and coming out with two drinks.

“Papaya juice,” he says, handing her one.

Ellie sticks the straw in her mouth, sucking up the tangy-sweet juice. “Where’s this from?”

“Gray’s. Surprised you've never had it, where the hell do teenagers go for hangovers now?”

Ellie laughs, chewing on the straw as Nico settles next to her against the side of the vehicle. She pulls a face, straightening up a little because he’s way too tall and she feels like a hobbit standing next to him.

He looks down at her, a crooked smile on his mouth, huffing out a humoured breath like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. Setting his drink down on the hood, he straightens, steps in front of her and sets his hands on her hips.

Less than a blink of a second later, she’s sitting on the hood of the car and Nico’s next to her again, leaning back on his elbow right beside her and picking up his hot dog like nothing happened.

Her hips burn, her stomach tense and hot. Ellie swallows and hopes the heat in her cheeks isn’t visible in the glow of the street lights that line her dorm’s field.

He’s just a little bit below her now, with how he’s leaning and how big the SUV is; Ellie looks at him, the shine of his hair, thick and dark, in the dim light above them. His shoulders in the suit jacket. The heat of his body so close to hers. His arm almost right up against her thigh. Just a sliver, shiver of space between them.

Her pulse pounds and she drowns it out by taking a long sip of her juice, watching him take a bite of his hot dog.

“There’s a waffle place around the corner,” she says after he looks at her, waiting because he asked her a question, didn’t he?  “And we like, Uber stuff, you know? It’s mostly dorm parties. Or house parties. Private school, and all. There’s a lot of rich kids with apartments with no parents.”

She winces a little at her rambling, but Nico only smiles. “Ah, Uber.”

It goes quiet again, Ellie looks at that thin little space between her thigh and his arm. She can feel his body heat. It’s…

Nothing.

Her phone buzzes. She pulls it out, eager to distract herself from that weird little want to inch closer, shift her thigh just a little…

But she’s ignoring it.

Not like that my ass!!!

Ellie flushes, locking the screen quickly and tucking the phone back into her pocket even though it goes off again.

“Everything all right?” he asks, turning his head to look at her.

“Yup,” she says, looking at her window in the distance, seeing Mya’s outline lingering in the light spilling out of it.

“Your friend?”

Ellie nods, watching Nico lift his hand in a wave. “She’s gonna get us caught,” she says, reaching out for his hand and pushing it down. “Security’s going to start doing its rounds soon, it’s curfew.”

He looks at her, her hand still on his. She pulls it back, reaching for her drink, and ignoring his eyes. “Do you have to go?”

She shakes her head. “They know I’m working. I can say I stayed late.”

His lips tilt a little while he looks at her. Ellie wishes he wouldn’t.

Hot dog is a good distraction, she thinks. Hot dog is a great distraction, and lifts it up to take another bite as he looks at her and the silence stretches.

“Remind me to grab your hoodie before you leave,” she says because he probably wants it back and she doesn’t want to give herself any excuse to wear it all day again like she did today.

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

Nico snorts, smiling crookedly at her. “Ellie, the hoodie was just an excuse to see you again. Keep it.”

She blinks at him.

“Do I need the excuse?”

She blinks, her breath stuck in her throat… and shakes her head.

He smiles at her, his eyes moving over her face before he looks away shifting to lean more against the SUV, the distance between her side and his closes to nothing. "Alright, then."

He’s warm, his cologne is a faint thing lingering in the cool night air.

Ellie breathes out, lifting her hot dog as he does, and takes another bite.

Chapter Text

five

He comes back to an empty penthouse and an unmade bed.

He tosses his keys onto the kitchen island, and it’s the little echo, the metallic, jingle-clink that makes all that empty space around him feel even emptier. He heads upstairs with a still-damp shirt collar and an ache in his chest like a gunshot wound.

(Did you know about me?)

She doesn’t even take up much space, he thinks, but— but the things he bought for her are piled up neatly next to his sink. He isn’t sure if he’s entertained by her neatness, or irritated by it.

He thinks about her (face, the tilt of her body, the angle of her neck looking up at him, the hard press of her sharp little knuckles against his chest, pay attention—) taking up his space. This little sun that he feels like he’s been revolving around for weeks.

That’s what he wants, he thinks, less orbital, more collision-course. (Her foot hitting his, a misstep, a mistake, but for a moment, a minute, a maybe in time, she was where she was supposed to be.)

(The weight of her in his lap, her hot cheek, soft breath on his neck.)

He eyes the too-neat pile.

It’s almost cruel. (Like somehow, cheap products lined up on a bathroom sink can steal a maybe right out from underneath him. Like somehow, neatly lined-up products are a period. An ending. A never-again.)

They’re not. He dumps the shower puff and the cheap body wash, heading back into the bedroom, to the unmade bed, to the October-chilled New York air still sliding in from the open folding glass walls.

He can still smell her. (Like coffee and sugar, something softer beneath that, sweet and warm.)

He can still feel her. (The salty-hot slide of her cheeks against his neck. The soft heat in the back of her knee.)

He stretches his hand, clenches his fist like the memory is nothing more than a muscle ache, caught in his palm. That reverberation of a gunshot, pulled trigger, kickback.

It’s not.

He stands at the foot of his bed and looks at the indent her body left behind. This little pocket of space in the width of his bed marked in wrinkles and bunched sheets. His pillow (her hand in his palm, her cheek soft on the pillow. Don’t go.) probably smells like her hair and not the traces of his own shampoo and conditioner that are still lingering in the bathroom because she was here, in his space, in his life for this moment, minute, maybe— where she isn’t the girl he’s been watching, chasing, fucking stalking for weeks, but his—

His stomach tenses, he fights the memory of her in Elysium that feels like it’s haunting him, or maybe haunting isn’t so much the right word as it’s a knife in his spine, reminding him that his first thoughts towards her were—

He strips the bed like he can strip his thoughts, dumping his sheets into the washer and then, as the machine whirrs to life behind him, texts Olivia for a list of accessories and products she uses on a day-to-day basis.

Next time he’ll be more prepared.

            N i c o

Ellie’s thumb slides over the name on her screen, the phone number beneath it. A message screen opens, her cursor blinks…

Her mother’s name pops up on her screen, good morning, peanut!

She rolls over, pushing her face into her pillow and breathing out as her stomach warms. Nico, she thinks. Nico.

Her phone buzzes as her alarm starts, she mutes it with her thumb before rolling over and off the bed, yawning as she heads into the bathroom.

Nico. Nico. Nico.

She cranks the shower on, letting the water warm up as she leans against the sink and opens the message screen again.

(Anytime you want another hot dog, he says, looking between her and her phone as he types in his number, his mouth tilted with a smile. Or, anything. I’m all yours.)

She thumbs her mother’s message open, typing out a good morning¸ before setting her phone on the sink before stripping her pyjamas and slipping into the shower.

“Nico,” she says into the steam of the shower, letting the nearly too-hot water pound against her back. She turns and tilts her face up into the water, drowning out the shape of dad that sits on her tongue.

            Ellie taps her sneaker against the dirty subway floor, something sticks a little beneath her shoe, but the train’s moving, the announcer a barely-there sound beneath the beat of her music in her ears.

The old guy across from her is staring pretty hard, she thinks, but she goes on tapping her foot and flicking through her phone, ignoring him as best she can. There’s only one more stop before Marcy Avenue Station, she can deal with the staring until then.

 You think old men practice the creep look in the mirror? Or is it like a natural, no thoughts head empty sort of thing?

natural, come on. Way too universal to be anything but completely natural.

Ellie huffs a laugh. She’s pretty sure the old guy hasn’t blinked in five minutes. She’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, there’s nothing even interesting to look at.

you think snapping my fingers in his face is rude? Like, just checking if you’re alive, bud? Dude hasn’t blinked

You should. That would be honestly hilarious. Do it.

The train slows, Marcy Avenue Station slides into view, Ellie picks up the tray of coffees on her knees and pushes up, tucking her phone into her hoodie pouch and moving towards the doors.

The man stays sitting but watching, and Ellie glares at him when she heads towards the doors. Screw you, I see you.

The doors open and she takes off, careful of the coffee tray in her hand as she heads out of the station and into Williamsburg.

It’s a short walk through the streets to Jilly’s apartment, and when she gets there, she knocks on Mrs Mendelson’s door first, letting the elderly woman pull her into a careful hug before she sets her tray on the hallway floor to pull out the extra muffins she made at work.

“They’re sort of apple-fritter-y, Marianne is trying something new,” she says, as she gets pulled into another, fuller hug. “I hope you like them.”

“You’re the sweetest little thing,” Mrs Mendelson coos lightly, patting her cheek. “How’s school? I know that stupid boy hasn’t been bothering you, has he?”

Ellie shrugs, picking up her tray and leaning against the doorway. “He’s there, but it’s fine. I’m still friends with Marcus, you know, so…he’s been running interference between us. Somehow, I think I got him in the divorce.”

It’s a joke, but Mrs Mendelson just frowns. “Well, I’d hope so,” she says with a tsk and a shake of her head. “Fool boy deserves to lose a few friends.”

She doesn’t bother clearing it up, Mrs Mendelson doesn’t really need to know the in and outs of high school drama and that bro-code, friend-code, and football team are all different things. She might have Marcus as a friend, but Ethan is still his teammate.

But Marcus punching Ethan that night is still the best thing like, ever.

“How are you, though? Jilly said you’ve been giving them pounds of kelewele.”

She laughs. “Oh, did she? Yes, I’ve been craving it something fierce. But even after fifty years, Mr Mendelson’s stomach isn’t up to the pepper of my favourite dishes so I give them to those who can appreciate it.”

“Tragic.” Ellie grins.

“It’s what I get for falling in love with the skinny Polish boy, hm?” Mrs Mendelson smiles, before squeezing Ellie’s arm and shuffling off to get her some kelewele because that school isn’t feeding you enough, I think.

Ellie says goodbye with a container full of peppery plantains in her tote and a promise to come to dinner with Jilly sometime soon. She’s still smiling as she slips into her aunt’s apartment with her spare key and kicking off her sneakers in the front hall.

David waves hello from the couch, a spoon in his mouth, eating cereal in his boxers. “Hey, El,” he says around the crunch of his cereal.

“Hey, brought some muffins,” she says, waving off David’s you’re the best, as he shuffles up to steal one right away. Peeling two out of the box and grabbing some paper towels, Ellie heads down the hall towards Jilly’s room.

Her aunt has her back to the door, sitting on the floor in front of a canvas set up in front of the small window in her room. Ellie smiles and nudges her shoulder with the cold edge of the iced vanilla coffee.

Jilly jumps, twisting back to look at Ellie, her surprise turning into a grin. “Hey, Ellie-bellie.”

“Jilly-bean,” Ellie says with a smile. “Got you a coffee.”

She groans, taking the drink. “You’re my favourite god-daughter.”

“I’m your only goddaughter,” she laughs as her aunt shrugs, waving her hand.

“You’d be my favourite if there were more, how’s that?”

“Such a relief,” Ellie says, settling down next to her on the floor and handing her a muffin. “It kept me up at night wondering.”

Jilly rolls her eyes. “Funny.”

“I try,” Ellie laughs, reaching for her own muffin and taking a bite. “What are you working on?”

Jilly fills her in on her paintings, the gallery, the conversation easy and light, distracting the tumble of Ellie’s thoughts, the itch in her throat that’s ready to just—

His name is Nico. I have his phone number in my phone. I think he wants to get to know me.

(I’m all yours.)

“Spill it,” Jilly says absently, painting a broad dry stroke of blue over a roughly-sketched woman’s face.

Ellie chews her cheek, fiddling with her straw. “Spill what?”

She looks back, levelling Ellie with a look. Ellie pulls a face, looking away. “You’re annoying. Can’t a girl work herself up to it?”

Jilly laughs. “No, spit it out, peanut.”

“Annoying,” she huffs, pulling in a breath and swirling her drink before just… letting it out. “You ever Google that name?”

“What name?”

Ellie bites her cheek. “The name. You know.”

Jilly’s brush stills on the canvas, the dry brush dragging a pale pink streak of colour over a girl’s face. She turns, looking back at Ellie where she sits, cross-legged and leaning against the bed.

Ellie shrugs nervously and looks away, curling her toes in her socks, afraid that Jilly might see something on her face. But she needs to talk about him, she thinks, she needs it to be real. Like it can somehow be more real if someone else says it.

Nico is your dad.

She isn’t sure why it’s so easy to know but so hard to…to…

She isn’t sure it feels real.

(The heat of his arm against her thigh, his palm in the back of her knee, his hands on her cheeks and—)

Jilly’s silent for a stretch too long and Ellie glances at her, only to find her setting her brush down and scooting back to sit next to Ellie against the bed. She sighs, holding out her hand. “Well? What’d you find?”

Ellie pulls her phone out of her pocket, opening her browser and the tabs she still has open, the same ones she’s had open for months, all the hours spent looking him up, reading about it, hoarding information like some sort of magpie.

Racoon, more like, she thinks, digging through everything and anything to get more of him.

She hesitates only for a second before handing it to her aunt without saying anything, watching quietly as Jilly scrolls through the pages, reaching for her drink and slurping at it as she clicks into a Forbes article.

“Well… I’d push a baby out for that guy, too,” she mutters when she scrolls over a picture of Nico at a desk looking like an ad for Burberry even though it’s about business.

Ellie elbows her, her stomach too tight. “Gross.”

When she hands the phone back, Jilly’s quiet before knocking her foot into Ellie’s. “Listen, I know you’re curious, peanut. But your mom… your mom made the choice to not tell him—”

Ellie’s heart stutters at that, because there, she thinks, there it is.

(I didn’t know. Baby, I didn’t know.)

“But that’s not fair—”

“Ellie,” Jilly pushes out a breath, turning to sit cross-legged, facing her, “Look at me. Your mom grew up in a rough neighbourhood, you know that. And just because he looks like someone you think you'd like to know now, doesn’t mean he was. Or is.”

Ellie frowns. “What’s that mean?”

Jilly sighs. “It means you should drop it. From the little bit your mom has told me, he’s just… I don’t know. She said he was involved in some shit. Got into a lot of fights. That his family was kind of… intense.”

Her stomach tenses. “Involved in— like, what? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know, El. I didn’t know your mom back then. I always just assumed he was some, you know, fuck-boy, gangster-wannabe who like, dealt drugs or something. I mean, you can stumble on fifty of those in like five minutes at any bar in certain parts of the city. They’re not exactly someone you want to raise a kid with, you know?”                      

Ellie huffs. “That’s just…”

“Your mom’s choice. Babe, I don’t know what he was like, I really don’t. I can honestly say, if you hadn’t found that picture, I don’t think I would have remembered his name. But what I do know, what I am sure of, is that your mom made that choice because she thought it was the best choice she could make for you.”

Ellie looks down at her drink, her stomach a knot. The weight of her phone in her hand is like lead. Like his number is the weight of his body, her betrayal—

It’s not a betrayal, she thinks, I’m allowed. I’m allowed to know him.

“Your mom wouldn’t have just decided something like that unless she had a really good reason for it. I told you, I was surprised she kept anything from back then. She never talks about him. Ask yourself why that is.”

“So, because she decided who he was at like, seventeen… I’m not allowed to be curious about him, like ever?”

“No, babe, of course you are,” her aunt pushes out, grabbing Ellie’s hand. “You’re allowed to be curious. That’s why I gave you his name, kiddo. But it doesn’t mean you get to ignore her choices. Or ignore why she made them… even if he doesn’t look like that kind of person now, you know?”

Ellie bites her tongue, guilt pools in her stomach, flickers through her limbs, battling with that undercurrent, that denial, that bit of her that says: he’s mine to know, why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I?

She swallows it. “I’m not ignoring them.”

“Did you reach out to him?”

Ellie shakes her head, swallowing a lie. Swallowing the memory of his voice, his arms, that dry press of his lips against her temple. Her tears, soaking into his shirt collar. His bed. His hand in hers. Him smiling at her across the bar. (That feeling, that simple fucking feeling of seeing him.)

“I’m just curious.”

“Well, that’s good,” Jilly says, turning to lean back against the bed again and stretching out. “He’s not what I expected, I gotta be honest. But… I mean, you gotta be kinda a dick to be that wealthy, don’t you?”

Ellie snorts, trying to pretend her stomach isn’t filled heavy with a lead-weight of guilt and anger and this bitter-tasting edge of unfairness. “I guess.”

Jilly slaps her hand down on Ellie’s thigh. “Hey, want to go thrifting? Do a little retail therapy? Forget about stupid boys and sperm donors?”

Ellie forces a smile, ignoring the looping run of her thoughts, the dizzy spin of questions and curiosities that are all wrapped up, somehow, in one man.

Nico.

           N i c o

Ellie’s finger slides over his name. The cursor blinks.

The subway rolls over the tracks and she clicks into her browser, flipping through all the articles, all those scavenged bits of information.

Mom was wrong, she thinks, there’s no way this guy was what or who she thought he was. And even if Nico wasn’t… even if he was some sort of fuck boy or asshole or wannabe-gangster at seventeen, it doesn’t mean that people can’t change or that Ellie doesn’t deserve to even know about him for her entire life.

Right?

She deserves to make the choice too, doesn’t she?

It doesn’t mean she’s betraying her mom. It doesn’t mean anything. Ellie’s allowed to know him. Her mom doesn’t even need to know.

Right?

Ellie pushes out a breath, looking up as the subway slows, pulling into the next station. She sends a text off to Mya, telling her she’s on her way back for the study group before locking her phone and pushing up to head towards the doors as they ding open.

Right.

            It still smells like him.

She hugs herself a little more, feeling the bulk of his hoodie, the softness of the fabric on the inside, draped over her thighs, bunched around her waist as she sits on the front steps of her dormitory. Study group ran late but her head is still running with thoughts of him instead of facts about the Industrial Revolution. It's stupid.

Her thumb hesitates over the contact on her screen. Four little letters.

N i c o

She doesn’t know what to do with it. There’s too much in her head. Too much guilt in her stomach, too much anger in her chest. Too much want in… in some part of her, she thinks. This impossible to locate, impossible to name feeling that’s been chasing her ever since she met him, maybe even before that. Ever since she got a name and a face and every bit of her was like—

Like something.

( Ellie grins, and from across the bar, he grins back at her. This wide, white smile as quick as anything. Like her smile sparked his. )

It’s getting late, getting dark, curfew starts in a few minutes, but Ellie lingers on the steps of her dormitory, see-sawing between choices. Between decisions.

I have every right to know him. He’s my father. It would kill mom if she found out. I deserve this, don’t I? Why do they get to decide? Mom’s done everything to make sure I had a good life, how can I just ignore that?

She doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

She drops her head to her knees, folding herself smaller. In the fabric, bunched around her middle, draped over her arms, Ellie smells him. Something warm and surrounding, spiced and heady. (The smell of his sheets, the curve, pulse-beat warmth of his neck. His shower.)

She slips his photo out of the back of her phone, unfolding it and smoothing it out.

(I didn’t know. Baby, I didn’t know.)

(She imagines, for a moment, all the things she’s never said out loud before, all the things she never had a face to put an idea to. Bike lessons, being carried on shoulders, pancake breakfasts—)

A big, warm hand around hers.

Would he have been that?

(His hand is big and warm, where her hand is curved around his palm. His fingers are rough and soft at the same time, a thumb stoke over skin.)

He would’ve, wouldn’t he?

Ellie pushes out a breath, hating the heat in her throat, that little wobble in her breath. She doesn’t think about it, she reaches for her phone, thumbing into her contacts and pressing down onto his name.

I deserve to know him. Why shouldn’t I? It doesn’t have to mean anything, I can just get to know him, that’s all. Maybe we won’t even get along. Maybe he’ll be an asshole, after all.

She doesn’t get to keep him from me just because she didn’t like him at seventeen. She didn’t even know him, did she?  

If mom made the choice at seventeen, then I get to make the choice at seventeen.

She slides her thumb over the keyboard on the screen.

Hi.

God, that’s lame, she thinks with a wince and a groan. Her heart pounds, she blows out a steadying breath, closing her eyes and leaning forward before pulling in a slow breath, breathing in the memories of—

She erases the message.

Hey

She erases that, too.

Staring at the blinking cursor, she wonders if it’s weird that she wants him to like her. To want to know her, too… but also like her while getting to know her? Worrying her lip, Ellie slides her thumb over the call button and doesn’t give herself a chance to think about it.

Now or never, she tells herself. Suck it up and do it.

The phone rings in her ear, her heart pounds, she swallows around the beat of it in her throat and blows out a steadying breath.

Fake it till you make it, she thinks, you can do this.

The ringing stops.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says low and warm in her ear.

“Hi,” she says ignoring the way his voice slides down her spine and settles inside of her like syrup. “I was wondering if you’d like to come kidnap me?”

There’s a beat of silence and then a laugh; her toes curl in her sneakers. She smiles, her body eases, it feels, strangely, like relief.

“Baby, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

She bites her lip, fighting the widening of her smile. Be cool, she thinks, be cool. “I promise I won’t hit you with any lamps this time.”

He laughs again, there’s a noise on the other side, like the jingle of keys, the shift of the phone against his ear. “Attempted assault is strangely not a deterrent, but thank you.”

Ellie loses her fight with her smile. “You’re weird.”

“Maybe,” he says, and there’s a door shutting with a thud. “I’ll be there in twenty, don’t wait outside, I’ll call you when I’m there.”

“Campus is pretty safe—”

“Inside, please. I’ll call you when I’m there.”

She huffs, pushing up from the steps. “Fine. Sort of like, against the rules of kidnapping, just saying.”

He snorts. “I’ll manage it. See you in twenty.”

See you, Ellie says before the line clicks and she’s turning to head inside and sign in for the night. It’s not until she’s slipping into her dorm that she wonders how he knew she was outside… and then thinks that he probably just meant for her to not go outside and wait for him at the curb.

That makes more sense.

           Ellie pushes into her room, locking the door behind her. Mya barely glances at her, shuffling through their study notes to add some of the edits they made in the study group.

“You should wear that dress you bought today, it’s cute,” she says, even though Ellie hasn’t said a word.

She opens her mouth and then shuts it. “You’re annoying. I don’t like you.”

Mya smiles, still not looking up. “With my chunky boots, he’s really tall, isn’t he?”

Her phone buzzes and Nico’s name lights up her screen; she hates how excited she is to see his name.

Dress warm.

“It’s not—”

“Like that, mhm,” Mya hums absently and then tilts her head to blink at Ellie. “And your jean jacket, maybe. Or my leather one?”

“It’s really not—” Ellie stops, chewing her cheek. “He told me to dress warm.”

Mya’s lips twitch. “Add tights, then.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, breathing through the warmth in her stomach at Mya’s insinuation, at the truth of— of what he is to her—

That she still can’t just say.

She wants to say it, it’s right there on her tongue: He’s my dad, so it’s really not like that.

He’s my dad, just so you know.

He’s my dad, there’s nothing going on.

She swallows, the words sour and stuck in her throat as she turns to their closet and pulls out Mya’s black boots and her own jean jacket. Her dress is still tossed over the end of her bed and she picks it up, shaking it out.

It’s a little summer-y, with tiny little white daisies all over it. It’s kind of short, but it was five dollars and it did, she thinks, look cute on her when she held it up to herself in the little thrift shop’s mirror.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Mya roll off to the side of her bed, sitting on the edge of it and watching Ellie pull off Nico’s hoodie.

The silence is stupid and loud.

Ellie glares. “It’s comfortable.”

Mya holds up her hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it. I see you.”

Mya only smiles, leaning back on her elbows. “You should switch your bra, too. That little black one—”

Ellie shakes her head, ignoring the uptick in her pulse, the flicker-flash of Nico’s hand on the back of her thigh. The tint of his skin against hers. “It’s not like that, I told you.”

Mya rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying. A cute dress deserves a cute bra. Sports bra doesn’t really feel right under that dress, you know?”

Ellie hesitates, looking down at her sports bra and the dress on the bed. The sleeves are capped but… he always looks so… so put together, doesn’t he?

She turns around and pulls off her bra, heading towards the set of drawers near her desk on her side of the room, ignoring Mya’s laugh.

She pulls on the matching underwear because it only seems right, doesn’t it? Why wear one without the other? And white cotton under black tights just seems childish, doesn’t it?

Yup. Exactly.

Ellie pulls on the rest of her clothes, adding a pair of thick-knit grey socks that she folds above the top of the boots. Pulling out her loose braid, she runs her hands through her hair, blowing out a little breath and looking at Mya. “Good?”

“Thought it didn’t matter?” Mya grins at her, bouncing her foot over the edge of the bed.

Ellie scowls and rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t. He’s just always really nicely dressed, so… I don’t want to look like a slob or something, you know? That’s all.”

Mmhm, Mya hums, still smiling. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, yeah?”

Ellie snorts. “Okay one, that’s like, literally nothing. And two, I’m not doing anything. He’s just…”

My dad, she thinks, someone I want to get to know. Someone I deserve to get to know.  Someone—

She isn’t sure why she hasn’t told Mya yet— why she hasn’t told anyone, yet. That same feeling burns inside of her stomach, the need to talk about it and make it real, warring with that unavoidable little bit of her that… doesn’t want to talk about it?

Which, she thinks, makes absolutely no sense, Ellie. Do you want it to be real or not?

It already is, isn’t it? So why not just say it?

“He’s just…”

“Stupid hot?”

Ellie pulls a face. “That’s not—”

Mya rolls her eyes. “Your denial game is like, top-notch. You can admit he’s hot without some underage police coming to arrest us for lusting after someone’s dad. Wait, is he someone’s dad? Oh shit, are they our age?”

He’s my dad, she thinks, hating that there’s a sour-edged flicker of something like jealousy inside of her, he’s my dad, no one else’s.

(I’m here for you.)

(Just you, he’d said. I want you. If that’s what you’re asking.)

“Ugh, shut up, he’s not anyone’s dad. I don’t… he doesn’t have kids.” A half-truth. Ellie isn’t technically a kid, is she?

“That’s good, that would, sorta, make it a bit weirder when you start banging him.”

Her stomach twists, sudden and sharp and Ellie throws her sports bra at Mya’s face. “There’s no banging! There will be no banging!”

Mya grins, flinging her sports bra back. “I bet he’s got a great dick. He’s too hot not to. I mean, I was drunk, but dude had some serious BDE. Like, the way he was lounging at the bar.” Mya spreads her thighs, pulling a serious face for a second before she grins again. “And ugh, he was so— like, when he told me it was time to go? It was like, Daddy Energy. My knees were weak.”

Ellie covers her face, absolutely not thinking about black boxes and gold lettering and the unavoidable fact that he actually— and he is actually her—

No. Nope. Not thinking it.

“Shut up, ohmygod,” she pushes out scrunching her face and dropping it into her hands. “He’s literally twice my age.”

“I know,” Mya groans, flopping back on the bed. “Can you imagine how good he’d be? I am. I’m so jealous and so proud.” She sniffs. “Bambi’s found her Daddy.”

“Oh my God!” Ellie pushes out, shaking her head and heading towards the window. “I’m out. I can’t deal with you when you’re like this. He’s like, a friend okay? A completely non-sexual friend. In fact, it’s so not like that, that it’s literally hilarious. I’m one-hundred percent going to laugh at you later.”

“Ah, when you’re done with your denial thing, sure.”

Ellie smacks at her as she passes, Mya kick her in the ass with the top of her foot as she walks by. “I hate you!”

“You love me!” Mya grins, pushing up from the bed and following Ellie to the window. “You’d be so bored without me.”

Ellie shakes her head, pushing up the window and straddling the ledge, careful of her tights as she hops out. “Peaceful I think you mean.”

“Rude,” Mya snorts, leaning out the window as Ellie takes a few, slow steps backwards, both of them smiling. “Make good choices.”

“Try not to harass anyone else while I’m gone.”

Mya laughs. “Say hi to Daddy for me.”

“You— ugh, you ruined our moment being gross!” she whines as she turns around, ignoring Mya’s laughter as she heads out into the dimly lit field that stretches towards the street, her face burning as the word echoes in her head and settles hotly into the beat of her pulse.

(Dad, she tells herself. Not daddy. Father. She’s not a kid. That’s not— that’s not the right word for him, that’s all.)

There’s a car pulling up as she walks over, the flash of headlights, the sound of a door opening and then— and then he’s there, rounding the front of his vehicle, lit up by the glow of the streetlights and Ellie’s not thinking about anything Mya’s said. She’s stuffing it all down because that— that’s her father. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. Or how he lounges against bars. Or how tall he is. Or that he’s got—

Her face burns, she thinks about puppies and kittens and—

Nico leans against the side of his vehicle, some sort of sportscar that shines a dark green in the streetlight. “Hey, pretty girl,” he says with a tilted, crooked smile as she walks closer to him. “Want to go for a ride?”

Ellie ignores the trip of her pulse, the pretty girl that rings in her ears and pushes out her bottom lip. “What, no candy? This is a weak kidnapping.”

His eyebrows tilt and then he laughs, deep and warm. “Couldn’t get my hands on a creepy white van, I’ll do better next time. Candy or chocolate?”

“Full-sized chocolate bars, that’s usually what gets me. And when they lean out the window, you know? More leering. Maybe some tinted windows and rust?”

Nico laughs and shakes his head, pushing off the car and stepping forward when Ellie’s nearly at the curb.  His hand touches her hip as he leans down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his voice low and warm against her skin. “I’m never going to let you walk anywhere alone ever again. I hope you know that.”

Ellie tenses, just a little, she can’t stop it, his hand is this… this hot thing on her hip, bleeding through her dress and her tights and she can feel his lips move as he says it, I hope you know that— can feel the minty warmth of his breath, the low roll of his voice, the soft scrape of his stubble— and it’s… it’s like nothing she’s ever felt before. It’s so…

So… sudden and slow, all at once, her body tensing as the feeling flows through her; quick like lightning and somehow, as slow as sticky-hot syrup.

She tries to relax, tells herself to relax— hoping that he doesn’t notice because it’s stupid and she hates it. He’s so easy with his touches and Ellie just… can’t relax.

But Nico pauses, just for a second, just long enough that Ellie knows he noticed. That he’s felt the tense of her body, the way she went still when he touched her.

She hates it. Why can’t she relax?

He steps back and Ellie knows he definitely noticed; his hand pulls away from her hip and she wants to say something, wants to apologise because it shouldn’t be a big deal, should it? Him touching her? It’s not like it’s… it’s not like it’s anything?

But she can’t. She worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth, searching for something to say, but Nico saves her from the silence, stepping back and tilting his head towards the car. “Should I put you in the trunk? Or is a front-seat kidnapping okay?”

Ellie laughs and Nico grins at her with a wink as he steps back and opens the passenger door. “Come on, I don’t think I should be keeping you out all night. It’s a school night, after all.”

“I’m seventeen,” she says around a breathless sort of smile as she sinks into the seat, turning her head to look at him. “That’s like, what we do?”

Nico tilts down, his arm resting above the car door to peer into the car to see her. “Maybe, but I’m supposed to be the responsible one, aren’t I?”

“Says who?”

“The fifty parenting books I’ve read in the last month.”

Ellie blinks at him, waiting for the joke… but he looks completely serious. “You—”

“Also said something about teething, but I’m thinking you’re a bit past that, aren’t you?”

“You… actually—” she starts, searching his face, but it’s half-shadowed, impossible to read and she...

His lips twitch.

Ellie huffs, reaching for the door to pull it closed, Nico pulls back, giving a rough roll of a laugh and grinning at her through the window when it slams shut. “You’re such an ass! You didn’t read shit!”

“Language,” he warns, but he’s still smiling and then his shoulders shift with another laugh as he turns to make his way to the driver’s side.

“They said something about manners, too,” he says, looking at her when he opens the door and sinks into the seat.

“Excuse you,” Ellie laughs, her eyebrows climbing her forehead. “My manners are fucking perfect. I’m a literal angel—”

He laughs, glancing at her as he starts the engine, the car purring to life between them. “Mouth like a sailor, but knows her pleases and thank yous.”

“I go to a private school, I even know all the proper forks. What do you have to say about that, huh? I bet you don’t know all the proper forks.”

Nico gives her a sharp, crooked grin as he pulls away from the curb, glancing at her as the street lights and the dash lights light him and his smile and his shiny-dark hair up in a late-night, dream-like glow. (Her pulse trips, Ellie blames it on the shifting of the car starting to move.)

“Oh, baby girl, I absolutely do. From an oyster fork all the way to a fucking butter knife. What’d you say? My manners are fucking perfect.”

She laughs, tilting her head against the seatback while she looks at him; imaging it, him at all the fancy sort of parties she’s been to in the last few years. Paul’s family— her sort-of-family— is the kind of wealthy that uses oyster forks and cloth napkins and white-gloved servers.

It’s a strange thought that gives her a strange little rush of warmth, the idea of him there, sitting with her or… not with her, just there, because even though he looks the part, with his suits and his cars and money, he doesn’t feel… he doesn’t fit there either, she thinks.

Nico glances between her and the road, his smile still a crooked thing on his face. At a stoplight, in the red glow, he looks at her for a stretch of a long moment where Ellie realises neither one of them has said anything for a few blocks.

His eyes flick over her.

“Thought I told you to dress warm, not cute,” he as he looks back to the road, the light changing from red to green. 

Ellie blinks at cute—and tears her eyes away, realising she was sort of just… staring. “I have tights on, and they’re like,” she plucks at the fabric of her tights. “Knit, you know, so…pretty warm. And I’ve got socks on.”

She moves to lift her leg but realises she probably shouldn’t put her leg up on the dash of such a nice car and just tilts her knees towards the door so he can see the bulk of her socks around her ankles. “See?”

He looks, his eyes sinking over her leg to her ankle before he looks away again; adjusting his grip on the wheel as he gives a low huff of a laugh. “Cute.”

Ellie bites her cheek. She thinks she might sort of like the cute thing. Which isn’t weird, right?

No, she tells herself, why would it be? He’s being nice. So it’s nice.

Right.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“Kidnappees don’t get to ask questions.”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t even get any chocolate. And there’s been no attempted assaults with any lamps, so I think I deserve to know.”

He huffs a laugh. “Is that what makes it official? Lamps and chocolate?”

“And creepy white vans, I told you.”

“You’re something else.”

Ellie grins, tilting her head to face him, the leather seat cool beneath her cheek, watching him drive. “A girl’s got to have standards, you know, otherwise she might get kidnapped by a try-hard in a fancy car and get cheated on chocolate.”

“A try—” he scoffs, glancing at her and then back at the road. “Christ, how are you making me feel guilty about a fake kidnapping?”

Ellie laughs and grins at him when he looks at her again. “Talent.”

            S T A T E N     I S L A N D    F E R R Y

The sign glows brightly even in the glow of New York at night around them as Nico drive past it and pulls into an underground lot.

“Wait, here? Is this the ferry?”

He nods, his eyes on the tilt of the road, the directions into a valet parking lot. “Ever been?”

“To Staten Island? No.”

“On the ferry?”

Ellie shakes her head, looking back because, really? That’s where we’re going? “What’s in Staten Island?”

“Lots of things,” he says with a crooked tilt to his mouth. Ellie rolls her eyes.

“Thanks,” she drawls, but Nico’s slowing down and pulling up beside a valet booth.

Ellie reaches for her belt, peering out the window, but Nico’s hand touches hers.

“Wait,” he says before he’s slipping out of the car.

He’s kinda bossy, she thinks, but stays, watching him talk to the attendant and pay, the car dinging lightly, the October night air pushing into the warm space; his voice low and… nice, she thinks, in this distant, warm sort of way.

There’s nothing wrong with thinking he has a nice voice, she tells herself, watching him as he rounds the car and reaches her door. No big deal.

“You know, I know how to open doors?” she says as he opens her door and puts a hand out to help her out, which she takes, because it’s rude not to, right? "All by my little ol' self."

“Parenting books said I should lead by example.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ellie laughs, fighting her smile as she climbs out.

He smiles, shutting the door behind her before walking towards the trunk. Ellie follows because she isn’t sure what else to do and the attendant is sort of just watching and waiting to take Nico’s stupid-nice car into some underground lot while he takes Ellie onto a ferry.

He pops the trunk, reaching inside and unzipping a duffel. Ellie eyes the bag and the first aid kit strapped against the trunk siding as Nico unfolds the top of the duffel and pulls out a neatly folded suit jacket. She catches a glimpse of a white shirt and what looks like pants beneath it.

“Are you like, accident-prone or something?”

“No, why?” he asks as he folds the jacket over his arm and rezips the duffel before straightening up and shutting the trunk.

”You have—" first aid kits under your sink, she wants to say, before catching herself, a black box and gold X’s sticking brightly in her mind. She flushes, pushing the thoughts away and ignoring that weird rush of heat through her body that’s all embarrassment at her snooping.

(And nothing else.)

(Fuck Mya for putting that in her head.)

“The uh, first aid kit and like, spare clothes?” she stumbles it out, turning to walk with him as he touches her back lightly, leading them out of the underground lot.

He shrugs. “I like to be prepared.”

“For what? A run-in with John Wick?”

He frowns, glancing down at her. “Who’s John Wick?”

Ellie blinks at him. “Seriously?”

He shakes his head. “Who is he? Like a fighter or something?”

“Uh,” Ellie starts, because how doesn’t he know who John Wick is? Everyone knows who John Wick is, don’t they? “It’s from a… really? You don’t…”

His lips twitch.

“You’re so— ugh!” Ellie flushes, shoving at him, but her hands collide with his waist and side and he’s like… ninety-nine percent rock and she stumbles to the side towards the street. Nico’s hand darts out to catch her as she stumbles back from the force of trying to shove him.

“Jesus, Ellie, what’d you think was going to happen there?” he curses, yanking her into his side, his hand hot and tight on her upper arm. Somewhere a car honks.

Her cheeks are on fire, she’s sure because she practically bounced off of him— but she’s laughing, tilting her head back and giving in to her embarrassment because he’s like, kind of an asshole, she thinks, but an asshole made up of bricks.

Nico huffs at her, and Ellie thinks she must have said it out loud, because he’s shaking his head and pulling her closer under his arm, curving it around her back as they continue on.

Her laughter slows to giggles, tucked against his side as they come up to the front entrance of the Staten Island Ferry station. Nico keeps glancing down at her and Ellie looks up at him with a breathless, flushed grin. “What?”

He shakes his head, looking away. “Nothing, baby.”

She feels overly aware of the night and the time and the cold October air when Nico’s body tilts away from hers as he steps forward to open one of the doors that lead into Staten Island station.

He holds it open for her, following behind her as she walks a few steps in; it’s not empty inside, but it’s not busy either. There are a few people sitting in the seats waiting for the ferry, a few shops still running, fluorescent lights and electronic ads glowing bright and colourful compared to the city-night sort of dark outside. Which isn’t really all that dark, she thinks, it’s just not quite as bright as the terminal, all lit up inside.

 It’s big and open and it smells a lot nicer than the subway, like food and coffee instead of sour sweat and hot, damp cement and metal. (And a fair bit of pee.) She’s a little surprised by it, it’s not like she didn’t know about the terminal, she just never gave it much thought.

Nico’s hand touches her back again, and Ellie lets him lead her to a little café to the left side of the terminal. She lingers beside him, feeling a little… she isn’t sure what the feeling is, it’s a strange sort of awareness of his size next to her, who he is to her, and feeling weirdly… comfortable and hyperaware all at the same time.

This strange sort of itch of feeling like a child next to him, but also— as he steps up to the counter and orders for both of them— like it’s almost like some sort of a date—

Her stomach tenses, a hot rush of nerves flickers through her and she bites her cheek to try to focus, to shove the thought away because—because it’s just because of Mya putting things into her head, that’s all. It’s just the teasing and the jokes. That’s all.

That’s it. (She’s absolutely going to kill Mya when she gets home.)

She swallows, pushing out a breath; Nico’s paying, and Ellie isn’t even sure what he ordered as the lady slides a paper bag across the counter and he picks it up, asking for a tray for their drinks.

“So, really though,” Ellie says, twisting her fingers into the hem of her dress while trying to simultaneously think of nothing and finding something to say, all at once. “What’s in Staten Island?”

Nico looks down at her, a tilt to his mouth. “A ride back to Manhattan.”

What, she thinks, frowning up at him. “I don’t… what?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You asked to be kidnapped. This is an hour on a boat where you can’t run away. You’re stuck with me, baby girl. All the way to Staten Island and back.”

Ellie sucks in a breath and then laughs, pulling away from him as her cheeks flush, a rush of… happiness and nerves and this bright little thrill that fills her with a need to move— only to feel his hand knotting into her jacket to tug her back to him.

“And you doubted my kidnapping abilities,” he tsks, his laugh warm and low above her. Ellie bumps into just a little, grinning up at him as he tugs her close, but the lady behind the counter is sliding the coffees across the counter and Nico’s turning his head to look at the time on one of the brightly lit screens on the station wall, 9:58 glowing bright.

Nico thanks the woman, dropping the paper bag on to the tray before picking it up in one hand and curving his arm back around Ellie’s back to lead her along the curve of the terminal towards a large square archway that takes them outside and onto the ramps that connect to the ferry.

It’s busier as they get closer, a few more people piling onto the ferry through the narrower space and Ellie presses a little closer to him to avoid bumping into anyone.

But through the doors, the ferry is a lot bigger than she thought it would be, a stretch of space filled with groups of bench-seats on each side and all the way down the middle.

“This is huge,” she says, as Nico leads them towards a set of stairs ahead.

The upper level is nearly the same, but off to the right, where he leads her with his hand on her arm, is a doorway that opens up into a stretch of deck space outside. And out it, the glowing, towering, star-like glitter of New York City glows behind them and over the docks to the right. The lights of the ferry stretch orange-yellow over the lapping water.

“Oh, wow,” Ellie exhales, stepping away from Nico and up to the cold, orange railing to look over it.

He steps up beside her, resting his forearms on the railing; she can feel him looking at her, but she’s too focused on the sights to worry about what he sees when he looks at her.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been.”

Ellie shakes her head, looking around, peering over the railing and then down the boat. There are only two other people outside, sitting further down the long stretch of bench seating set against brightly orange boat-siding.

 The ferry starts to move and Nico tugs her back. “Come on, sit. We can catch more of it on the way back, too.”

The seats are cold, Ellie tucks her hands under her thighs when she sits… and then her insides do this funny little trip when Nico sets the tray down on the seat beside him when he sits next to her and shakes out the suit jacket she forgot he was even carrying.

“Tights,” he says, with something a little teasing in the tone and the tilt of his mouth as he drapes it over her lap.  “Are not dress warm.”

She laughs, but it’s airy and too tight as she looks at him settling into his seat beside her as the jacket warms her legs, blocking some of the cold wind coming off the water. Her mind spins a bit, her chest… she doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s too tight, too small for the beat of her heart. She swallows and fights the sudden little ache in her throat because it’s stupid to get emotional over a jacket, isn’t it?

It’s so stupid.

She looks away, down at the black fabric over her legs, pulling her hands from beneath her thighs and curling them into the soft of a stupidly expensive suit jacket and pull it a bit higher on her lap, making sure it’s not touching the floor, anywhere.

Nico hands her one of the drinks, it steams lightly through the hole in the lid. She watches it for a second, steaming against the night sky when she lifts it up to her mouth to take a little testing sip.

It’s hot chocolate.

Ellie laughs, looking up and over at him, elbowing him when he winks at her and hands her the little paper bag.

“I’ll work on the white van for next time,” he teases as Ellie takes it, pink-cheeked and still smiling, it crinkles in her fingers, and inside are two cookies, one with chunks of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and the other filled with thick chunks of chocolate.

“You’re so—” she laughs, breathing through the trip of her pulse, shaking her head and turning a little to drop her forehead against the hard heat of his bicep next to her so she can close her eyes just for a second and try to get over that weird thing that’s in her chest. “Ugh.”

Her mother’s wrong, she thinks, Aunt Jilly’s wrong—

(I’m here for you.)

He’s so—

(I want you. If that’s what you’re asking.)

Ellie shakes her head again, biting her cheek. She wants to say something funny, to get away from the thoughts in her head, to say something about rust or curbside pickups or old men… but she can’t get any of that out of her mouth.

He’s not what her mother thinks. He’s not— whatever he was at seventeen—

Mom was wrong. Mom is wrong.

I deserve to know him. He’s my— It’s my choice.

Ellie straightens, shifting in her seat a bit, their thighs pressing together. And even through the three… alright, she thinks, maybe two and a half layers of fabric, he’s warm.

(In her head, for a second before she can push it away, she thinks about tucking herself closer, curving into his side until he curls an arm around her.)

But she doesn’t. Instead, she looks out over the glittering, towering lights that make up Manhattan in the distance, seeing more of it even as it shrinks as the ferry carries them off towards Staten Island. It’s beautiful. It’s… touristy and funny and she can’t believe he brought her here.

It’s quiet and late and he’s warm beside her, and it almost, almost doesn’t feel real.

“My mom doesn’t … she doesn’t know I’m here,” she says and then winces, biting her cheek as embarrassment floods her because why, Ellie, why would you blurt that— but she’s twisting her fingers into the fabric of his jacket on her lap and she can’t stop herself as the words slip out.

He’s quiet and warm against her side, the water rushes around them, the city glitters.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I know.”

Ellie blinks, turning her head to look at him with a frown. Nico looks down at her, their eyes meet, the quiet stretches… she looks away. She wants to ask more. She doesn’t want to ask more.

It’s quiet; he’s warm all along her side, the water rushes beneath them, the city glitters smaller and smaller.  

Nico must sense the little shift in her mood because he lets her go quiet as she reaches into the little bag to pull out the Reese’s cookie.

She knows he’s watching as she breaks off a piece to offer him, but he shakes his head, staying quiet as she takes a bite. It’s soft and sweet, the peanut butter piece thick on her tongue, but she wants to say something, wants to lighten the mood, to get out of her own head… but her mind feels like it’s a buoy on the water, swaying between thoughts, caught in the tide.

(Her mother, her father, Jilly… guilt and choices and this low sort of anger she’s trying hard to ignore because it’s too wrapped up in her heartbeat, the trip-beat of her pulse when he touches her, the way she tenses— it wasn’t, she thinks, supposed to be like this. She should have had bike rides, pancake breakfasts, Saturday morning cartoons.)

Ellie swallows it down with a mouthful of hot chocolate, watching the city shrink as the drink sinks into her stomach. Nico shifts beside her, easing into the stiff-backed bench seat, his thighs spreading a little more, pressing more into hers; he’s a hot, hard sear of heat all along her side and it’s…

It’s funny, she thinks, the size difference between them; how far his legs go compared to hers, how thick his thigh is. How her head could rest on his bicep and not his shoulder. The size of his hand, resting lax on his thigh.

(The warmth of it. On her cheeks, beneath her own hand, curved around the back of her thigh.)

She takes another bite, swallowing thickly, and tearing her eyes away. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable, she’s just aware of it as she finishes her cookie, folding up the bag putting it on the seat next to her, saving the other for later.

The wind picks up as they get further out, Ellie shivers and presses a little closer to him, unconsciously seeking the heat he gives off. Nico shifts beside her, his arm lifting up and over her shoulders slowly, almost like he’s giving her the opportunity to pull away.

She doesn’t. (Because he’s warm and she’s not and it’s no big deal, is it? It’s just his arm over her shoulders.)

It tilts her a little more into his side, he’s even warmer and it’s nice, and she only tenses up a little when his hand cups her outer thigh, his fingers curving around it to hold it, hold her against him.

It’s warmer than she remembers, even through his jacket. Bigger than the image in her head. (The blink-quick flicker of a memory, in the car, in his lap, the curve of his hand, hot in the soft back of her knee.)

She tears her eyes away from it, pushing out a little breath and ignoring the trip of her pulse, that too-quick, annoying, fucking stupid thump of her heart.

It doesn’t mean anything.

There’s the hum of a conversation further down the deck, someone leaning against the railing and talking on their phone. The water rushes beneath the boat in a calming white noise and it’s… it’s nice, she thinks, just sitting with him and watching the shrinking cityscape.

She looks at his hand again, curved on her thigh.

“Favourite colour,” Nico says, his voice rolling low and warm, her all along her side. It’s not even a question, really, just the start of a conversation, an open-ended statement for her to continue.

She eases a bit, her lips twitching. “Like, a really pale pink. You?”

“Black.”

Ellie snorts. “Predictable. Boring.”

He chuckles. “I know. Favourite food.”

Ellie tilts her head, resting it against the curve of his shoulder that’s nearly his chest, her eyes settling on his hand no matter how many times she pulls her gaze away from it. “Probably oatmeal. Like blueberry.”

Nico’s chest shifts with a low, rough laugh. “Oatmeal.”

She smiles, nodding. “My grandma used to make the best blueberry oatmeal.”

“This cheap Bolognese my father used to make when we were kids.”

The we sits weirdly in her stomach, the idea, reality, that Nico has a whole family, and… they’re Ellie’s family, too. She thinks about the boy in the photo, eating pasta and meat sauce with his family…

“Favourite place in the city,” he says, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Running the track at school like, really early in the morning.”

“You like to run?”

She nods. “You?”

“Here,” he says, motioning with his coffee cup towards the glittering New York skyline in the distance. “Or the balcony at my place.”

“Really?” she asks, tilting her head to look up at him. She isn’t sure why she’s surprised by his answer, only that she is.

Their eyes meet, Nico smiles a tilted, half-smile down at her. “Used to come here all the time when I was younger. It’s quiet at night, not a lot of the city is.”

His eyes flick over her face; Ellie’s stomach warms as she realises how close they are and she looks away, swallowing the feeling, only to find herself looking back at his hand on her thigh again.

She reaches for it, without really thinking about it, her fingers sliding over the back of his, her thumb sliding along the inside curve between his thumb and his palm, pulling it up and off her thigh.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ellie asks, turning his hand palm up; Nico holds his hand still resting it against the top of her thigh, letting Ellie press her palm against his, stretching her fingers out.

“Whatever you want,” he says in this low way that settles hotly in her stomach, the rough-edged roll of his voice from his chest, all along her side.

Her fingers barely line up to his, she wants to laugh at it, because it’s ridiculous, but she’s too caught by the sight of it, the differences between them. “It's pretty serious, though,” she says, as she spreads her fingers up over his until the tips touch and she can feel the slightly-rough pads of his fingers under her own.

“Anything, Ellie.”

She curves her hand around his index finger, looking at the way she can grip it and still see the top of his finger outside of her fist. She spreads her hand out again, lining their palms up. “You think there’s a chance I’ll hit a growth spurt still?”

Nico’s quiet for a beat and Ellie bites her cheek, waiting. And then he laughs, really laughs— and she tilts her head back, watching him.

“Fuckin’ really,” he pushes out, in between one rolling, deep laugh that rumbles against her side and the next.

Ellie grins, scraping her teeth over her lip, her stomach twisting, her pulse tripping, this unavoidable, beating-fact in her head that she made him laugh like that. That she’s the reason for the crinkle in the corner of his eye, the shine of his teeth…

That, in his cheek, there’s a dimple that’s almost exactly like hers.

“I mean, there’s a chance, right?” she says around the aching-stretch of her grin, her own dimple, deep and obvious and true.

She wonders if he’s noticed it, too.

She looks away when he looks down at her, embarrassed at being caught staring; she curves her fingers through his, stretching them out again, ignoring all the things inside of her that… aren’t anything at all.

Nico’s laughter slows, he tilts his head, his fingers lacing through hers as he tightens his arm, curving her closer just for a second, just long enough for him to press his mouth to the hair just above her temple, his voice low and warm when he mutters against her hair: where’d you come from, huh?

Ellie doesn’t think it’s really a question so she doesn’t answer, just tilts her head against his shoulder as he lets his hold relax and uncurls his fingers, letting her go back to what she was doing before, pressing her hand against his, palm to palm, thumb to thumb just to see the differences.

They both know where she came from.

Nico tilts his hand, spreading his fingers wider and she knows he’s looking at it, too.

“Morning person or night owl?” he asks, and Ellie smiles.

Chapter Text

six

                The wind pushes cold and sharp off the harbour but Ellie lifts her phone and takes a short video of the Manhattan skyline filled with the glowing lights of the buildings stuck star-like against the blackness around them.

She snaps a few photos, breathing in the cold air and listening to the water rush beneath them as the ferry cuts through the water, letting her thoughts fade away as she watches the city grow brighter and brighter.

When she turns to look back at Nico, he’s watching her in this quiet sort of way she doesn’t know what to do with. Not, she thinks, that she’s ever sure what to do with the way he looks at her.

He just— right from the start, she thinks, he looks at her in this… this way that’s more than just a look.

She doesn’t know how to explain it, it just is.

Her hair blows into her eyes, caught in the wind as she leans against the cold railing, blocking Nico from view for a few seconds before she sniffs and tucks the wavy strands behind her ear.

He’s got one leg stretched out, cutting a black line across the orange floor of the ferry. All of him is a dark line, she thinks, his shoulders broad and warm, thick in a way she still feels in the lingering memory of his arm behind her and his side pressed against his.

The wind whips, Ellie pulls in a breath and ignores the little flutter in her belly as Nico watches her, looks at her, his eyes moving in this slow way that feels almost like a touch; like Ellie’s a little bit of braille he’s learning the shape of. (His hand on the back of her thigh, her cheek, the warmth in the pad of his thumb, chasing tears from the corner of her eyes. His hand around, beneath, palm to palm against hers.)

He sets his coffee down on the empty seat next to him, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out his phone.  She watches his thumb move over the screen, his eyes flicking back up to hers again before he lifts it.

The wind blows behind her and she pulls her hair over her shoulder, meeting Nico’s eyes when he looks from the screen to her.

Her insides twist, her heart thumping against her ribs.

She hates it.

With her teeth in her cheek, Ellie scrunches her nose and shakes her head at him. Nico huffs a low laugh, his thumb moving to snap another photo. His eyes flick from her to the screen, a small smile on his mouth as she sticks out her tongue.

When he looks from the screen to her again, Ellie decides what she wants, even if her heart beats a little faster at the idea of it.

“I want one,” she says and lifts her hand, wiggling her fingers at him. His lips tilt more; he pushes up and up… making Ellie tilt her head a little to look at him because he’s too tall and it’s not really fair, she thinks, when she’s barely passing five-foot and he’s something more like gigantic.

It’s only a step for him to close the distance between them, to stand next to her at the railing, to set his forearm against it, his fingers lax as they graze her arm, his body pushing out this warmth that’s distracting in a way she also sort of, kind of, really hates.

Ellie looks up at him, he looks down at her— her heart stamping an unsteady rhythm against her chest that she still doesn’t know what to do with or how to make it stop, so she ignores it because faking it until you make it is a tried and true course of action, isn’t it?

Absolutely, she thinks.

She turns away from him, realising she’d just sort of been staring up at him, and steps back a little, until his body heat is right there against her back and she’s nearly touching but not quite because it just seems… it seems like a lot, she thinks, to get any closer.

Instead, Ellie lifts her phone to try to angle it right, to get them both in the sight of the camera— but her head barely skims his chest, and she can’t quite get her arm high enough to get them both in the shot.

 Behind her, Nico laughs, low and warm, and on her screen, in a blurry shift of black, she watches his arm curve around her waist, pulling her back and into him.

In reality, she feels it, his hand on her stomach, his palm hot through the thin of her dress, thumb to the bottom of her ribs, his pinky grazing the band of her tights beneath her dress.

Her heart skips.

“Here,” he says, in this low-rolling pitch that rumbles along her spine. “Let me, shrimp.”

Ellie laughs, but it’s tight, caught in her throat as his other hand slips her phone out of her weak-tipped fingers, all of her focus on his pinky, his palm, the spread of his hand and her back against his chest. He’s so… warm, she thinks, like stepping back against a sun-heated brick wall on a summer afternoon.

His arm stretches out in front of them while she tries to ignore the fluttering of her pulse, the hammer-heavy thump of her heartbeat— she hopes he can’t feel it, thumping away in her tense body.

She tilts her head and smiles as her screen lights up beath his thumb because it’s nothing, she’s fine, she’s fine—

On her phone screen, Nico looks down at her, his hand spreads a little wider, pulling her back a little more as he angles it, lines up the frame and snaps the first photo. His thumb slides over the button at the same time his fingers inch over her side, making her jolt and laugh, pressing back against him to get away from the path of his fingers.

He does it again, Ellie jerks and pushes against his hand, laughing as tightens his hold, the snap of her phone taking another photo, just there, beneath the peel of her laughter.

“Nico!” she shrieks and twists, feeling his laughter rolling against her spine. His fingers stop as she trips out a breathless laugh, catching the faint shutter-snap of another photo.

Ellie tilts her head back against his chest, breathing out a tripping, slowing laugh, her hands settling on his forearm, just above where his hand rests on her stomach. On her phone, she’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed; Nico’s eyes meet hers as her hair rubs lightly against his chest when she settles a bit more against him, her smile fading just a little as his thumb slides over the screen to take another picture.

Her heart thumps unsteadily, (but it’s the lingering feeling of being tickled, she tells herself) as her body warms slowly, surely, like the heat of his body is seeping right into her, from his hand on her stomach to his chest and ribs and waist pressed against her.

Ellie breathes out, ignoring the sudden awareness of his belt buckle pressed against her spine and if she turned around—

He takes another photo and she meets his smile with one of her own, their dimples matching, their eyes meeting on the phone screen, the exact same shade.

                Nico’s hand stays warm around hers all the way back to his car.

On the ride back to campus, in the low-blue glow of the dash, Ellie watches his hand on the wheel, the languid sort of way he drives, the same way it looks like he does everything: a lazy sort of confidence, this easy sort of self-assurance. She wonders if that’s part of why he’s so… catching, she thinks, what makes people look at him. Not just his height or his… appearance, but just the way he always seems so sure.

This bit of other in him. Something not quite like anyone else.

It’s there even now: in the way his smile stretches across his mouth in profile before he turns to look at her, the way his hand comes up to push through his hair, looser than she’s seen it before, caught like hers in the wind pitching off the harbour, cold and sharp. The way the street lights light him up every time they pass under one.

She thinks about the photos on her phone, the ones on his, too. Sent off after he took them and before he gave her her phone back. She only let herself look at them quickly, ignoring the itch to stare at them, the want to zoom in to see everything; chase the details just like she did on any pictures she found of him online. Her fingers on the screen, looking at his eyes, his jaw, the tilt of his mouth like he was an odd-sided puzzle piece she was trying to fit into the frame of her own body.

They don’t look alike, it’s hard not to see the differences in them. She itches to open her phone and look at them together, to map the differences and similarities, to see if her edges and his meet up any more than she thought they didn’t, wouldn’t, before… but she curls her fingers into her thighs beneath his jacket, feeling the heat of the seat-warmer, the warm air blowing from the vents because she’s going to melt him out of his own car and she must be part lizard, sweetheart, honestly—

Because he runs hot and she says yeah, guess that happens when you’re a mountain—

And gets to watch another smile stretch, spread across his face as he turns to look at her, his hair a dark-blue in the glow of the dash-light.

                Campus is quiet, lit by the glow of the students still awake in their dorm rooms and the street lights along the field.

Mya’s still awake, their dorm room lit up with the hazy yellow glow of a set of string lights they draped across one wall.

Nico pulls up to the curb, the engine humming until he turns it off with a quiet jingle of the keys in the ignition.

She doesn’t want to go, she realises. It’s a quiet little thought, a quiet little knowledge. That she’d like to stay here, right here even, with the seat warmer and the smiles that feel like they’re all for her.

But Nico’s opening his door and stepping out, and Ellie can’t find the words to ask him to keep driving or to… to steal her away again, so she stays quiet and swallows her disappointment that he didn’t ask for more. Even though that’s stupid. Why would he ask for more, she thinks, it’s late and a school night and he probably has to work early.

What would they even do, anyway?

Nothing, she thinks, stop being lame.

Through the windshield, Ellie watches Nico drag his hand through his hair, crossing in front of the car and coming to her door.

She looks away, folding up his jacket and setting it in the space between his seat and hers as he opens her door. The cold-tipped air rushes in and Ellie shivers as she slips out, ignoring the flicker of heat in her stomach at her hand sliding into his again, the way his fingers close around hers, helping her out of the car even though she’s more than capable of standing on her own.

She rolls her eyes at him, but his smile is crooked and lazy. “Get used to it.”

She laughs a little, feeling the heat of his body as she steps over the curb and onto the grass, brushing against him as he holds her hand. He’s always so warm, it’s hard not to notice the heat he gives off, even harder when she can feel it in her hand, in the memory of his arm around her, his chest and body and—

She wonders what a hug would be like. A real hug. (A hug, she thinks with a cringe, where she isn’t crying or drunk or throwing up.)

Nice?

Warm, she thinks, worrying her cheek and glancing at his chest as he lingers in front of her. Despite the October chill, a few of the buttons on his shirt are undone and she can see the skin beneath; her eyes slide up his neck… the beat of his pulse and the scratch of stubble against her cheek is like this lightening quick memory that shocks through her and then lingers like an itch. But warmer.

Or something.

Is it weird to want to hug him?

Like a thank you, or something. That’s… fine?

Nico’s hand comes up, the tip of his fingers brush over her cheekbone, along her temple, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her pulse trips, her body tenses and his hand pulls back, falling back to his side as he steps back, leaning against his stupid expensive car and tucking his hands into his pockets.

She hates it.

Ellie sinks her teeth into her cheek, trying to think of something to say, to brush off the awkward moment because she knows he notices it, the way she tenses. The way she can’t just...

She thinks about a hug again. (That would prove it, wouldn’t it? It’s not his touch, just that it’s unexpected. Someone she doesn’t know well, really. That’s all.)

She rolls her ankle a little, looking up at him. There’s nothing on his face, just the weight of his gaze, the reaching orange light from the streetlight a few feet away. It makes him look taller, broader; she isn’t sure why. This man in the half-dark, without a smile, he feels…

More like the man in the club, she thinks. That moment between knowing who he is and—

(And the tilt of his face, the shift of his throat, his hand on a glass.)

 “I’m going to take you out to dinner.”

Ellie blinks at him, pulled out of her thoughts. A car passes and breaks the quiet before it lulls again.

It isn’t even a question, she thinks, the way he says it. She rolls her ankle again, scrunching her nose and wishing her pulse would just… calm down a bit.

Like, Jesus, nothing’s happening, Ellie. Relax.

But she’s cool…she’s fine. Totally fine. She’s just… tired. Cold. Thinking about a stupid hug.

Ellie tilts her head, curling her fingers into her jacket at her elbow. “Was that supposed to be a question, or…?”

His lips quirk, he tilts his head up a little. “No.”

Her eyebrows tilt, she fights a smile. “No?”

He lifts his chin. “Figured we were still operating under kidnapping rules. Heads up is a courtesy.”

Ellie laughs, turning to the side with a little fizz of bubbles in her stomach that makes it hard to stay still, her fingers curling tighter in her jacket.

His smile is crooked and lazy, watching her. “You working tomorrow?”

She bites her lip, fighting her smile as she shakes her head. “Tuesday and Wednesday and the weekend.”

“Thursday, then.”

Ellie pulls in a breath, meeting his eyes in the reaching glow of the lights around them, and nods. “Do I get a time or is it part of the kidnapping thing?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Huffing a laugh, Ellie steps back, because it’s late and she really should go, shouldn’t she? Security does its rounds pretty infrequently but there’s no guessing when the next one will be.

And, she thinks with another glance at his chest, shoulders, the whole… leaning angle of him, she still wants a hug in a weirdly needy way and it’s tripping inside of her, so she backs up another step, like distance might calm that trip into something less weird.

 “Thanks for the kidnapping,” she says, forcing a smile and edging back slowly. Security really could circle at any time, she really shouldn’t hang around. “Solid seven out of ten.”

He grins. “Get inside, brat. Before I kidnap you for real.”

Fighting a laugh, Ellie scrunches her nose and shakes her head, stepping back again and stomping down on that urge to hug him goodbye. “Try-hard”

His smile is crooked, he looks away and shakes his head before looking back at her. “Sweetheart, you got no idea.”

Ellie hums a disbelieving sound, backing up and lifting her hand in a short wave. “I’ll see you?”

He tilts his head up, just a little, his hands still tucked into his pockets. “I’ll see you.”

Ellie turns and doesn’t look back until she’s at her window, the orange-y glow of the dorm rooms around them spilling out onto the lawn. He’s still there, a shadowy-tall shape in the shadows of the trees lining the field.

She smiles even though she doubts he can see it and imagines him smiling back.

In her dorm, Mya’s flipping through Instagram, already in bed. Ellie slips by her with a heyhey, dropping her phone on her bed before stripping out of her clothes and tossing them towards her hamper to deal with later. Pulling on her pyjama shorts and t-shirt, she slides into Mya’s bed when she flips up her covers without either of them saying anything.

Sinking into the twin bed, Ellie stretches out, her legs tangling with Mya’s as the other girl leans up on her elbow, peering and tugging at Ellie’s shirt collar, a frown twisting her mouth.

“God, I was really hoping.”

“Get off,” she laughs as Mya drops back down, their heads turning to face each other on the pillows.

“Well, how’d it go? What’d you do?”

 “It was…” she thinks about his body next to hers on the hard seats, his hand beneath hers, the whip of the wind, the rush of the water, his palm on her stomach, the heavy, solid weight of him behind her.

His laugh and smile, the blue glow of the dash lights making his eyes brighter, almost electric every time he looked at her.

She thinks about the pictures and rolls out of bed, crossing the room to grab her phone before dropping back down beside Mya and flicking into her gallery.

Jesus, Mya exhales, grabbing Ellie’s phone. “That’s just mean.”

Ellie laughs, watching Mya’s fingers on the screen, zooming into Nico’s face, the star-like glow of Manhattan behind him.

Her stomach trips at the next photo, it’s a little blurrier but he’s looking down at her while she laughs, (his fingers at her side, his palm this hot brand on her stomach, his arm tensing, thick and warm to hold her there while she jolts away to escape his fingers.)

“Where are you?”

“Staten Island Ferry,” Ellie says, swallowing around her pulse in her throat, the warmth in her body that she doesn’t— that—

“The ferry?”

Ellie nods. “Yeah. We… he— that’s why he said to dress warm. It was pretty cold, but he bought me hot chocolate and some cookies and we just… just rode the ferry. There and back.”

“That’s… wow,” she says, flicking to the next picture. “That’s so… like sweet? I don’t even know what I was expecting but, that’s like. Really cool?”

Yeah, Ellie thinks.

“You gonna admit he’s attractive now? Or is that like, still another date or two off?” Mya teases.

Her pulse trips. On her phone, Nico smiles down at her, his hand wide on her stomach. His pinky, ring finger, brushing against the band of her tights just above her hips. She wonders if he felt it beneath her dress and a flicker of heat and nerves spikes through her at the thought.

“It wasn’t— he’s— they aren’t dates. It’s not—”

“Like that, mhm,” Mya hums. “So, you’re telling me he didn’t ask you out again.”

Ellie shakes her head, reaching for her phone. “It’s not a date. It’s just…” dinner, she thinks. A meal together isn't anything, it's just...food.

It’s not a date— It’s not. No matter what Mya thinks. It’s just him being nice. Curiosity, just the same as hers.

Right?

It goes quiet, Mya huffs beside her, plucking the phone out of Ellie’s hands and looking at the photos again. “I’m just saying. He’s stupid-hot, if I had his attention the way you do, I wouldn’t waste it. This guy?” she says, glancing at Ellie and then back at Nico, backlit by Manhattan, his smile crooked, his dimple matching hers—

Her stomach lurches, (his hand pushes over her belly, flat and hot and wide. His voice rolling and warm. His body behind hers—)

Mya groans a little. “Can you please just admit he’s hot?”

Ellie huffs a laugh that’s half-forced, looking at Nico in the pictures, watching Mya’s fingers on her phone, spreading them apart to zoom in…

(His laugh and smile, the blue glow of the dash lights making his eyes even more blue every time he looked at her. Him, in the orange seat, his leg stretched out. His Adam’s apple shifting, when he lifted his coffee up to drink. Looking down at her as they stand next to each other at the railing, the slight shift of his hair in the wind, the tilt to his mouth, his eyes filled with…)

Need to get you a portable stool, he’d teased because the railing came up to Ellie’s chest, and she had to lift her arms to chest-height to lean them on the railing and he'd had to step back from the railing to lean down to do the same. It brought their heights closer, his face closer… and she’d watched that little loose strand of black hair, blown-loose, shift over his forehead in the breeze, and looked at the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the thick of his throat and the line of his nose and thought...

He’d felt so… felt so much like a man, that she didn’t know what to do with it. (Which is stupid she thinks because he is a man, it's a stupid thing to get hung-up on but... but he always looks so— so much like a man in his suits and stance and that other-ness.) But he’d been hunched a little, and his arm and shoulder were thick with muscle and he’d felt, somehow, even bigger than when he’d been behind her and she—

Ellie rolls onto her stomach and breathes into the pillow, trying to suffocate it all out.

“You’re ridiculous,” Mya sighs beside her. “I love you, but you’re ridiculous.”

I know, Ellie pushes out into the pillow with a little groan.

                (There’s a mouth on her cheek, stubble scraping her jaw, fingers curling through hers, a heavy-hot body and a hand, pushing over her stomach, her ribs, over the trembling peak—)

Ellie blinks awake, hot and tangled in her covers.

She blinks at the ceiling, a voice in her ear that echoes like her heartbeat; like the easing lull of lapping waves against a boat side…

She pushes up in a rushing stumble of weak legs, ignoring the heat in her stomach, the memory still clinging to her eyelids that’s made up of a hazy press of skin and hands and heat.

The sun crawls into the room, Ellie shivers at her bedside, curling her toes into the small rug in front of her bed, over-heated, breathing too hard, her thighs are—

The voice chases her into the shower, lingers like a hand on her stomach no matter how she scrubs the shower puff over her skin. No matter how hot she makes the water.

The rolling steam makes the voice thicker, heavier, a thump in her ears like an echo, words in her mouth like molasses, sweet and cloying and sticky.

She’s breathing too quick. Her heart thumps too hard.

She cranks the water to cold and clenches her eyes shut and thinks about anything, anything other than—

Baby. Baby. Baby.

She scrubs between her thighs and ignores the slippery feeling that she can't blame on soap or water as she starts to shiver and her teeth start to chatter.

                She runs. She showers again.

She doesn’t think.

(His voice follows her.)

                Monday slides by in a weird haze, the dream lingers no matter how much she tries to ignore it. By Wednesday, she's convinced herself it was nothing. Her mind was just... too full of too many things. Minds are weird like that.

It didn't mean anything.

 Hey, peanut, come home for dinner tonight please, it’s been too long.

 

Ellie sighs, dropping down into her seat in science class and shuffling over when Marcus slides in next to her a second later. She shoots off a text to Mya before pocketing her phone.

Dinner at home tonight, you in?

She turns to look at Mya who looks up from her phone and gives her a thumbs up and a stupid smile that makes her laugh.

“Bro,” she says to Marcus as she turns back around and flips open her notebook.

Marcus grunts, his gallon jug of water thudding down on the long table. He swallows and wipes his mouth, scrubbing a hand over his shaved head, his dark skin still a little shiny from a shower. “M’gonna kick his ass again. Just wait.”

“Bad practice?” Ellie asks fighting a smile.

“Fuckin’—” he pushes out a breath, rolling his head on his shoulder, his neck cracks, Ellie winces. “Your boy was late and we ran so many fuckin’ drills. I’m literally— like fuck him. Him and his fuckin’ fam—”

“Mister Dacres.” Professor Jackson’s voice calls over the class and both Ellie and Marcus sit a little straighter. “Practice is over, I suggest we leave the language on the field.”

“Sir,” Marcus drawls while Ellie fights a smile, looking away when Marcus glances at her and pulls a face.

In her notebook, as class starts, Ellie writes. Not my boy, btw. And draws a little frown-y face at the end of it before sliding it over to Marcus.

He glances down, looking over to the teacher before scrawling underneath it: yea sorry. I know. habit.

Her phone buzzes in her blazer, and she eyes the teacher before slipping it out of her pocket.

Steal you for lunch?

Ellie glances at the teacher before looking back down at her lap, ignoring the trip of her heartbeat at seeing N i c o on her phone screen. (Ignoring the memory of her thighs, a cold shower, a heat in her body no amount of running could chase away.)

Because it’s fine, she’s fine, she’s so much fine that it’s almost ridiculous.

Aren’t you working?

Yes.

??

Late afternoon meeting, got a few hours free. Thought I’d swing by if you’re up to it. Save you figuring out the fancy forks in that fancy private school cafeteria.

She bites back a smile.

You don’t have to. I told you, the forks are easy.

Also no oyster forks so :)

 

Funny girl. Is that a yes?

Yes, she thinks, chewing her cheek and pushing out a little breath because she’s fine and it’s fine and she types back an eye-roll emoji and adds:

 Fine, twist my arm.

Five-foot nothing, 90% sarcasm.

See you at noon.

 

Ellie hits the laughing emoji as the noon of his text clicks in. She frowns, how the heck did he know her lunch was at noon?

She’s about to text him back when Professor Jackson calls her name and Marcus snickers at her jolting straight in her seat as embarrassment crawls across her cheeks. She kicks his shin and smiles sweetly when he curses and levels her with an unimpressed look.

She glances at the clock, biting back a sigh at how far off noon is as science class rolls on.

                  Ellie smacks Mya’s hand away from her waist. “Stop,” she laughs. “Seriously—”

Mya rolls the hem of her skirt again, even as Ellie leans away from her, it drags her shirt out more, bulging out at the side and back. Ellie huffs, smacking her hands away and tucking it back into the rolled hem.

“Leave it,” Mya whines, flapping at Ellie’s hands as she tries to unroll the already rolled waist of her skirt. “Come on, for me?  Please? It looks so much better shorter. You said he always looks fancy, right? And literally, I mean, from the pics and my loving-snooping from across the field, he’s like meanly-hot… so you wanna go looking like you’re wearing a kilt or like, an actual skirt?”

“The Outlander look is super in right now,” Ellie huffs, tucking her fingers under the rolled hem just as the large, old-wood front doors of Trinity’s main building burst open behind where they’re standing on the front stoop of the building.

Of course, she thinks, as the football teams pushes out in a bustle of teenage-boy laughter and spilling, raucous heckling and shoving. They move like a pack, or like fish in a barrel, sliding over to the side of stairs opposite where Ellie and Mya are, some slumping against the railing, some boosting themselves up to sit on it.

In the jumble, Ellie’s eyes meet Ethan’s for a split second too long.

She looks away.

She untucks her fingers, ignoring the twist in her stomach as she thinks about Ethan watching her, about what he might be thinking as Ellie fixes her skirt like most of the girls do whenever they think they can get away with it.

Mya grins. “Ah, yes yes,” she sings lightly fixing the back of Ellie’s skirt before smoothing it down. “Perfect. Remember, if it’s another hot dog, eat it slowly.”

Ellie flushes, shoving Mya away even as she laughs. “Ugh! Stop! I’m not gonna pretend a hot dog is a dick.”

“I would,” Mya laughs and brings her fist to her mouth and sticks her tongue in her cheek.

They both laugh as Ellie grabs at Mya’s fist. “You absolutely would not! Literally no one would. That’s terrible. That’s bad porn-movie terrible.”

“Funny as fuck, though,” Mya says with a laugh before she’s shoving Ellie down the stairs. “Go. If you’re not back by the bell, I’ll tell them your daddy has you.”

Ellie’s stomach flips, nearly tripping on the first stair at Mya’s words, at the truth—

But Mya doesn’t know, she can’t know— it’s just---

A joke, she tells herself. A fucking joke, calm down.

She forces a smile, glancing at Ethan again and starts backing away, hiking her bag a little higher on her shoulder. “You’re the best BBF a girl could ask for.”

Mya sticks her tongue out. “I know you’re just saying that because fuck-face is watching, but you’ll thank me and my wisdom eventually.”

Ellie laughs and turns, heading down the stairs. “Hey, Marcus,” she says with a wave and a smile, determinedly ignoring Ethan beside him. Marcus tilts an eyebrow at her as she passes, curiosity plain in the tilt of his chin in greeting.

She catches the edges of a low, familiar voice: Man, what the fuck— just as she hits the bottom step. It’s Ethan, she sure of it, but she’s heading towards her dorm and the field and the man waiting— and doesn’t really care about the stupidity of high school boys, she realises.

(And it feels a little good, she thinks, to know he’s watching.)

She doesn’t think about her skirt until she sees him, the same place he always is; a sight that’s somehow becoming familiar to her— and she doesn’t know what to do with that fact, that little knowledge inside her that she knows he’ll be there. Any time he says he will be, he’s there.

And he is. There, that is. Leaning against a black SUV, his hands in his pockets, looking out over the field.

Ellie grins before she can stop herself, striding faster across the field, watching him straighten, watching him watch her—

Watching his head turn, his mouth stretch into a smile as he shakes his head, looking out over the field as he drags his hand through his hair.

“What?” she asks, still fighting her smile, caught between the happy, fizz-filled moment of seeing him and not being sure what to do with his reaction as she catches the edges of a low laugh from his chest just as she stops in front of him.

His eyes flick over her again and Ellie remember the length of her skirt, skimming mid-thigh, inches up from where it should be and fights the urge to tug it down, her insides sinking with the sudden idea that he might think that she’s rolling it for the boys in her classes and not—

Nothing, she thinks, she’s not trying to do anything. She’s going to tell Mya tonight after they get back to campus. She will. Then there won’t be any more— any more anything. No more joking about dates, no more twisted words or questions about what they’re doing.

Yes, Ellie thinks her mind tripping and warring between embarrassment at the idea of him thinking she’s looking for— for attention— and the easy, too easy happiness that comes at the sight of him— but Nico steps forward, his hand coming up to tug at her tie, pulling her towards him a little more, until she’s craning her neck up to look at him.

Mya knowing will fix everything. I’ll tell her tonight. Clear it all up. She’ll understand. It’ll be good to tell her. Get it all out and stop lying. Avoiding. Whatever.

His smile is slow and crooked. “Look at you, baby girl, all proper, huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, even as part of her eases at the sound of his voice, (and another part of her fills with the flicker-memory of that word in her head, that she isn’t thinking about) all low and warm and rumbly, and bats at his hand. “Okay mister lives-in-a-suit, you’re one to talk. I bet you sleep in a suit. Gotta show the bed who’s boss, huh?”

He grins, tugging her tie again. “That’s the by-product of working a job that doesn’t keep to regular office hours. Appearance is a uniform.”

Ellie snorts. “You’re like, big boss man, CEO. Shouldn’t you be like, working one hour a day and taking golf breaks in the afternoon? Or cigars and brandy in the drawing-room with all the other rich old men?”

He tilts an eyebrow “Cigars in the drawing-room.”

“Uh, yeah, what’s the point of making like, billions—” she stops, watching Nico’s smile getting toothy and almost cocky as he tilts his head and looks down at her. “What?”

“Looked me up, huh?”

Ellie flushes. “I absolutely did not,” she says and then scrunches her nose at his laugh. “I’m hungry. Where’s my lunch? I was promised food.”

He laughs tugging her tie again. “Oh, sweetheart, all that running away and you looked me up? Made a mistake,” he scoffs. “Little liar.”

Ellie flushes and flaps at his hand. “Shut up. At least I didn’t stalk you. I only showed up once! You like— literally couldn’t take a hint.”

He grins, catching her hand and pulling her closer. “Oh, I understood it. I just chose to ignore it.”

 Ellie sways forward as he pulls her hand towards him, fighting a smile as she pokes his chest. “Mister Stalker man who couldn’t take a hint and somehow knows what time my lunch is without me telling him.”

He laughs, low and warm, easing back against the car, Ellie steps closer, her shiny school shoes nudging between the sharp black leather of his. “That’s called being resourceful.”

“That’s creepy. You’re creepy.”

“I prefer to think of it as dedicated.”

She laughs, scrunching her nose, her face twisted in doubt. “That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”

“Committed.”

“Obsessed.”

“Confident.”

“Crazy.”

He grins, tugging on a piece of her hair. “So, no asking for a lock of hair, then? I was planning on it, but…”

Ellie laughs and shoves at his stomach; their shoes bump together, his cologne is there, warm beneath the grass-tinted smell of concrete and metal New York air around them as his hand curls on her elbow to steady her.

She isn’t sure when they got so close. She isn’t sure how it happened, one minute she was crossing the field and the next—

She thinks about a hug again.

He’s wearing a tie today but no jacket, a strip of navy cutting through his white button-up, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms despite the chill in the air today. Ellie looks at the bump of his Adam’s apple beneath the starting shadow of his stubble as her eyes follow his neck to his jaw, to the stubble there, perfectly groomed in a way she thinks is always there, isn’t it?

She thinks about his bathroom, the electric razor on the marble sink. (Him in the morning, the buzz of the razor, him in front of that big mirror, shirtless and damp—) Her eyes inch up, her cheeks feel weirdly warm as their eyes meet and his thumb drags along the inner curve of her bicep.

Ellie stutters back a step and swallows the erratic trip of her pulse, sinking her teeth into her cheek, a bright prick of pain to steady herself, to drag her back into reality.

“I-I only have forty-five minutes,” she says, forcing a smile before she pauses out her bottom lip. “And you promised to feed me.”

Nico pushes off the car, his smile easy as anything, like nothing happened—

Because it didn’t. Her head is just—

Nothing happened— she’s just— she wants to know him and she knows what his place looks like and it’s not weird to think about him doing normal things. It’s not.

I’ll tell Mya tonight, she thinks. No more crossed wires from all the things she isn’t saying.

Nico opens the passenger door and steps back. “I did promise that, didn’t I? In you get, short stuff.”

Ellie’s smile flickers on her mouth a bit truer than before, and she pulls in a breath and lets it out as she sinks into the seat, smoothing her hand along the back of her skirt. The door shuts, there’s a bag of food on the back seat and the smell makes her mouth water and her stomach rumble.

Nico opens the back door and grabs the bag before sliding into the driver’s seat.

Ellie shifts in her seat, smiling as she realises the seat warmer is already on; she curves one leg up beneath herself to sit on her folded leg to face him in the driver’s seat, watching as he pulls out two paper-wrapped sandwiches and hands her one.

“So, no allergies, slight dislike of fishy-tasting fish,” he says with a glance at her. “And a bit of a wimp with spice, right?”

Ellie nods, her mouth-watering at the warm-meat smell, unravelling the paper just enough she can use the wrap to protect any spillage onto her skirt and sink her teeth in.

He grins, lifting his own. “Didn’t even want to know what it was, huh?”

“Po’belly,” she says around her mouthful, her cheek full as the taste of roast chicken and veggies fills her mouth. “S’good.”

There are drinks in the cupholders between them, Ellie uncaps a water bottle and takes a sip, swallowing and licking her lips. “I love Pot Belly. We go there all the time. It’s cheap and quick and like, everything’s so good.”

He half-smiles, still chewing as Ellie takes another bite, shifting in her seat with a little wiggle as she chews and hums around the mouthful.

Their eyes meet again but it seems easier this time, with the food between them, the low hum of the radio and the rich warmth of the food in her mouth. It feels normal, it feels… okay?

Okay? She isn’t even sure what that means. She isn’t sure why she feels like she needs permission.

But it does feel okay-er. Like she can chew it up and swallow it down and not choke on… on anything else.

“What?” she says, her cheek full, covering her mouth with her hand, as he looks at her, his mouth in a crooked smile after he swallows.

“Nothing,” he says, but his smile twitches as his eyes flick over her right before he looks away and takes another bite. “Glad you like it.”

Ellie nods. “You go there a lot? Crazy to think we might have run into each other there, like before, you know? Who knows if we ever passed each other. Like anywhere, really. You’re like… I mean, crazy you’re only across the park, right?”

She’s pretty sure they didn’t. He’s… Ellie looks at the thick-dark of his hair, the stubble on the shift of his jaw, his eyes, the contrast of his white shirt, rolled over a forearm that’s got a twisting line of veins—  

That’s just mean, Mya says in her head,

He’s noticeable, Ellie thinks. Too tall. Too well-dressed. Too hard to miss.

Anyone would have noticed him.

He grunts, chewing and swallowing before shaking his head. “To be honest, I’m more of a Klatch fan.”

Ellie blinks at him and then laughs, covering her mouth and leaning back on the seat, her skirt inches up between her thighs, Nico’s eyes flick down and away, she rights herself, cursing Mya (and Ethan just because she can.)

“I knew it!” she says with another laugh fixing the way her skirt folds over her thigh with a little brush at the hem. “Bad with directions my ass!”

He grins at her, watching her as she sits straighter, pitching her voice lower. “Didn’t know coffee had a target group— I like the coffee here—so full of it, oh my god.”

He laughs, winking at her. “Stalker skills, baby girl.”

“You’re the worst.”

                “How are your classes?” Paul asks as he hits the unlock button on his key fob and his car beeps in the distance.

“Incredibly fulfilling,” Ellie drawls as they cross the parking lot after school. Flicking through her texts and ignoring the Hey, sitting in her inbox from an unknown number. She doesn’t have to guess who it is.

Ellie tilts her phone towards Mya, the other girl frowns and then rolls her eyes. “I feel enriched,” she says to Paul, adding on to Ellie’s sarcasm about another school day.

Paul shakes his head, huffing a laugh. “That sounds completely sincere, girls, thank you for the honesty.”

No problem, they grin as they reach the car and climb in.

Ellie fiddles with the radio as Paul pulls out of Trinity and heads towards their apartment in the city. It’s a short drive, but the traffic after four is always terrible and it takes them longer than it should. This, Ellie thinks, is why most people just take transit.

Eventually, they pull into the underground lot and head up in the elevator. Her phone vibrates and it’s Marcus in Snapchat, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling.

You got this boy fucked up. #mightpunchhimagain

The next picture is a tilted, slightly blurry picture of Ethan, a bottle in his hand as he takes a pull off a blunt.

He hasn’t shut up about it in hours

Why she rolling her skirt man. Where the fuck she going. Who the fuck she seeing. Have you heard anything.

Boy. Like. Shit. Take the L. move on.

 

Ellie snorts, typing back:

Record it if he starts crying?

She gets back a thumbs up.

Hope your new boy is worth my suffering

Elie shoots him back a thumbs up.

I appreciate you.

Damn right.

Mya laughs quietly over her shoulder, Paul glances up, but they’re saved from explaining as the elevator dings and they head off down the hall towards the apartment.

It’s unlocked and there’s music playing inside, her mother comes around the corner with a smile, reaching out for Ellie before she even gets her sneakers toed off.

“Hey, peanut,” she says with a smile, pushing a kiss onto her cheek and dragging her into a hug. “Oh, it’s been too long. No more skipping dinners. Once a week, okay?”

“Okay,” Ellie says, hugging her back and trying to not think about Nico. To ignore the sudden, clawing guilt that rolls inside of her; the missed phone calls and texts, the I’m fine, no, school’s boring. Nothing’s new, what about you?

Love you, too. Just a lot of homework. Study groups. Sorry! x

All her little lies piling up. A stark black like his hoodie draped over the end of her bed. Full of meaning that’s too hard to say out loud.

Her mother’s grip eases, and she tilts Ellie back, holding her at arm’s length, brushing a hand over the side of her head. Ellie struggles to meet her eyes.

“I saw those pictures you took with Jilly the other day. Very jealous I wasn’t in the city and I missed hanging out with you two. It feels like it’s been months since the summer.”

Ellie smiles and nods, because it somehow does feel like months since the start of the school year, and also, somehow, like it’s been a blur of days filled with—

Well.

Someone she isn’t thinking about right now because he’s… too full of meaning that’s too hard to say out loud.

Because it’s weird to think about him when her mother is right in front of her. When she’s in her mother’s space. When he’s—

The thought of him drags up the knowledge that her mother— that they— that she does have two parents, that they know each other, that they existed at one point, in each other’s lives.

(That in some fucked up other reality, maybe he’d be here, in the kitchen with her mother and they’d have dinner and it’d be…)

Her mother steps back and Ellie toes off her sneakers, her stomach in a knot as Mya gets dragged into a hug next. “I swear, it feels like you two are getting older every time I turn around.”

“It’s English class,” Ellie teases through the lump in her throat made of all the things she isn’t saying. “The professor is such a hard ass. It ages us like ten years in a day.”

Paul levels her with a look but laughs when  Mya and Loren do. “Get out of here, you little goblin,” he says with a little nudge to Ellie’s arm. “This hard ass is going to make out with your mother.”

Ellie pulls a face and turns away as Paul drags Loren towards him. “Gross,” she and Mya echo at the same time.

Lore, Ellie hears behind her and she can’t stop herself from glancing back just before they turn the corner in the front hallway; Paul’s smile is warm and soft and full of love as he tilts his head down and Loren tilts up to meet his lips.

Her guilt gnaws.

In her room, Ellie clicks the door shut as Mya flops down on Ellie’s bed, her phone in her hand, texting.

Ellie drops down in her desk chair, dropping her bag at her feet and pulling out her laptop. She plugs it in and boots it up, clicking into Spotify to fill the quiet.

“Going out with Chris when we get back tonight,” Mya says, rolling onto her back as Ellie reaches for the knitted socks below her desk, pulling them on and then spinning slowly to face Mya, dragging one knee up to drop her chin against it.

“Really? I thought you said you didn’t like-like him.”

Mya shrugs against the bed. “I don’t really. He’s funny though. We’re just going to have fun, I think. I don’t want t date him or anything.”

Ellie nods, spinning lightly on her chair with the tips of her toes as Robyn sings out through the laptop speakers. She tilts her head back, blinking up at the ceiling and thinking about Nico.

She doesn’t want to think about Nico but he’s there in every blink. His smile and his eyes and the tilt of his body stepping back from hers, his hands tucked into his pockets.

She thinks about her mother’s hug and wonders how different they would be.

She fits into her mother’s neck but Nico is… she thinks about her shoe bumping his, the way his chest and stomach and… and just him felt behind her, standing against the railing on the ferry.

Her hair on the back of her head rubbing against him. His chest, she thinks, but barely. She bets if she’d turned then, he would have hugged her. She bets her face would be… his belt had pressed against—

She closes her eyes, spinning again, focusing on Robyn singing.

I’m all messed up, I’m so outta line—

Oh, fuck you, Ellie thinks. Stupid song.

(His smile, the sharp-shine of his grin, the dimple in his cheek and the roll of his laughter, into her, around her, filling up that little quiet bit of world that exists in his car.)

She wants to be back there, she thinks. In his car. With him.

She blinks at the ceiling, pushing out a breath and spinning around again until she slows and ends up facing her desk. There’s a Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup on it, and she tears into it, using her foot to pull herself toward the bed and offer the other cup to Mya.

When she bites into it and gets a sticky mouthful of peanut butter and chocolate, she thinks about Nico and that cookie, him looking down at her in the fluorescent lights of the ferry terminal; she picks her phone out of her jean jacket pocket and thumbs at the home button.

Swiping into her messages, Ellie ignores the new message from Marcus and the ones from Sara and Katie that she’s sure is just about the movie night in the common area Thursday night, she taps into Nico’s messages, rolling back over the short conversation from earlier today, sliding her thumb over the message box…

She takes another bite of her peanut butter cup and types out:

Thanks for lunch, it was really good.

She adds a smiley face and hesitates, swallowing the sticky peanut butter in her mouth and looking up at the ceiling again, turning in her chair and thinking about him, wherever he is.

At work? At home?

She thinks about her mother and Paul in the hall. About that fucked-up other reality where it’s Nico bringing her home and kissing—

Her stomach lurches.

Ellie pushes her socked-toes against the floor and spins until the lurch of her stomach is just vertigo and not—

Whatever the feeling in her is.

                “Nico’s my dad.”

Ellie flops down on her back on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the words spill out of her. “Like my real-deal dad. So, if you could stop joking about the dating and hook-ups and the hickey-checks and his—”

She cuts off, groaning and covering her eyes with her hands fighting the image of a black box beneath a sink. “This is stupid.”

There’s no answer but her empty dorm room and the warm glow of her lamp on her side table. The cool breeze blows in from the still-open window that Mya just slipped out of. Ellie flops her arm over her head and reaches for her old stuffed bunny on her pillows and holds him up in front of her face. “Bunny, we are really dumb, huh?”

She flops its ears before sighing and rolling onto her side, curling up and hugging it to her chest. Her phone is dark-screened next to her on the duvet. The unsent message to Nico still waiting, she itches to send it. Itches to… it’s crazy, she thinks, you just saw him. What’s wrong with you?

She reaches for her phone, tapping into her gallery, opening the pictures from Sunday night. She traces the angles of his face with her eyes, curled up on her side, the phone glowing in the low-light of her dorm room.

Maybe Mya has the right idea. Go out and have fun. Find someone fun and just… have fun. Forget about everything else. She hasn’t done anything with anyone in months. Maybe that’s why…

She eyes her side table, the second drawer where her bullet is. She presses her thighs together, thinking about it. Maybe she just needs to— it would be the perfect time to—

She sits up and reaches for her drawer, eyeing the little pouch she keeps it in and tilting over to pull it out. With her teeth in her cheek, she scoots back on the bed, her stomach warming, her insides tightening as she presses her thighs together at the little ache starting in her cunt.

Ellie slips her fingers under her sleep shorts, easing back against her pillows…

The dream slinks in like the cool breeze on her skin; like steam in the shower. She spreads her hand on her stomach but his was so much big—

Ellie jolts, twisting up to drop her bullet back in the bottom drawer and slamming it shut.  She slides back onto her bed, grabbing Peter and pushing her face into her bunny’s ears, curling up into a ball like if she can get small enough, she can squeeze her thoughts out.

Her stomach twists tighter and tighter at the slick little feeling in her sleeps shorts as her head beats a word against the inside of her skull that thumps in time with her pulse.

(babybabybaby)

                He pulls the black gloves on before he slips the key into the lock, pushing into the apartment as the door clicks open.

It’s quiet inside, filled with nothing more than early-morning sunlight and the faint smell of something flowery as he steps in and shuts the door behind him.

There’s a short hallway, a closet on one side and a bathroom on the other; he flicks the lights on in both, looking over them before shutting the light off and moving on.

The apartment opens into the kitchen and living area, a hallway to the left. There’s a mug on the kitchen counter and it’s still warm when he touches it, a bit of milk or cream, a spoon sitting in the sink.

The fridge is full, fresh produce, a few labelled containers with the days of the week in sharpie scrawled on a label, a few cans of alcohol and beer. He looks through the cupboards, eyes the datebook on the counter, the looping scrawl of a woman’s writing. Appointments, a movie date, reservations at a restaurant.

He flips a few pages back, looking at the looping letters curling into EL- first day back to school.

He heads down the hallway, pausing as he passes a side table in the living room, a picture frame catching his eye.

He picks it up, looking at three people grinning at the camera. A vacation, it looks like, suntans, matching summer dresses for a mother and daughter, a flower-print shirt on a father who has his hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

But it’s not his daughter, is it?

His jaw tightens, a tick of irritation he pushes down. The girl— she looks like her mother, blonde and bright-eyed. But she’s got a curve to her cheek, an indent in the corner of her smile that’s all his.

He lifts his phone and snaps a picture, looking at it on his phone before setting the frame down and moving on.

There’s more in the hallway, black-framed pictures: a girl of varying ages, softer-cheeked, gap-toothed. A tiny little thing standing on the front steps of a narrow suburban house, wearing shiny leather shoes and a cute little blue dress, a backpack that’s nearly too big for her dwarfing her back.

He takes a picture of it before looking at the next. Another, newer, a family dinner at a tablecloth-covered table; a line-up of three: father, mother, daughter.

Another vacation, the girl can’t be more than twelve, she’s skinny and bright-eyed, sitting on a damp dock next to her mother.

But the next one—

There’s a baby in the next one, and he stares at it, something scraping at his chest, she’s tucked in the arms of a girl he knew seventeen years ago. She’s young, so young, he thinks, looks almost exactly like he remembers her, like all the years since then never happened and he’s seventeen, too.

The girl in the photo is exhausted, her face blotchy from crying despite the way she smiles with wet eyes as the baby girl in her arms grips her finger.

He pulls in a breath, anger eating away at his ribs like sharp little teeth. He lifts his phone and clicks the photo silently.

He looks at the baby, the tiny little fucking fingers—

His teeth grind. “Fuck you, Lo.”

He moves on, there’s a bathroom to his right, an office on his left, but the next room— the next room is obviously a teenage girl’s room despite the plain white walls. There’s a gold sun hanging behind the bed, a navy duvet patterned with bright-coloured flowers over a bed that takes up most of the room. A wall of photos that draws his eye. They aren’t framed, polaroid snapshots, blurrier than the ones in the hall, all fun and no skill, clipped to string light strands that hang like a curtain against the wall.

And the girl in them—

She smiles, pulls faces, wraps her arms around another girl with dark hair and dark eyes. Her dormmate, Mya Kamel, he thinks, seventeen just like she is.

In others, there are a few girls he doesn’t recognize, a few boys, too. The pictures are older, a year at least. One of the boys he’s seen with her, talking on the front steps after classes; Marcus Dacres. Eighteen as of September. Quarterback.

He scans the pictures for another boy, he knows she has to know him. That he walks the same halls and crosses the same fields, that he’s friends, to some degree, with the quarterback. That he hits the field just as the girl is leaving most mornings, that sometimes… sometimes he watches her.

The fucking chance, he thinks, of all the schools in the city, Moreno’s nephew had to be at hers.

But there’s nothing.  He checked her Instagram, too. Scrolled through pictures, friends, posts and tags. Shifted through her life one image at a time. There isn’t much before she’s thirteen; but there’s an apartment purchase, a funeral, a new life… all detailed on her mother’s social media.

He wonders if people realise how easy they make it for people like him.

He eyes the books on the desk against the wall, school texts and novels. A place for a laptop, a spare charger, some cords, a pair of headphones… movie tickets. Birthday cards. An unopened Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup next to a pack of highlighters.

There’s a pair of chunky-knit white socks on the floor, the only thing out of place, tucked just beneath the desk. For a second, it feels like the girl just left.

Like if he waits, she’ll come right back. (A girl painted in shifting colours, soft-cheeked and out of place.) But here, he thinks, she’d be in a t-shirt, pyjamas, chunky socks. A knee under her chin, working on homework. Flopping belly-down on her bed, scrolling through her phone.

Fucking seventeen, he thinks.

He scoffs at himself. On her side-table, there’s a photo of her and an older woman. Her grandmother, he thinks. It’s older, the girl can’t be more than ten.

There’s one old-looking ring sitting on a dull necklace coiled on the dresser, he picks it up and then looks at the photo again. The ring glints on the old woman’s finger.

He wonders why the girl doesn’t wear it.

Though he hasn’t seen her with any jewellery, he realises. Sneakers, jeans, a Roastery apron knotted around her hips. Shorts, runners, a swinging ponytail. (Leggings, sweatshirt, jean jacket, shifting lights and the thump of music. A wide-eyed little—)

He checks the side table drawers, rifling through them slowly. But there’s nothing in them, old papers, old school work, more books. He isn’t sure what he was hoping for, a little girl’s diary?

Proof, he thinks. (Dear Diary, today I found my father.) To see it written, blue pen in a teenager’s looping scrawl. (I slipped into his club like a little thief and ever since then...)

He snorts and flips through a few pages of her school work, old essays, the tilting loop of her writing, a page of doodled-on notes with another person’s handwriting.

This is so boring. My brain is melting. I want pizza. Tonys?

The room smells faintly like cinnamon and something sweeter, warmer beneath it, a glass perfume bottle with a pink label on a tall dresser against the other wall, nearly empty. A hairbrush, hair ties, hand cream.

He looks at all of it.

He opens each drawer but they’re mostly empty. A few things in each, enough for a few days. There’s a pair of sneakers and a yoga mat tucked just behind the door. The building has a gym, he’s seen the girl run the track at her school, her ponytail swinging, lap after lap until she stops, just as the football team hits the field each morning.

She’s got a routine. It makes things easier.

He wonders if there are security cameras in the gym. He pulls out his phone and slides his thumb over Sergei’s name but he stops before he types the message, even if there are, what would he see? A seventeen-year-old in an apartment complex’s gym?

He’s a little irritated by how much he wants to, anyway. 

He pockets his phone.

In the closet, there’s a familiar school blazer, a pair of winter boots, some sandals. He flips through the jackets and sweaters, summer dresses she left behind. There’s an old purse, a few tote bags. He crouches down and opens the few boxes on her floor, old photos, another school, a different group of friends. The next box is some more of her grandmother’s things, he rifles through it, careful not to disturb the order. A few knick-knacks, a few handwritten notes.

(…and ever since then, I’ve stolen all his thoughts. Every single one.)

He tucks the box back into the closet and straightens up.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, it is unavoidably a teenage girl’s room, but he looks it over again and imagines her there, sitting at the desk in those chunky-knit white socks, doing homework with her headphones on. Her in the bed, buried beneath the thick duvet. Her, in the long mirror tilted against the wall beside the dresser, straightening the hem of a summer dress, looking at herself with his eyes.

It’s just him in it now. And he imagines, for a second, standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder, pinked-up skin just like in that photo of her in the living room, (his thumb along her collar bone, her lips part—)

He looks away and heads out into the hall.

He heads back to the office, to the computer sitting on the desk and powers it up, slipping a jump-drive into the USB slot.

He sinks into the chair behind the desk, looking over the pictures. Loren and Hethridge, his lips on her cheek, his hand around hers, the glint of a ring. A proposal, he thinks.

The girl in the next one, standing next to Hethridge outside of Trinity. She’s in the navy-blue tartan of her uniform, his arm is around her shoulders as they both smile at the camera.

He eases back in the chair, staring at it; she can’t be more than thirteen. Her cheeks rounder, softer with the clinging edges of her childhood.

He thinks about the girl in Elysium. She’s still a child, he thinks.

(It was so easy to do. I stole his eyes and his smile, too.)

He thinks about her dorm room, the pictures he’s seen; the stuffed old bunny on her bed, an over-filled hamper, a pair of socks next to her bed. A desk, a laptop, more books and pictures and string lights.

She is, unavoidably, a fucking teenage girl. 

The girl behind the counter, moving under the low-hung lights in that coffee shop. The shape of her smile. Wave of her hand. The way she laughs with her co-workers, the polite edge of a smile to customers.

The slight skip in her step sometimes, a shuffling beat in time with her lips moving, sliding along the sidewalk of her campus with music in her ears.

The girl in Elysium, standing under the shifting lights of an expensive, high-end club in a fucking jean jacket and leggings. Too out of place. Too young. Too fucking pr—

He pushes out a breath, rubbing his hand over his mouth and jaw, his frustration, irritation, anger fucking hot in his gut, watching as the jump drive program kicks in, copying the information on the laptop over.  Clicking into the documents on the desktop, he scans the folders of photos and videos while he waits.

He looks at the photo on the desk again, Hethridge’s arm over the girl’s shoulders. The shape of her smile.

(Her hair shines under the coloured lights, tinted an almost-pink that shifts into gold, her mouth soft and eyes wide as she looks at him. A burn of liquor in his throat. Boss, girl says she’s your kid.)

He clicks into the newest folder, Lloyd Harbor, Summer 2021.

A video starts, it’s a blur at first, a sunshine-summer day, spraying water and the whip of the wind on a boat cutting through the water. Hethridge stands behind the girl, shouting instructions barely audible over the wind on the mic. She’s laughing, her hair a half-dry, dark-gold mess of curls and waves, an over-large t-shirt, damp sagging over one shoulder, the strip of a yellow bikini. Hethridge moves her hands on the wheel, steering the boat in the water.

The camera closes in, a woman’s voice: You’re doing great, peanut! The girl looks over and grins, lifting her hand to wave. The boat jerks, there’s a shriek of laughter from behind the camera, Hethridge laughs, taking over until Ellie grips back on, his hand on her arm, directing the steering.

“Sorry, sorry!” she shouts with a breathless laugh, but Hethridge only shakes his head, still smiling, his hand tightening on her skinny little bicep in reassurance.

“You’re fine! Don’t worry!”

He grits his teeth, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Pushing out a hot breath, his chest tight with anger. His heart beating too hard, too quick in his ears.

He clicks back on the video, the wind roars, the girl looks over as Loren zooms in towards her face and she grins.

He hits pause. Clicks back.

The camera pans in, (pink cheeks, blue-grey eyes, pink lips that spread into a dimple-edged smile.)

He hits pause. Clicks back.

That’s his smile.

His eyes.

His fucking girl.

Chapter Text

seven

                Ellie blinks at the screen, worrying her cheek as she scrolls down the page and looking at the results, her phone shining bright in the dark of her room.

 In some cases, intrusive thoughts are the result of an underlying mental health condition, like OCD or PTSD. These thoughts could also be a symptom of another health issue, such as: a brain injury

Dropping her phone on her chest, she groans, lifting her hands to rub at her eyes.

That’s it, she thinks, I have brain damage. That’s the only answer. Something must have happened when I got drunk, maybe I hit my head, maybe I fell—

She grabs her phone off her chest before rolling over onto her stomach and burying her face into her pillow, tucking her hand and her phone underneath it as she tries to suffocate her thoughts out of her head and convince herself that what she read is true.

It has to be true.

It’s late, the moonlight creaks in like the cold slip of October night air through the cracked-open window.

She can’t sleep.

She turns her head, pulling in a breath as she blinks into the moonlight and the dark empty sky above Trinity she can see with her head cushioned on her pillow.

She’s still... wound-up, she thinks, too full of thoughts and feelings and worries and this… low-humming weight of arousal that won’t go away. (Because every other blink is his hand on her stomach—)

She squeezes her eyes shut. Not his hand. Not his hand.

Sitting up, Ellie drops her head in her hands and groans, pushing her fingers into her hair and scrubbing at her scalp before dropping her hands in her lap and breathing out heavily. She looks at her drawer again. Her stomach tightens.

She bites her lip to ignore the little pulse of an ache, slippery warm between her legs. She wants to get off, it’s an unending little pulse-beat, weight inside of her. But she can’t—

Shoving her hand under her pillow to grab her phone, she squints at the screen when it glares a too-bright twelve-thirty-five up at her; she fights another groan, flopping back, on her bed.

Wiggling her toes, and staring up at the ceiling, Ellie breathes out before flicking into Snapchat and hesitating over Mya’s name… but taps on Marcus’ instead. She doesn’t want to bother her. Not about something so stupid.

Because it is. It is stupid. Stupid intrusive thoughts and a horny, stupid mind.

You up?

Because I’m stupid yes.

Ellie snorts, not even sure what she wants to do, what she wants from anyone other than a distraction… when her eyes slide to her drawer again and another flicker of heat passes tightly through her stomach and flickers a bright little flash of a hand, her cunt and a steady, building need—

Tank’s a bit high but we’re just chillin. Come over we can watch a movie or something till we pass out

Ellie pushes out a breath and smiles with the flood of relief that travels through her.

Ok. Text you when I’m there.

I’ll come get you

No. it’s good. Don’t worry. Already otw.

She gets a snap of Marcus giving her an unimpressed look and she snorts again, rolling out of bed and heading to her closet. She glances at Nico’s hoodie, hanging over the back of her desk chair and the urge to grab it is sudden and strong and overwhelming— but she heads to her closet and grabs a grey hoodie and a pair of sweats, hopping into them before jamming her feet into a pair of sneakers.

Grabbing her phone and her keys, Ellie slides out of the window, pushing it mostly shut behind her before heading off across the grass towards Carnegie. She flips her mace into her palm, the jingle of her keys fills the quiet of the empty field; pulling up her hood as she hits the sidewalk, not wanting to chance any security if she cut through the buildings.

At the corner of Amsterdam Avenue, a few minutes into her trek, a black SUV pulls up to the curb ahead of her; the lights shut off as the driver’s door swings open and a guy slips out. In the street lights, Ellie sees the glow of a cell phone screen as the guy pulls it away from his ear and tucks it into a hoodie pocket; he rounds the back of the vehicle, glancing over when he notices her, but all he does is look away again, leaning against the passenger side door and pulling something out of his pocket.

Tightening her hand around her mace, she slides her thumb over the spray button as she nears the SUV… but as she gets closer, there’s the snick-click of a lighter, a sudden amber-orange glow, and the puff of cigarette smoke.

Ellie glances at him; his head tilts up and she catches a glimpse of tattoos along his neck, dark blonde hair… and realises it’s the same guy from the edge of her dorm that she waved to a few weeks ago.

“Hey,” he says, squinting a little as he pulls in another drag of his cigarette and lifts his hand in a little wave like the one she gave him last time; she wonders if it’s intentional, if he remembers her dumb little wave.

“Hey,” Ellie says slowly as she gets closer.

“Kinda late to be out wandering, isn’t it?”

“Kinda late to talk to strangers,” Ellie shoots back.

He snorts, his lips quirking. “Touché, girl. Stranger danger, good rule.”

She walks by, hearing him inhale again, weird, she thinks, and turns back to him as she takes a few slow steps backwards; he’s still leaning against the SUV and smoking. “You go to school around here?”

He laughs, smoke puffing out of his mouth. “Do I look like I go to school around here?” he motions at Trinity’s main building and then himself, his black hoodie and blue jeans, unlaced heavy-looking boots and all the tattoos peeping out from his clothes. “I know I look fancy…”

Ellie’s lip twitches, she takes another step back. “I try not to judge.”

“Noticed,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re the only one who waved. Most just…” he slides a hand over his face. “Head down, no smiles. Or the moms like to the judge-y squinty-eyed thing.”

She stops and winces, thinking about her stupid little wave and trying to play it off. “Yeah, well…Mister Rogers is like, a hero of mine so…”

He coughs on his laugh, his head tilting back. “Mister Rogers—” he laughs again, grinning at her and pointing. “That’s a good one.”

She grins, taking another step back. “Probably shouldn’t ask, but if you don’t go to school here, why you here?”

He smirks. “Mm,” he hums, pulling another drag off his cigarette, the smoke slipping out of his nose as he looks at her curiously before he speaks again. “You gonna report me?”

“Should I?”

He snorts. “You smoke?”

Ellie shakes her head.

“Snort. Pop. Anythin’?”

Oh, Ellie thinks, glancing over him, right. “No, uh, sorry, not my thing.”

He nods, smiling at her as he lifts his cigarette again. “S’good. Better not to get into it,” he flicks the cigarette into the grass, blowing out another smoke-filled breath. “Nasty habit, y’know?”

She huffs a little laugh. “Sure.”

He pulls out his phone, looking at it before glancing at her again. “You're kinda little to be wandering the streets, yeah?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, lifting her keys and her mace. “I’m pretty fast and… you know.”

He snorts. “Still. Where you headed?”

Ellie takes a few steps back, lifting her eyebrows. “Mm, now that’s some stranger danger questions, isn’t it? I don’t think even Mister Rogers would want me to share that.”

He grins and laughs, lifting his phone. “Bet it’s the same place as I am. Rich boys do like to smoke, you know? And pop. And snort.”

Ellie laughs, because yeah, she knows. “You gonna jump me if I turn around?”

He lifts his hand and crosses his heart with a tattooed hand. “Not on my life. How about I walk along the street edge, keep each other in sight, then neither one of us gets jumped by the other.”

Her eyebrows jump. “You think I’m gonna jump you?”

“Trust no bitch,” he says with a grin. “’Specially not one who says Mister Rogers is her hero, that’s like, classic disarming-shit. Act all cute, then rob me blind, you know. Classic trick.”

Ellie laughs and then squints at him, debating and pulling in a breath before she edges another step back and to the side off of the sidewalk, her sneakers soft on the grass. “Yeah, alright.”

He nods, pushing off the car as he tucks his hands inside his pockets; in the glow of the orange-tinted streetlights, it’s hard to tell how old he is, but Ellie can’t imagine he’s much older than her. A few years maybe.

Their steps match up, the guy texts something and Ellie pulls out her phone to tell Marcus she’s T-minus two minutes.

“For real though, you sneaking off to a boyfriend or something?”

Ellie laughs and shakes her head, glancing at him walking beside her. “Wouldn’t that be like, super cliché? No, he’s just a friend.”

He nods, pulling a doubtful face. “Mm-hm…”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ellie huffs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t be one of those people.”

“One of those people?”

“People who think guys and girls can’t be just friends.”

He snorts. “Not saying it can’t happen… just y’know, cute girl, middle of the night, boy’s dorm…it’s definitely some teen-romance shit. Though I’d expect him to be sneaking into yours, that’s the gentleman thing to do. Not making the girl hike over. Your Romeo ain’t so Romeo-ish.”

Ellie laughs. “Yeah, if this was a teen romance and not real life, sure. Maybe a boombox or like, at least a playlist or two…” she laughs as he does. “But Marcus is like…we’re solidly platonic… also, fuck you, that’s super misogynistic.”

He pulls a face. “Misogynistic. Ouch. Okay, you’re like, baby-sized. There’s misogyny and then there’s fuckin’ logic…” He grins at her. “Unless your Romeo is also baby-sized, then I might give him a pass.”

With a laugh, Ellie rolls her eyes. “You’re so rude, I’m not baby-sized.”

“You’re itty-bitty, Miss Rogers,” he says with a grin and Ellie laughs in surprise at the nickname. “Also, you need higher standards than a playlist.”

“Pony?”

Pony, he laughs just as they turn down the back entrance of Carnegie. Ahead, backlit in the lights spilling out of the doorway, Marcus lifts a hand.

The guy falls back a few steps, letting Ellie take over the sidewalk. Ellie looks back at him and shoots him a look, but he’s already got his hands up, palms out.

“No jumping, I promise.”

 With an eye roll and a smile, Ellie climbs up the steps towards Marcus, standing just inside the door.

“Hey, man,” Marcus says squinting into the dark.

Ellie frowns at the easy, familiar way he says it, and looks back again; the guy tilts his chin, pulling out another cigarette and his lighter.

“You coming in?” Marcus asks.

Ellie glances between them, wondering if Marcus is who the guy is selling to, even though Marcus doesn’t usually smoke often. And she’s never seen him do anything other than weed. And never on a school night.

He shakes his head, lifting his phone after he places the cigarette in his mouth and smiles around it. “Gonna wait for my rich kid out here. Bein’ in there too long gives me hives.”

Ellie laughs, lingering at Marcus’ side.

“Alright, you want me to get someone?”

The guy shakes his head. “Already texted ‘em. Thanks, man.” He lifts his hand to Ellie. “See you around, Miss Rogers. Good luck with that pony.”

Fighting a smile, she rolls her eyes and lifts her hand in a wave as Marcus steps back and takes his arm off the door. “See you around.”

Marcus looks down at her as the door shuts and they head along the quiet hallway. “Miss Rogers?”

“Dumb joke... you know him?”

He shrugs as they turn down another hall and head towards the stairs. “New dealer. Liam or something. Other guy moved or some shit, I don’t remember. He’s chill, though. How’d you meet him?”

“I’ve just seen him around… I kinda waved at him before, like a loser, like…” she gives Marcus a tight-lipped stranger-smile and a little wave and Marcus laughs. “And he said I was the only one that did…and I joked about liking Mister Rogers…”

“I’m not even surprised,” he laughs and Ellie elbows him as they climb the stairs and he snorts, Miss Rogers with another laugh.

When they reach his dorm room, his roommate is veg’d out in his computer chair, spinning lazily. “El,” he says, his head lolling towards her as she toes off her shoes.

“Tank,” she says, meeting his fist with hers when he holds it out as she walks past.

Dropping down onto Marcus’ bed, Ellie slides back against the wall, watching Marcus grab his laptop off his desk as she tucks under his covers. It smells a bit like sweat and Old Spice, but she’s used to it. Most of the boys smell like sweat and Old Spice. It’s not new.

When Marcus settles in beside her with his laptop on his lap, he lifts his arm and wraps it around Ellie’s back and they both sink into a comfortable slump against the pillows before flipping through movies.

Marcus lingers over the Mister Rogers movie and Ellie elbows him as he laughs and whines about her sharp-ass elbows until they settle on 21 Jump Street with Tank still slowly spinning in his chair across the room.

Ellie glances up at Marcus, who only shrugs and mutters, super high under his breath. She muffles a laugh into her hoodie sleeve and focuses on the movie.

                In the morning, Ellie wakes up squished between Marcus and the wall with his alarm blaring behind them.

He groans above her head, his heavy arm lifting off her waist as he rolls over and smacks at it before turning back and cuddling up to her again.

Sleep pulls her back under, toasty warm in her hoodie and sweats and Marcus’ body heat—

Until his alarm goes off again and he’s cursing, jostling the bed as Ellie blinks into the yellow-blue dawn and stretches out in with a yawn.

“I’ll walk you back,” he mumbles, stumbling towards the bathroom. “Give me a sec.”

Ellie nods, rolling over and stretching out again, looking over at Tank in the bed on the other side of the room, not even under his covers, just passed out on top of them, face down.

She snorts, listening to the water run in the bathroom, a distant hum as she blinks at the ceiling before sitting up and rubbing at her face to wake up more. With a sigh, she slips out of the warm bed and stumbles towards her shoes, plopping her ass down on the floor to pull them on, not awake or co-ordinated enough to manage it standing.

The door clicks open behind her; Marcus snorts a laugh when he steps around her, shoving his feet into sandals and grabbing his keys and a hoodie before holding out a hand to pull Ellie back up to her feet.

They slip out, tired and still half asleep, bumping together quietly until the crisp early morning air hits them and pushes them a little more into wakefulness. They stop in a bodega and grab two ice-cold energy drinks, and by the time they reach Ellie’s dorm, the caffeine and fizz has started to kick in.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” she says as she climbs through her window and looks back at Marcus, already backing away and waving it off.

“See you on the field, cuddle buddy.”

Ellie grins and shuts the window. On her way to the bathroom to get ready for her morning run, in the brightness of the daylight, she feels better— steadier, maybe. Last night was just… her stupid, overactive mind. And maybe she was a little horny, but it doesn’t mean anything.

Intrusive thoughts are a bitch, she thinks as she pulls out her sleep-mussed messy bun and looks at herself in the mirror, everything’s totally fine.

Peachy-keen, even.

It doesn’t mean anything.

                And it gets even peachier, when she gets back to her dorm after her run, still running high on endorphins and caffeine, to a brown-paper gift bag hanging on her door handle.

With a curious frown, Ellie unhooks it, peering inside at a whip-cream topped coffee and glass jar and a spoon. There’s a note stapled on it, but it’s from the front desk and all it says is her name and dorm room…Ellie Evans, 115.

But there’s a little spark in her chest, a quiet little knowledge that makes her heartbeat just a little bit heavier.

It’s from Nico, isn’t it?

It has to be him, she thinks.

Pushing into her room, she hears Mya in the bathroom as she sets the bag down on her desk and pulls out the jar; it’s hot, lightly steaming as she cracks it open… and laughs as she realises it blueberry oatmeal inside.

Oh my God, she thinks, dropping her face into her hands and feeling bright with this fizzy bit of happiness in her stomach, walking in a little circle and scrunching her face because it is him, isn’t it?

He’s something else, she thinks, pushing out a little breath and scraping her teeth over her lip to fight the stretch of her smile, he’s—

Something.

She takes a picture of the oatmeal on her desk, sending it off to him with a bunch of question marks.

????

He replies a minute later, as she’s taking the first, sweet and thick spoonful of oatmeal. It’s delicious, bright with the burst of fruit and creamy with sweetness.

I’m sure nothing can touch a grandmother’s cooking, but I hope it’s an acceptable substitute.

She laughs, the bubbles brighter, because what— where did this guy come from—

It’s delicious, thank you.

In a moment of happiness, ease, brightness, whatever it is that’s fizzing away inside of her, Ellie lifts her phone and snaps a picture of herself, grinning around the spoon in her mouth, throwing up a peace sign with her other hand and sends it off to him before she can think twice about how she looks, sweaty and dishevelled from her run.

He doesn’t respond right away, but Ellie’s digging into the oatmeal, half aware of the water shutting off and Mya coming out of the bathroom, smiling at Ellie with an easy morning! As she steals some of her coffee, dragging the straw through the whipped cream, her brow raised in question.

Ellie’s grin is answer enough, she thinks, and for the moment, she doesn’t even care what Mya thinks, she’s just… happy.

Peachy-keen, even.

Her phone buzzes, she bites her cheek, fighting the warring, humming little feeling that rises as she reads his text.

 Glad you like it, baby.

But it’s nothing, she thinks, even as the black-lettered baby sticks behind her eyelids and merges into the sound of his voice sticking in the back of her head.

She’s just… happy.

It’s nothing but that.

                6

Ellie frowns at Nico’s text for a half-second before it clicks in. Six, tonight, she thinks, for the dinner.

Where are we

She deletes the text.

She doesn’t want to know. She isn’t going to ask. She doesn’t care where he takes her because it doesn’t matter. It’s just—

She swallows around the shape of the words in her mouth because they get stuck somewhere south of her tongue, but she pushes them out because they’re the truth, aren’t they.

It’s just a father-daughter dinner.

It doesn’t matter how he looked asking her, the shape of him doesn’t change the intention. Just because he doesn’t look like the cut-out shape Ellie imagined a father might fill, it doesn’t change what it is.

What he is.

Who he is.

She doesn’t ask where they’re going or what to wear because it doesn’t matter. She’s not going to worry about it. She’s not going to get dressed up. She’ll just wear something like she did the other night, tights, a dress, keep it simple but put-together.

She’s not going to worry about it.

Okay, she types back with her heart beating just a little bit faster. See you tonight.

She’s not going to worry about it.

                “I have nothing to wear—” she whines, yanking off a flower-printed romper and chucking it towards the bed. It flutters off the edge of the pile of clothes already spread over it and lands on the floor. She scowls at it. “I’m going to cancel. This is stupid. We should just go out—”

Mya leans out from the bathroom. “You’re being awfully dramatic for someone who spent all day telling me she doesn’t care about her not-date and was going to wear jeans.”

Ellie scowls at her, too.

“I don’t like you,” she huffs, turning back to their closet and flicking through the hangers. She eyes the silky-black dress she’s been avoiding, but her fingers linger over it when she reaches it; thinking about looking at herself in the mirrored change-room when she bought it. The drape of the back, the angle of her spine curving low and on display.

It was meant for a boyfriend.

It was meant for Ethan.

It’s too date-like, she thinks even as she pulls it out, chewing her cheek before pulling it on. It slides smooth and silky over her skin because she’s showered, shaved, smoothed over with moisturizer because it feels good, not because she’s thinking about tonight, or his hand on her thigh or stomach or anywhere other than maybe curved around her hand. Because hand holding is fine. A lot of people hold hands. She holds hands with Mya. She’s held Paul’s hand. Her mom’s.

Hand holding is definitely fine.

“You absolutely have to wear that,” Mya says, leaning out of the bathroom again, pulling the straightening iron through her hair. “Absolutely. You can’t not.”

In the mirror, Ellie turns, looking over her shoulder to see the drape of the dress; the pale skin on display with her hair pulled up into a neat, loose bun on the top of her head, the curve of her spine interrupted only by the black band of her bra until that sloping edge of silk teases the curve of her lower back.

It’s too much, she thinks, turning to face the mirror and adjusting the drape of it over her bra, the straps visible no matter how she adjusts it.

“I think it’s too fancy,” Ellie pushes out around the weird heat in her stomach, the quiet little up-tick of her pulse at the split-second idea of his hand on her spine or hip. (Or what his palm would feel like, bleeding heat through the silk of her dress, pressed flat against her stomach.)

She skims a hand over her stomach, turning to the side. She thinks about his hand, his chest to her back on the ferry… she thinks about Ethan and rocks up onto her toes because he always liked her legs; he’d curl his hand over her thigh, along the inside, skim his hands over the lean muscles she has from running.

“Gotta lose the bra though,” Mya says looking back at herself in the mirror as she grabs another section of her hair to straighten. “It just ruins… like, slinky-ness of the whole thing.”

“I can’t not wear a bra,” Ellie says but her eyes linger on the straps, visible along the slope of her shoulders, thicker than the thin, silky straps of the dress. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

Mya snorts. “El, I think you’re possibly the luckiest and dumbest person on like, the planet, right now. You’ve got literally the hottest man ever spending time with you and you’re not even trying.”

“It’s just…” not like that, she thinks, but the words get stuck, the truth has been there since Monday when she said it out loud in the empty quiet of their dorm room; a knot in her throat, a push of truth. Three little words.

He’s my dad.

The thought kicks her back into reality.

It doesn’t matter what she wears. She shouldn’t be worrying this much. He won’t even notice, anyway. The dress was meant for Ethan, but she bought it because she felt good in it, and she feels good in it now, and she’s going to wear it because she likes it.

That’s all.

She reaches back and unlatches the back of her bra, pulling it out from the dress and tossing it back into her drawers.

He won’t notice anything other than Ellie being well-dressed for a dinner out. She dressed up a little last time, too. It’s no different. He called her cute last time, he’ll probably say it again. Like Paul has, you look nice, Ellie— a nice compliment that was meant to make her feel nice and nothing more.

That’s all.

(She doesn’t let herself think about his eyes, the way he’d looked at her sitting on the orange, hard seat of the ferry before lifting his phone. How much she thinks she might like him looking at her.)

Because that’s just… intrusive thoughts.

“Ethan’s missing the fuck out, don’t even think about him.”

Ellie snorts and shakes her head. “I’m not.”

Mya pulls a doubtful face. “Okay, bub.”

With an eye roll, Ellie turns back to the closet, grabbing a soft pink, warm cardigan and pulling it on before crouching down to dig through the mess of their shoes along the bottom of the closet.

She finds one strappy, low heel before the other, cursing. “We need to clean this out. It’s a mess.”

Mya grunts from the bathroom. “It’s an organized chaos.”

“There’s literally no organization.”

“Says you.”

“Says literally any sane person,” she mutters just as she finds the other heel and moves to her desk chair to pull them on.

The clock shifts to 550 and she glances at the window, wondering if he’s already out there waiting; ignoring the flutter of excitement in her limbs at the idea of him already being here.

She pushes up, Mya sets the straightening iron down and comes out of the bathroom as Ellie heads towards the window to peer out of it.

He’s there, in the distance, a shiny dark silver car, a tall line of black leaning against it.

Her heart trips and she pushes away from the window, scraping her teeth over her lip and blowing out a little breath.

Mya looks for another few seconds before she steps back and drops down on Ellie’s bed, half her hair straightened for her night with Chris. “Okay so, take a picture of his licence plate, and what’s his last name—”

Ellie laughs and opens the window, looping her clutch around her wrist. “Shut up. He literally took me on the ferry last time, pretty sure if he was going to murder me, he would have done it then. That’s a lot of open water to disappear someone in.”

Mya grins and leans back on her hands. “True. What is his last name though, you’ve never said?”

“Cordova,” Ellie says absently, setting her ass on the sill and dragging her knee up to slide through the window.

Mya frowns. “Why does that sound familiar?”

Ellie shrugs from the other side of the window. “Have fun with Chris, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Mya grins and winks. “Probably, his parents are out of town so, we’ll probably end up there.”

Ellie smiles. “Be safe. Make smart choices.”

“Be safe. Make smart choices,” Mya says back, resting her elbows on the window ledge and watching as Ellie walks backwards a few steps before turning away.

Across the field, Ellie’s eyes find Nico right away; she watches him straighten off the car and her insides flutter, roll, twist—

She pushes out a little breath like she can push the feeling out. She doesn’t know why it suddenly feels so different, they’ve met like this every time, or he’s dropped her off here and watched her go, but… but still, she thinks, it’s different.

He’s dressed in all black, and she wants to poke fun, but she’s a little caught by how he looks even though it’s just another suit, there’s something different about him— or maybe it’s not and it’s just that she feels hyper-aware of her own body, the slide of her silky dress, the time of day, the idea of dinner—

It’s not a date. It’s not, but—

The space between them narrows, Nico steps forward, their eyes locked as he closes the distance, his hand coming up…  and it’s warm and big on her side, his thumb on her ribs, his fingers curving along her back—

And it’s just bad luck or angle that his hand ends up under her cardigan and not over it, but his fingers and palm are hot against the bare skin of her ribs and—

And Ellie sucks in a little breath at the heat, the rough pad of his fingers sliding over her side and back, the sudden tripping awareness of it, as his stubble scrapes her temple and his cologne, aftershave, soap, whatever it is that makes him smell like he does, fills her nose and his lips press, warm and dry to her hairline.

It’s just a lot, all at once.

(He smells good. It’s not a crime to notice.)

She wishes, suddenly, as she tilts up into that kiss on instinct and her hand grips onto his forearm for balance, that he looked more like Paul, or like Mya’s parents, pushing sixty, a little soft around the middle.

Or that he smelled like cigarettes or weed or Axe, even. Anything to make him a little less— just a little less.                               

“Hey, baby girl,” Nico says, his voice low and rumbly-warm in a way that trips her up with how close it is to her ear or skin or something.

She breathes out, (her dream is there in flashes, a flickering screen cut in with her own hand on her stomach, the scrub of her shower puff over the needy-ache in her clit—)

Her fingers are white-knuckled, wrinkling his suit jacket on his forearm. She lets go quickly, too quickly, maybe; Nico’s brows sink together, his hand comes up but he stops himself, and Ellie winces as he straightens, his hand dropping back down to his side.

She hates it.

“I’m starving,” she says with a tight smile, swallowing her nerves and her dream and everything that isn’t fine— because she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s—

Seventeen and horny, seventeen and stupid, seventeen and it’s not a big deal, she thinks, to be aware of him looking the way he does. It doesn’t mean anything. Mya’s right, she can admit he’s… he’s alright looking without anyone coming to arrest her.

It’s like…like when straight guys admit Henry Cavill or Oscar Isaac is hot, right? It doesn’t mean they really want to fuck them. They can just admit that they’re… facially-blessed.

Right, she thinks, Nico is her Oscar Isaac.

You’ll get used to him, she thinks, you just need to get used to him.

Nico’s smile is quick and his hand skims her bicep before brushing over her shoulder as he steps to the side and leads her towards the car with an after you, then, sweetheart.

This part is almost routine now, so she isn’t sure why it still feels so different, only that it does. That as she slips into his too-nice car and shuts the door, she’s overly aware of her own skin. The hem of her dress across her thighs, the leather seats beneath the back of her legs, the drape of her neckline, the little curve of her chest… the peak of her nipples—

Nico rounds the front of the car as she pulls the cardigan over her chest a little, wincing and wishing she’d just dealt with the ugly strap situation and worn a bra. Or tights. She thinks maybe that’s what’s messing her up so much, the stupid dress that’s just too date-like for a not-date. It was meant for a boyfriend not a— not a him.

This is not a father-daughter outfit, she curses herself, what the hell we’re you thinking?

She shouldn’t have shaved and moisturized. She should have worn something else. She should have worn her hair down.

But it’s not just that, she thinks, no matter how much she’d like to blame the dress or her own skin or her own messy, unsteady, seventeen-year-old mind, as Nico settles in beside her, it’s…

His cologne, warm and masculine. His hand on the gear shift as he pulls away from the curb and out into the street. His profile, the line of his throat, the dark of his hair. The black of his jacket against his tan skin.

It feels different.

She doesn’t know what to do with it.

She wants to make a joke, to make him laugh, to talk to him, because her head is a messy place and it always gets easier once they get talking and she doesn’t have to really think about anything other than just… hanging out with him.

But the sun is setting behind the skyscrapers, and Nico’s hand is resting on the gear stick as he drives through the looping, slow streets around her campus and she’s stuck watching him, her mind…

Messy.

Nico shifts gears, his hand tightening on the shift, his arm tenses and relaxes. He looks over at her, their eyes meet, Ellie fights her embarrassment at getting caught staring, but all he does is meet her eyes and then look away, his chest shifting with a breath.

He shifts back into first, they crawl along the street, rush hour traffic filled with the low hum of the radio and the occasional car horn.

He looks back over at her and she wants to ask him what he sees when he looks at her. If he spent any time in front of a mirror the way she did, trying to map her features into his like a weird puzzle.

The silence stretches. The car is too warm, too small. (Even though she knows it’s not, not really.)

She looks away first this time, swallowing thickly, curling her fingers into the hem of her dress before easing them, smoothing out the silk to chase the wrinkle; he looks too nice, she doesn’t want to completely look like she doesn’t fit next to him wherever they’re going.  

Nico clears his throat. “How was school?”

His voice cuts through her thoughts and she swallows her nerves again, the mess of things in her head that feels like it’s a weight on her tongue, keeping her too quiet. She hums, searching for something to say. “Mm, thrilling.”

His smile is quick and white, he shifts gears, they turn down another street, heading south-east, she thinks. She doesn’t know street level as well as she knows the subway lines.

“Thrilling, huh?”

He shifts again and she thinks it’s a little weird he bought a car like this for city-driving. As nice as it is, it seems a little stupid to drive stick when you have to shift gears so much. It’s a little stupid to drive in the city in general, but if you like stupid-expensive cars, she guesses it’s city-driving or nothing.

“Stupendous,” she says with a smile, tilting her head a little against the seatback, the soft leather against her temple. “Exhilarating.”

He laughs. “First class, Sarcasm 101?”

Ellie laughs, biting her cheek when he turns to look at her, his smile crooked and entertained… by her, she thinks with a little thrill. A little pulse-trip awareness of the same feeling from the other night, making him smile, the stretch of it in profile in the electric blue glow of the car’s dash lights.

It’s not weird, she tells herself, to want him to like her.

“It’s actually Thesaurus 101, and it’s the most engaging, engrossing, interesting, uh—”

Nico grins, turning his head to look at her. “Fascinating?”

Ellie grins. “Stimulating class. I actually tested out of Sarcasm 101, I’m just too naturally skilled. It wasn’t fair to the other students.”

He laughs. “I can see that. You must be very proud.”

“I am,” she says with a grin. “I’m going to put in on my college applications.”

He looks at her. “You applying?”

She hesitates, pulling at the sleeves of her cardigan, hoping his reaction isn’t like Paul’s parents or the quiet disapproval of her mother. “No, not yet. I’m taking a year off. To work, though. Not just like, stay at home or something.”

Nico nods. “That’s good,” he glances at her and smiles a little. “You were nervous about saying that, your mom not agree with it?”

Ellie shrugs, feeling a little uncomfortable, jarred at the mention of her mother. They haven’t talked about her much. At all, really. It feels… weird.

“I think she’s a little worried I’ll just end up not going. Paul says it’s fine, he travelled for a year before he went to university, so… I mean it’s not like she’s mad or anything.”

Nico’s quiet for a beat, his hand tightens on the gear shift, Ellie watches the flex of his tendons, the sharp edge of his knuckles, he has a scar along the middle one and she wonders what it’s from.

His hands, she thinks, at the memory of them along her side and back, are rougher than she thinks they should be, for someone who looks like he does.

It’s hard to remember that somehow, this guy, this guy, in his suits and his stupid-nice cars and his stupid-nice smiles was— what did Jilly say?

Involved in some shit. Got into a lot of fights. That his family was kind of… intense.

Fuck-boy, gangster-wannabe who like, dealt drugs or something.

Not exactly someone you want to raise a kid with, you know?

Which is just— it just doesn’t make sense, but Ellie looks at the scar on his knuckles and can’t shake the thought. She thinks about Marcus punching Ethan. About Chris bracing his forearm against his chest, about her own hand, gripping onto Marcus’ forearm, I’m fine, I’m fine— it’s not worth it—

About Ethan spitting blood. Marcus’ knuckles after.

Ellie wonders what Nico fought over. Her mom?

She frowns, her stomach tensing at the thought.

“Is that what he thinks you should do?”

Ellie blinks, looking away from his hand and trying to remember what she said. Travelling, Paul, a year off. “Uh, yeah, I guess? He’s pretty… chill about the whole thing. But we’ve talked a bit about it, he thinks travelling is good for people though. Broadens the mind, or whatever.”

She laughs a little, thinking about Paul talking about education and museums and history. “But yeah, he and my mom went to France like, two-ish years ago, and he offered to take me too, but… you know, travelling to the city of romance with your mom and her boyfriend… not really the top of the fun-pile for a fifteen-year-old.”

He snorts, glancing at her, she isn’t sure what’s on his face, just that his gaze is searching. “Is that where you’d want to go?”

Ellie shrugs. “I think everyone wants to go to Europe at some point, don’t they?”

He’s quiet for a second, his eyes flick over her face. “I’ll take you.”

Ellie blinks. “To France?”

“Wherever you want to go.”

She blinks. Nico looks away, and she’s saved from answering as they slow down and Nico eases the car over to the curb. They pull up in front of a brick building with a large panelled glass exterior and a dark green door. N o m a d, printed above it. There’s a valet booth outside of the neatly trimmed patio leading up to the restaurant and Ellie unbuckles her belt as the valet walks up to her door.

Ellie isn’t sure what she’s feeling at the sight of the restaurant. She’s heard of Nomad, most people have, it’s hard not to know or hear these things, with the people she goes to school with. She’s pretty sure Paul and her mom have been a few times. (Come back giggly and drunk with a little to-go box of dessert for Ellie.)

She blows out a steadying breath because it’s not the same, she isn’t going to get giggly and drunk and Nico isn’t going to press her against an apartment front hallway wall and kiss—

Her stomach twists and she flinches away from the flicker-quick image; focusing on the memories of her mom and Paul. About the gagging sound she makes sometimes, calling them gross and old as she steals the box of dessert and retreats to her room.

She thought it took weeks to get a reservation here, but maybe Nico just got lucky with a cancellation.

The valet opens the door the same time Ellie does and she apologises in a rush, but he only smiles and holds out his arm. Ellie glances back at Nico but he’s already standing up and out of the car and she turns back to the valet and his waiting arm.

She feels stupid and silly, over aware of the cool air, the slide of the leather seats beneath her thighs, the valet’s polite smile, the way they both look to Nico as he rounds the car.

“Sir,” the man says with a little nod. Nico nods back as he comes up to Ellie’s side and his hand presses lightly against her lower back, leading her across the sidewalk towards the restaurant’s dark-green front door.

He opens it for her, letting her walk into the low-lit interior a step ahead of him; the hostess, a pretty brunette in a black dress, smiles politely, her mouth opening to greet them— when her smile widens, her back straightening even more than it was before.

“Mister Cordova!” she says with a little rush of an inhale as she braces her hands on the hostess stand and leans forward, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. "Ciao, come stai?"

Ellie frowns at the shift in language, glancing up at Nico because the hostess is saying it to him, eager and bright and obvious.

Nico smiles, his eyebrows tilting up. “Hai fatto un po' di pratica? Bene... grazie, e tu?”

The hostess answers in the same language, leaving Ellie looking between them, stuck between curiosity at Nico speaking another language and the... little low pit in her stomach at his conversation with the hostess.

She thinks it might be Italian, one of the girls in her dorm speaks it, and it sounds like it might be the same language.

Lingering right next to him, she feels when his hand slides off her back, his arm relaxing at his side, brushing against hers in a warm line; she looks down at it, at his fingers brushing near her wrist. With her heels on, she’s closer to his shoulder than his chest the way she normally is and it lessens the height difference between them.

Not much, she thinks, because he’s like, a mountain. But still, it feels strange feeling his hand so close to hers. Just... right there.

The hostess says something else in the probably-Italian she thinks they’re speaking, and she leans forward a little more, showing a bit more cleavage than Ellie thinks is appropriate to flash a customer, really.

Even if he’s like... well, him.

She glances up at Nico, but it’s too hard to tell where he’s looking— and it doesn’t matter anyway, he can look the hostess if he wants to. She doesn’t care. Why wouldn’t he look? She’s pretty.

Ellie doesn’t care.

The hostess laughs at something Nico says and Ellie feels something bitter in the back of her mouth because it’s obvious they know each other. She wonders if he’s a regular here. Or if he knows her, knows her.

Not that it matters. Because it doesn’t. He’s a whole adult. A whole thirty-four-year-old adult who’s obviously been knowing people longer than Ellie’s been—

Ugh. Stop.

Intrusive thoughts, she thinks, intrusive thoughts.

She’s sure it’s Italian. It’s smooth and round and there’s a few rolls to the letters that sound familiar.

At her side, Nico’s arm is warm even through his suit, his fingers lax and right there near her wrist; she glances down and she isn’t sure she even really thinks about it, she just lifts her hand a little and slides her fingers along his palm to tuck them into his hand. His hand swallows hers exactly like she remembers it, in a way that makes her pulse trip, her stomach flutter as the slightly-rough pad of his thumb slides along the back of her hand.

He glances down at her, his eyes a little shadowed in the lights above, but his lips tilt, something… almost…

Happy, Ellie thinks, as his thumb strokes over her skin again just before he looks away, tilting his head towards the busy restaurant interior.

“Somewhere quiet, Natalie, please.”

The hostess glances down at Ellie, her smile flickering just a little, before it’s perfectly bright once again when she looks at Nico. “Of course.”

The hostess leads them down the length of the restaurant, across a dark wood floor and past a long bar decorated in gold and dark green, already busy with customers. There are big lounging booths on one side, filled with people nursing drinks, the din of conversation and low music to match the low lighting as they walk towards the back of the restaurant.

They turn right down a low-lit hallway, Nico pulls her a little closer as another couple walks by just before there’s another right turn and the hallway opens into a dining area that matches the other side of the restaurant, all dark green and gold.

There are big panels of thin metalwork designs that Ellie can just barely see through, for privacy, she guesses; to add to the soft- edge of the restaurant’s lighting and colours. It’s quieter than the other side of the restaurant, a little darker without the bar lighting up more of the space.

She can see why Paul and her mother like coming.

The conversations around them are a low hum, and Ellie’s overly aware of Nico’s hand around hers as they walk along the length of the space; the dresses and clothes and people she tries not to look too long at, but it’s hard not to notice that she’s easily the youngest one in the building.

She glances twice at a woman at a table of four, her face familiar enough that Ellie’s almost positive it’s an actress. She looks away, looking down at Nico’s hand and her own fingers, tucked into his palm. She wishes she’d worn a different cardigan, she thinks, as she looks at the soft pink of her sweater next to Nico’s jacket sleeve.

It feels young. Childish.

Too bright and out of place next to all the expensive-looking things around them.

Whatever, she thinks, she isn’t going to worry about it. No one cares what she’s wearing. And next to Nico, with his suit and his size and the way he’s holding her hand, no one is going to think they’re anything other than father and daughter, right?

Right.

It’s probably good she looks so young, anyway. No one’s going to think that they’re—

They pass a table where a grey-haired man pours a glass of swirling red wine into a young woman’s wine glass. She leans forward to say something in his ear, her red lips trailing over his cheek.

Ellie winces, slipping her hand out of Nico’s and hiding the reason for it by adjusting the loop of her little clutch when he looks down at her.

Her heart trips in her chest, a little bubble of guilt at the way his eyebrows tilt together, but— but she’s saved from worrying about how to squash the feeling inside of her when the hostess steps up to an empty table and lays out the menus, looking at Nico even as he pulls back Ellie’s chair.

She glances at him before stepping between the table and the chair edge, smoothing a hand along the hem of her dress and sitting; he pushes her chair in before taking his own seat.

‘’Thanks, Nat,” he says as he unbuttons a button in the middle suit jacket, his eyes settling on Ellie across the table.

She tries not to fidget, flicking her eyes down at the table; the silverware glints in the warm lighting and she slides the knife a little with the tip of her finger.

It’s definitely a fidget; she pulls her hand away from it and folds her hands on her lap beneath the table, watching Nico in glances only as she takes in the other tables, the restaurant, the décor around them.

Nico eases back in his chair, his gaze steady whenever she lets her eyes slide over him. Ellie tells herself that just because it feels date-like doesn’t mean it is. He wouldn’t have brought her here if it was a date restaurant, right?

And really, she thinks, what even is a date restaurant. All restaurants are the same, really. It’s the intention that matters.

And there’s no intention.

Right, she thinks, but she can’t help but wish the not-date had just been another round of take-out in his car. She kind of wants to remind him that she’s in high school and she’d be happy with a Hot Pocket.

She opens her mouth, ready to make a joke about it to him and break the tension she feels when the waitress appears, tall and thin and looking like she’s meant for a runway with her shaved head and high cheekbones and dark skin.

Ellie quietly thinks she’s gorgeous and wonders if fancy restaurants have a requirement for attractive employees.

“Mister Cordova,” she says with a smile as a waiter comes behind her and sets down a silver tray with a bucket and a black bottle chilling in ice down next to their table. “Elaine would like me to tell you that the barbeque pork belly would be her choice for dinner tonight.”

Nico’s smile is crooked and familiar and he tilts his chin. “I’ll keep it in mind, Deja, thank you.”

The waitress looks to Ellie with a smile as she lifts the black bottle out of the bucket, wraps a towel beneath it and starts to pour it into Ellie’s glass, “Would you like anything else to drink? Water, soda?”

Else, Ellie thinks, eyeing the fizzy off-white liquid spilling into her wine glass, and then Nico, his smile still crooked with entertainment as he watches her.

“Uh, just water, thanks,” she says hoping she doesn’t look as floundering-fish like as she feels.

The waitress smiles again, turning to fill Nico’s glass, saying something low that makes Nico huff a short laugh and shake his head. Ellie thinks she catches the edges of Natalie.

The waitress leaves with a final smile to both of them and a, I’ll give you a minute to decide.

Ellie reaches for the wine glass, looking at Nico as she lifts it and brings it to her mouth. It smells sweet and floral, but in her mouth it fizzes lightly, citrus-bright with a sharp sweetness.

She swallows and licks her lips, taking another too large mouthful that makes Nico’s lips twitch.

“Mom and Paul come here,” she says, looking around the restaurant and back at Nico. “It’s supposed to be super hard to get into.”

His lips quirk, he reaches for his glass, taking a mouthful and swallowing it. “Is it.”

Ellie frowns, he has to know it is. The hostess, the Italian, the waitress… they were all— they know him. “Are you… is this like a regular hang out for you?”

He fights a smile. “A regular hangout?”

Ellie fidgets, reaching for her glass again, hoping the alcohol will take the edge of her nerves off, blur the bits of her brain that are too aware of him across from her, (the memory of his hand on her stomach a flickering thought in the quiet of her own bed,) his hand now, resting on the table near his glass, his fingers on the stem, thumb pushing lightly on the bottom of the wine glass and turning it slowly in place.

She looks at it and then looks away, down at her own glass, the bubbles fizzing and sliding along the glass.

She thinks about the hostess, about the young woman at the table they passed.             

“They didn’t card me.”

Nico lifts his drink, taking a mouthful, his eyes steady on her. “No. You’re with me. I thought you’d enjoy being able to have a drink, little miss melon ball.”

Ellie flushes even as a laugh slips out of her and she drops her head into her hands, groaning. “Don’t be mean,” she whines. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Nico’s smile widens, but Ellie can’t help but think he’s been a little… quiet, or something.

But maybe it’s just that they’re in public and… and maybe it’s that there are women around. Other than Ellie.

She thinks about the hostess. Nico’s voice in Italian, his eyes—

Her stomach burns; reaching for her glass, Ellie downs another mouthful, holding the fizz in her mouth and hoping it distracts her dumb brain enough.

She wonders how often he comes here. If he brings women here. If this is what he looks like, taking a woman out on a date. His black button-up with a few buttons undone, his chest beneath, tanned skin, his lazy confidence, the shadow of stubble on his jaw—

It’s not any different, she tells herself, than any other time she’s seen him. He’s— she doesn’t even know why she’s thinking about any of it. Obviously, he’s been here before. Obviously, he dates. Or, maybe he doesn’t date. Maybe he just…

She thinks about him in Elysium. The low, shifting lights of the upper floor, him in the middle of a group of people— she can’t remember if it was a woman next to him. Was it more than one?

There’s a privacy screen to her right, the metalwork intricate, vine-like, matching the dark-green of the booth seats on the other side of the divide; the hostess leads another couple to the empty booth, they slide in next to each other, all smiles.

Maybe the hostess just wants a repeat.

Ellie looks back at Nico, but he’s still just watching her and she doesn’t know what to do with the way he looks at her. It’s not like Ethan. It’s not like any boy she’s dated before. It’s not like her mother or Paul. It’s not like Marcus or Mya…

He’s done it right from the start, she thinks, sitting in the banquette seat at the back of the Roastery, just watching her like… like there’s nowhere else to look.

She looks away again, looking over the restaurant, her heart double-timing in her chest as she thinks of something, anything to say.

The hostess passes by, Ellie watches her from the corner of her eye as she looks at their table before heading into the back. (She wonders if she knows what Nico’s bedroom looks like. If she’s seen the box of—)

“You never answered, you know,” she pushes out forcing a smile that she hopes looks more real than it feels, ignoring the twist in her gut. “Is this like, a regular hangout for you? Is that how you got in so quick?”

Nico’s quiet for a stretch of a minute filled with clinking cutlery and low music and the hum of conversation around them; he lifts his glass and swallows the mouthful left in it before pushing up to his feet.

Ellie frowns, watching him rebutton his suit jacket, step around the side of the table and then lift the dripping, black bottle of wine out of the silver bucket and pour them each another small glass. He lifts his, knocking the alcohol back like a shot before looking down at her.

“You want to get out of here?”

 Ellie blinks, confusion mixing with a rush of relief, disbelief, some messy mix of the two as an airy little exhale of a laugh slips out of her, because what—

But then his lips quirk and something eases in her or him— or between them, she isn’t sure— but she pushes up to stand with a growing smile when Nico hands her the glass and Ellie takes it and knocks it back; swallowing the sweet, bright burst of fresh bubbles as he watches her.

Nico grins, leaning down, his hand spreading along her side again, but it’s over her cardigan this time, not underneath; his palm is still hot and nearly as distracting as his stubble is as it scrapes her temple. “Yeah?”

Ellie nods, her pulse spiking, breath a little puff of citrus and alcohol as he pulls her a little closer, his hand sliding warm and wide along the curve of her back, her hand curls into the front of his jacket, just for a second. Just for balance. It’s not quite a hug.

She wants it to be. “Yeah.”

He straightens, his hand coming up to take hers, easing her fingers out of his jacket. She tries not to be embarrassed by the wrinkle her grip left behind, but she feels a little warm—

But it’s probably the alcohol, isn’t it?

Nico leads them out of the restaurant, not sparing a glance at anyone, even though Ellie tries not to, she can’t help but wonder if anyone’s noticed that they’re leaving so soon. Like, hey, didn’t that guy with his daughter just walk in?

But when they reach the hostess stand, Ellie fights a slow smile and a curling bit of pleasure along her spine as Nico only taps the hostess stand with a grin and says, tell Elaine the champagne’s too sweet and leads Ellie outside.

It’s a lot darker outside than it was when they went in, and in the chill outside of the restaurant, Nico’s hand and his body next to hers is a bit of warmth she wants to curve into, but she waits at his side, enjoying the warmth of his hand as the valet takes off to get his car.

It’s only a few minutes until his car is pulling up the curb and he’s opening the passenger door for her, waiting until she’s settled and belted, before he circles the car and settles in next to her.

He pulls out into traffic, his hand on the stick, the scar on his knuckles shifting on his skin.

                He can’t sit across from her.

The space between her side of the table and his feels like miles. No man’s land. An insurmountable distance filled with all the things he’s been carefully curating his thoughts around.

She’s pretty.

There’s no avoiding the fact. And he’s rationalised it all anyway. She’s his daughter. He knows what her mother looks like. He knows what his own face looks like.

She’s pretty.

Is it fucked up he’s a little proud of that fact?

Maybe.

But he can’t sit across from her.

No man’s land is filled with facts like bodies and blood. She’s pretty. She’s seventeen. She’s got his dimples. He wants to touch her.

Constantly.

His hands itch for it.

Honesty, he thinks, is a double-edged sword as freeing as it is sharp. Because he knows the thoughts that linger in his mind, that slip out, slide like honey. (Or blood, he thinks, might be more fucking fitting.)

But being aware of those thoughts is not the same as indulging them. This itch, the near-constant one, is— he wants to care for her. Wants to comfort her. Wants to be able to kiss her cheek, to touch her hair, her face—

Ever since she leaned into him in that bar, drunk and too pretty and all flushed with a happiness for him—

He wants that girl back. The one that leaned into him, lit-up when she saw him, took up his space like she was entitled to it.

He feels like he’s luring a stray kitten. Careful strokes, setting out little bits of food, easing it closer and closer until she’s used to his hand and comes on her own.

And then, she does. Exactly like a little kitten. Eased her hand into his. Her fucking little soft fingers sliding against his palm. But then, she slid them out again and now there’s a table between them and all his carefully sorted thoughts are laid out in between.

No man’s land is treacherous for a reason.

So, he can’t sit across from her.

It helps, he thinks, that he knows she’s uncomfortable, that she’s sitting too straight and too still for the girl that he watched for a week after she ran out of his club. She fidgets. She dances. Shuffles along the streets with music in her ears. She smiles and laughs, and sits like fucking kid in his car. Cross-legged or one leg tucked under her. She’s a constant blur of brightness, a glare caught behind his eye, imprinted behind his eyelids every time he fucking blinks.

Sitting across from her feels too much like something it shouldn’t.

He drains the rest of his drink, it’s too sweet but he’d bet his life that she’s got no tongue for red wine or hard liquor outside of a shot.

He pushes to his feet, trying to sort his thoughts back into all the carefully sorted places they belong, reaching for the white wine and filling up both their glasses with another mouthful.

A shot to sort his thoughts.

Hard liquor would be better.

Ellie watches him; she’s not a subtle thing, her discomfort sits on her face as openly as her happiness does. Like now, confusion shifts into disbelief, into a laugh, into her draining her own glass before pushing up from the table to stand in front of him.

His hands itch.

When he touches her side, he’s careful this time.

He doesn’t think about her skin.

                “Don’t you think it’s a little stupid to drive stick in the city?” she asks, lit in shifting strips of orange light, the slow crawl of streetlights, her head turned towards him as he drives.

It is, he thinks, if it were about logic. The constant crawl, start and stop during most times of the day can be annoying, but he likes the control of it. His life is about control, a car shouldn’t be any different.

But he doesn’t mind the aesthetic, either.

“Maybe,” he says, smiling at the sight of her when he looks away from the road. “But I like the control of it.”

“Why? Automatic’s way easier.”

He steals another look at her as they come up to a stoplight, she’s watching him, a soft smile that gets a little wider when he lifts an eyebrow at her. “You drive?”

Her mouth opens and shuts; he watches her wanting to argue. It’s cute. “Mhm,” he hums, fighting a smile. “That’s what I thought.”

“I know a little,” she defends, her nose wrinkling. “Walking and the subway are just way easier. Only rich people drive in the city.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Literally. Only spoiled rich people who don’t have to park their own cars.”

His laugh is deep in his chest and he tilts his eyebrows up when he glances at her before shifting gears as they cruise west through the streets.

“That’s a lot of lip for someone who probably can’t park at all.”

“I can totally park!” she says with a shocked inhale. “I mean, as long as you don’t expect it to be straight, or like right against a curb, I can totally do it.”

He laughs, because honestly, this girl. “So, you can turn off a car, is what you’re saying.”

“And put it in the vicinity of a parking spot, yes. So, by definition, it’s parked.”

“Is this what all that fancy schooling teaches you? Shitty parking?”

“No-o,” she giggles. “This is what Paul teaches me. Or well, tries to teach me, but in his defence, most of the time it’s like, outside of the city— okay, mostly on like a really long driveway, so the whole curbside parking thing is really just like…getting as close to the edge of the lawn as possible without being like, on the grass.”

He tightens his hand on the wheel, scraping his tongue over his teeth at the thought. It’s jealousy, he knows it is, an ugly-headed thing in his chest that makes him stretch out his hand over the shift, trying to quell the surge of violence in him.

Fucking Paul Hethridge.

“He’s teaching you how to drive?” his voice is rough, a little too sharp, he grits his teeth and pulls in a breath, thinking about her, sitting in the driver’s seat— her laughter and smiles and the idea of her looking over at Hethridge for guidance— looking to Hethridge for fucking anything— and not him.

Ellie nods, and in his peripherals, she’s turned to face him; her head tilted against the seat, her knees pressed together, little bare legs—

He looks away. (His palm itches.)

“A little. But he doesn’t want to teach me in the city because he says it’s too busy, so it’s mostly whenever we’re at home— or well, he’s got another place up in Lloyd Harbor? So pretty much only when we’re there, but we don’t go much during the school year.”

He knows about Lloyd Harbor. He knows almost everything about her but it’s still not enough. There are seventeen years in between one drunk night and tonight and it’s filled with things he doesn’t know about her.

Things he missed. Things he wants.

And Hethridge has no right to them. She doesn’t belong to him.

The car goes quiet as he drives along the pier-front; he’s too tense, he can’t stop looking at her.

Ellie looks away, a flush crawling across her cheeks, looking out her window as they pass by the tree-lined bike path, passing by all the people still milling about on the edge of the Hudson.

At a red light, she turns her head to look at him again; their eyes meet, it’s dark in the car, but she’s lit up a little, from the lights outside of the car and the glow of the dash lights. Wide-eyed and too young. Nearly an adult but so much a teenager it’s terrifying.

Fucking pretty, too.

Fuck Paul Hethridge.

That face, her face, is his.

He turns his hand, palm up over the shift; Ellie’s eyes flick down, her lashes dark over her cheeks… his eyes slide down to her lips, to the way she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth—

He doesn’t look any lower. The one stolen second he let himself look at her walking across the field is already buried.

Ellie looks up at him again… and slides her hand into his.

He turns her hand, curving it over the gear shift before covering it with his own. She shifts in her seat, a little breath slips out of her… he notices and buries those, too.

The light changes to green. With her hand under his, too small and too soft, he takes a detour along the pier-front, shifting gears along a straight stretch of road that lets him speed up a little, glancing at the little smile spreading on her face, her teeth scraping her lip.

“It’s the control,” he says, ignoring the heat that sinks low, that roughens his voice, that sits like a jagged-edged saw and spills all those bloody images behind his eyelids. (Maybe, he thinks, grabbing something so fucking phallic wasn’t such a good fucking idea.) “See?”

She looks at him, her chest moves with short little breaths; he knows, if he pressed his mouth to her cheek it’d be warm. Hot. (Just like in that bar, smooth and soft and his.)

The only way across no man’s land is to push through. He’s not a coward.

He pushes through.

             By the time Nico pulls up to a brick-faced building, Ellie’s managed to slow her heartbeat and rationalise the soft little ache between her hips, because she’s seventeen and horny and stupid and it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s not that it’s him. It’s just her stupid, messy mind.

That’s it. That’s all.

Twisting in her seat and peering up and out her window, she looks up at the building, it’s tall and older but obviously reworked. There’s a black, iron-work sign above a glass door, Sobremesa, in a sloping cursive.

It doesn’t look open.

Behind her, Nico climbs out of the car, and Ellie reaches for her belt, pushing open her own door and sliding out before he can reach her; scrunching her nose when he gives her an unimpressed look.

“You don’t need to do it all the time,” she defends as she stands next to him as he shuts the car door with a displeased huff behind her and then reaches for her hand and leads her to the building. (She ignores the little flutter in her stomach at how easily he does it. Like he knows he can, now.)

“What if I want to?”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

He snorts and gives her another unimpressed look, leading her up the few steps in front of the door. “You’re kinda a brat, huh?”

Ellie laughs, squinting at the dark interior beyond the front door. “Is this place even open? You know me and Mya joked about you murdering me, but I told her if you were going to do it, you would’ve done it on the ferry, because like, that’s a lot of water to disappear a person into. But now… empty building? Kinda sus.”

“Sus,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “The ferry would be a terrible place to murder someone. There are cameras in the terminals, not to mention the number of people that could see something. Hard to explain someone getting on one side and not getting off on the other, isn’t it?”

She scrunches her nose at him again. “Sounds like something a murderer would say.”

“Oh, she is a brat, isn’t she?” he says lowly, almost like it’s to himself, but the crooked smile he gives her is full of something teasing as he tightens his hand around hers in a little squeeze.

Ellie grins and laughs— and on some… stupid little moment of ease and laughter, sways into his side and presses her forehead into the thick of his shoulder. It’s warm, even through the layers of his clothing, harder than she imagined— not that she imagined it, because she hasn’t— she might’ve been— she might have had a moment about his hands but she hasn’t imagined anything—

She pushes out a breath, keeping her forehead against his shoulder for another second or two, shoving her thoughts away because it’s intrusive thoughts, intrusive thoughts, intrusive thoughts—

Cars pass by behind them, the city’s never quiet or still, but for a second, as Ellie feels the first slide of his fingers and then palm along the back of her neck… everything goes quiet.

Her heart trips and pounds and she closes her eyes against it, feeling the heat in his palm, the slight shift of his body, his lips against the top of her temple. (The little bit of slickness between her legs that she isn’t thinking about.)

His voice is low, humoured but quiet, a little rough. “Not gonna murder you. Kidnap you? Maybe.”

“You want to kidnap me?”

He grunts something like a laugh, the sound rolls against her forehead in the pocket of space she lets herself exist in for a moment as his thumb stroking along the skin behind her ear.

She shivers. His thumb stops.

He presses another kiss to her temple. “You wearing a wire? This feels like entrapment.”

Ellie laughs and pulls back; his hand slides off her neck as she looks up at him. “Chicken.”

He grins and shakes his head, punching in some numbers into a keypad beside the door. “Come on, brat. In you get.”

The door buzzes and unlocks and he pulls it open for her.

It’s not quite dark inside, but it still doesn’t look open, whatever this place is. There’s a set of steps ahead, one low light at the top that gives off just enough light to see and a decorative light fixture hanging above them that isn’t on.

Nico leads them up the short staircase, where there’s a long hallway, an open doorway to her right and another one on her left a little further up. The hall stretches onward to another set of stairs but Nico turns them left, and the space opens up into a dining room lit only by the city lights glowing outside the windows. South, she thinks, so the Financial District, curving out and glowing bright and towering over the stretching line of piers along the Hudson.

It’s a restaurant, she realises. Noticing a few paint cans near the wall behind her. Just a restaurant that isn’t actually open, yet.

There’s light spilling along a hallway near the back of the restaurant, where there’s a wall with a large abstract painting leaning against it, not hung up yet. She can hear voices, music, somewhere ahead, and low music.

“What is this place?” she asks, as Nico leads her towards the light and sound behind the wall.

There’s a large, stone oven glowing faintly and giving off heat from the embers still burning inside, and through a set of doors ahead, where all the noise is coming from, is a kitchen.

Nico leads her in; it’s all sparkling metal, perfectly clean workspaces, big metal fridges and ovens and a few cooks, working away at different stations.

“Nico,” an older, heavy-set man calls out, walking towards them and wiping his hand on a cloth before offering it to Nico to shake. “Non lo sapevo— I would have—”

Nico waves him off. “Last minute change of plans. You’ve settled on the pizzas for the menus, haven’t you?”

The man nods. “Yes. But, it’s no problem, we can make whatever you like.” He glances at Ellie with a curious smile. “Any preference?”

She looks to Nico, but he just lifts a brow, waiting for her to answer. She looks back at the chef, his eyes crinkle with a grin. “Uhm, not really… I’m not big on sardines.”

The chef laughs, glancing at Nico and back to her. “Ay, ay. I can manage that.”

“We’ll be upstairs,” Nico says and the chef nods. “Grazie, Martin.”

Nico leads her down the length of the kitchen, a few of the cooks are working away at different stations but they all nod at him with a polite sir. No one says anything to her, really, their eyes slide over her, touched with curiosity as she keeps close to Nico’s side.

On one workspace near the back, they pass a set of shelves with containers… and Ellie sees a small jar with a swing lid that looks like—

“Wait, this is where you got the oatmeal from?” she asks with a little breath of surprise as he leads her through another swinging door and down a hallway where one wall is filled with racks of wine and alcohol.

He looks at her with a crooked smile. “Mm, it’s not Martin’s typical fair but I figured if he’s good enough to run two restaurants, he can make blueberry oatmeal better than most places around here.”

Ellie’s laugh is quick and airy, full of a belly of fizz at the way he smiles at her, at the simple little fact that he had a chef make her blueberry oatmeal just because she mentioned it once—

“You’re ridiculous,” she says around the feeling, watching Nico pull a yellow wine bottle out the rack.

“Why is that ridiculous?” he asks, as he picks up an opener from a shelf next to it.

“Because it—” she laughs as he leads her up a narrow set of stairs meant for staff and up to another, smaller dining room overlooking the Hudson. “You had a full, professional chef make me oatmeal.”

He smiles, his eyes moving over her face as he sets the wine bottle and opener on a table closest to the windows; he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, just squeezes her hand.

There aren’t any lights on, but they aren’t really needed, not with the lights pouring in from the city around them. Jersey across the Hudson River, the Financial District to the south, all the piers stretching out along the waterfront on either side of the restaurant.

It’s pretty.

At the windows, Ellie looks down at the two piers directly out the window and below them, the lights lighting them up, the bike path, all the people still out and enjoying the evening below them.

“What is this place?”

Nico lingers at her side, looking at her in the glow of the city for a stretch of a moment— before urging her a step back, leading her around the closest table. He pulls out her chair, waiting for her to sit before he pulls the other chair a little closer, sitting next to her on the same side. Their legs brush. She thinks about the ferry, his thigh pressing against hers. His hand… big and wide on her thigh before she held it.

In the quiet, Nico reaches into his suit jacket to pull out his phone, typing something before turning it towards her, holding it out for her to take.

She hesitates before taking it, their fingers brushing. On the screen is a search result in an internet browser, the query: Nomad owners. The first result is a restaurant blog for the city: Nomad has become a staple of New York fine dining. Built with intriguing craftsmanship and design we’ve come to expect from Illyana Cordova…

The article in the result cuts off, Ellie clicks into it, glancing up at Nico as the page loads. “Cordova.”

His mother, she thinks.

He lifts a brow. “Got to work on your Google skill, sweetheart.”

“A joint venture between Obra and Cordarius, Nomad is a leading example of New York still embodying the American dream…” Ellie trails off, looking up at Nico again.

She didn’t look up his parents. It feels a little stupid to not have, now. But at the time… it wasn’t about his businesses, not really. She read article after article just to see if she could learn something about him. Anything more than business and money.

It wasn’t about that. She didn’t care about that. It was just about him.

“Obra is my father’s construction company,” Nico says as Ellie glances back down at his phone. “He and my mother focus on real estate and restaurants. Cordarius is mine, mostly financial. They own another restaurant,” he tilts his head, pointing further south along the pier. “A few streets south, Dacha, it’s a bit more family-oriented, one of the first they opened. There’s another Sobremesa in DUMBO. It’s been running a few years.”

“Oh,” she exhales, thinking about the other restaurant. The familiarity of the waitress, the valet, the hostess—

No, she thinks, ignoring the little bubble of that bitter feeling again, the hostess was something else. She wanted— she wanted him.

“So, Nomad was… you own it.”

“Indirectly, but… yes.”

She feels stupid. It shouldn’t have mattered, should it? Even if it was somewhere he took dates. It shouldn’t have mattered— because that’s not why he took you there.

Ellie looks down, her stomach a knot. “We could have stayed. You could have said—”

“Hey,” he says, touching her chin. “No big deal.”

His thumb is warm; she looks at him, lit up just by the city lights around them. “I’m sorry, I just… I think I was like, the youngest person there and I’m not like— I like when— I mean, I’d be happy with a Hot Pocket. I’m not fancy.”

His smile is slow, his fingers trail up her cheek tucking a loose strand of her hair at her temple behind her ear. “A Hot Pocket, huh?”

She shrugs, sinking her teeth into her cheek because his face is—

She looks away; Nico pulls his hand away and reaches for the wine bottle and opener he set on the table.

He opens it with a pop, it’s another white wine, it swirls in the glass as he pours it. The laugh she gives when he hands her a glass and clinks his own against it is embarrassingly close to a giggle, but all he does is smile at her, watching her as they both take their first sip.

It’s crisp and bright, less sweet than the other one, but good.

His phone buzzes on the table and they both glance at it; she watches him pick it up, his eyes moving as he reads, his thumb sliding as he texts… but then he’s turning it face down and looking at her, his knee pushing a little into hers. She’s distracted by it, but it’s more like… like she’s thinking about all the parts he isn’t touching. Their chairs are turned slightly towards each other, but it’s only their knees touching. The sharp of her pale knee pressing just above his, into the thick of his black-clothed thigh. (The heat of his thigh on the ferry. His side pressed against hers. His arm over her shoulders.)

“You planning on working at the Roastery next year? On your gap year?”

Ellie blinks as his voice pulls her out of the memory; his hand rests on his thigh, his other leg stretched out under the table, his lap—

She looks away, her stomach twisting hotly. “Uhm, maybe. But the owner, Marianne? She owns a bakery and she’s been wanting me to work there with her but it’s hard with school. The hours are like, really early. So, I might work there, once I don’t have to worry about school.”

“You like to bake?”

She looks at his right hand, resting near his wine glass, the veins, knuckles, that scar… it looks like there’s another one on his thumb, just under the knuckle.

“Yeah,” she says, irritated by the too-quick beat of her heart, all the rolling little wants inside of her, this needy, humming thing that wants to be closer to him. “It’s… I don’t know. Calming, I guess. I help make some of the stuff at the Roastery sometimes. You remember—”

She winces a little at the memory of Tara saying my muffins.

“Remember what?” he urges, lifting his wine to take a drink.

Ellie pulls in a breath, letting it out quietly, reaching for her wine. “Those muffins you had, the samples Tara gave you, like forever ago now?”

He frowns and then nods. “Right, your co-worker. The flirty one,” he snorts at the memory, rubbing his hand over his jaw before setting it back down on his thigh. “Nice girl, a bit obvious though.”

She looks at his hand, worrying her cheek. Her stomach twists tighter, her heart trips. She reaches for it, giving in to the urge, tucking her fingers into his palm and pulling it towards herself. His arm is relaxed and heavier than she expects when she drags it into her lap.

“What, not even tempted?” she teases, and even though the thought of it knots in her stomach, her curiosity is too strong. The waitress, Tara, dates… she knows what he looks like.

That box under his sink. (His bed. His hands. A tense stomach and a baby—baby—)

She can feel him looking at her, but her head is a mess and her thoughts are— intrusive, stupid, they don’t matter.

She just needs to get used to him.

“Wasn’t there for her,” he says evenly, watching her splay her fingers under his. Stretching them out just to see it again.  “And she’s too—”

There’s a knock behind them— Ellie jumps, her hand sliding out from beneath his, but it makes his hand land on her thigh, just above her knee, and it’s hot and big and her breath catches as Nico turns to look at the chef—

Martin, she thinks, Martin— who’s carrying in a big stone tray with a smile, saying something to Nico, but Ellie’s heart is beating in her ears because his hand is hot, his fingers curving along the inside of her thigh, his thumb sliding slowly, absently over the top of her knee.

She tears her eyes away; Nico turns back as Martin sets the stone tray in front of them, but his hand stays, his palm settling hot, huge, almost on the inside of her thigh. Nearly, basically between her legs.

Knees, she thinks, it’s just between your knees.

There’s a difference.

There are two hand-tossed pizzas, fire-cooked and steaming on top; the sight makes her stomach growl and the smell makes her mouth water. Crisped edges and melting thick round pieces of mozzarella, sauce, and basil. The other has some sort of meat cut up in thick slices, and it’s thinner, crispier.

“Chiama se—" Martin starts before he looks at her, and then Nico with a smile. “Ah, I mean, call if you need anything, yes? Anything at all.”

“Thank— uhm, grazie... for the oatmeal,” Ellie pushes out, hoping Nico can’t feel her heartbeat through her, despite the way it feels like her whole body is beating with it and it’s focused, echoing, pounding away right out from beneath his palm.

Martin grins. “Ah, piccola, you are very welcome. Did you like it?”

“Very much,” she says with a smile. “It was delicious.”

“Bene, bene,” he chuckles and then looks to Nico. “Lei è adorabile. Buon lavoro.”

Nico waves him off, but he’s smiling, all relaxed in his seat next to her, with his hand on her thigh, one of his legs stretched out beneath the table and the other pressing against hers...  she can’t help but think he looks confident. Smug, almost.

Martin chuckles, nodding and rolling his hand, ay, ay, you know— and starts to leave, calling out for Ellie to come see him before she leaves—

And then it’s just them again, and in the quiet after Martin’s presence, their eyes meet and Nico’s still smiling, crooked and confident and pleased. Cocky.

She’s never seen anything like it on his face.

“What?” she asks with a little laugh.

He shakes his head, rubbing his hand over his jaw and fighting the smile. “Nothin’, baby girl.”

He reaches for the tray, dragging it closer with one hand, pulling a piece off and handing it to her, cheesy and gooey and still steaming.

It’s delicious. Even if she has to breathe around the bite because it’s too hot.

His other hand stays, big and warm, curved around and over her thigh as he takes a piece for himself. It’s distracting. Comforting. Something she wants as much as she knows she probably shouldn’t.

But for a moment, in the glow of the city across the Hudson, the twinkling lights of Manhattan to the south, Ellie lets herself have it.

Just for a little while, she thinks.

                   The car shuts off quietly. The stretch of space between the street and her dorm seems a lot darker than it normally does. Her room is dark too, they didn’t leave any lights on; with Mya gone it’ll be quiet. Too quiet.

(She doesn’t think about her side-table drawer or the itch that’s been lingering all night.)

Nico slips out of the driver’s seat; she watches him round the car, drag a hand through his hair, just in his black button-up because she’s wrapped up and drowning in his suit jacket. (And his warmth and his cologne.)

She fiddles with the latch the little jar on her lap, it’s another little oatmeal, for breakfast, Martin had said with a smile, for Nico’s tesoro—

But then Nico’s at her door and there’s a rush of cold-tipped night air and she’s climbing out, as much as she kind of... doesn’t really want to.

It’s late, she’s full of pizza and sweet wine and tiramisu. She’s tired. She should go to bed. She does want to put pyjamas on and take off her heels, but...

But, she doesn’t want to leave him. (Her thigh hasn’t stopped being cold since he took his hand off it.)

It’s stupid, she feels childish, playing with the latch of the jar and lingering in front of him, close enough their shoes are nearly touching. “Do you want your jacket back?”

He half-smiles. “I know where you live.”

Ellie nods, giving him a weak smile, because it’s funny, it’s a joke, the whole kidnapping, murder thing, right?

But it falls flat inside of her as she stands there, worrying her cheek and pulling in a breath. That feeling, just like last time, comes surging back. She looks at his shoulders, his chest...down the line of his shirt, the black buttons where her forehead would press if she stepped forward.

She wants to hug him goodbye. It’s stupid. She’s not a kid.

“Thanks—” she pushes out, forcing a smile and taking a step back. “I had a good time.”

His eyes flick down, just for a second at the jar in her hands, but then he’s meeting her eyes again, tucking his hands into his pockets and leaning back against his car. “Don’t thank me, sweetheart. Anytime.”

She nods and takes another step back. “I’ll see you soon?”

His smile is soft. “Anytime, Ellie, I mean it.”

She nods again, looking at his chest, imagining it— (stepping closer, his arms, his weight, the thick of him all around her)—she turns to go, knowing he’s watching her leave. That he’ll be there until she’s in her room. It’s comforting.

She takes a few steps, the cold grass tickles her toes, her room seems miles away—

Fuck it, she thinks and turns back.

Nico frowns, pushing up from the car as she walks quickly back to him, his eyebrows sinking together as his mouth opens—

“Wh—”

Ellie collides with him, she doesn’t care that it’s unsteady, childish even, the way she wraps her arms around his stomach and buries her face into his chest.

For a second, he’s completely still and there’s a prickle of fear along her spine that she crossed a line, that she shouldn’t have—

But then he’s wrapping his arms around her and bending a little, pulling her straight up and into him until she’s clinging on like a leech, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face into his neck as her feet come off the ground because she’s terrified there’s too much on it, but Nico—

Nico groans, deep and throaty, taking a step forward away from the curb like he’s just... letting her weight sink into him.

“I’ve been fucking dying for this, baby girl.” His voice rumbles through her, low and rough and so fucking satisfied it twists her up inside. “Christ.”

Heat pricks behind her eyes as her throat tightens at the sound of his voice, at him wanting this as much as she does— which is stupid, so stupid— she’s not a kid—

It’s just a fucking hug.

But she tucks her face tighter into his neck, clinging on to him, feeling his arms tighten as hers do even though it’s a little hard to breathe she doesn’t want him to let go.

He turns them taking a step towards his car, pulling her a little higher, shifting her weight like he can somehow get her closer, his chest rumbling with another grunt as his mouth drops to her shoulder.

She wonders if he’s aware of everything the way she is. Her chest against his, the heat of his body against hers, every button on his shirt pressing through the thin of her dress, all the way down her stomach— his belt, bumping just against her—

Her dress is too short, she can’t—she won’t— curve her legs around him, even though it’s a slinking image behind her eyelids. She’s thankful for his jacket, oversized and hiding the way her dress climbs, caught between them and brushing the curve of her ass.

It’s a weird, unbalanced feeling. The want for a hug warring against her awareness of him and his body. It twists her up; she breathes him in, hating how much she wants him to keep holding her despite it.

“Come home with me,” he says roughly, low and rolling into her, almost against her neck, pressing a kiss on her shoulder, through the thick his suit jacket bunched up on her shoulders. “We can watch a movie or something. Anything you want.”

Ellie nods, swallowing the ache in her throat, the heat in her stomach, the little throb in her cunt at his voice so close to her ear.

She squeezes her eyes tighter, her heart pounding— she expects him to let her go, to ease her to her feet so they can get back in the car... but he doesn’t.

He just... holds her.

She lets him.

Chapter Text

eight

                It’s a quiet ride back to his loft.    

In the underground lot, Ellie waits for Nico to turn and slip out of the driver’s seat before she quickly opens her door and slides out; with the little jar of oatmeal in one hand and stretching her other arm out, she wiggles her fingertips, giving him a wide-eyed, innocent-as-anything sort of smile as he rounds the car.

He points at her, his eyes narrowing. “Thin ice.”

Her laughter echoes in the quiet of the lot; Nico takes her hand and shakes his head, but the crooked smile on his face gives him away as he leads her across the cool, fluorescent-lit space.

Her heels are hollow little echoes on the cement, and despite the nervous little hum inside of her that whispers how much this feels like something you do after a real date… she’s focusing on the comfort of the moment: her fingers tucked into his palm, his warmth beside her. His jacket around her. The rightness of coming home with him.

She doesn’t know what to do with that feeling, but it’s there and she’s too content to fight it. To peel it apart to understand it.

(There’s a lot, she thinks, that she doesn’t know what to do with lately. But she isn’t sure where to even start. Where it begins. A club. A photo. An idea. Gap-toothed questions that never got any answers?)

It’s in the quiet, the rightness, that Ellie glances around the lot and notices some of the expensive cars that Nico drives filling up the parking spots alongside the more standard, black, tinted-window Range Rovers and SUVs.

“Do the other people here get annoyed you take up so many parking spots?”

Nico looks down at her, his brows twitching together for a second before he looks away, barking out a short laugh as they stop in front of the elevator and he presses the button.

“If they do, they’re in the wrong lot.”

Ellie frowns at him, watching the tilt of his mouth as the elevator doors glide open and they step inside. Nico tilts his chin at the panel, a little go on, in the direction of it.

Following his eye line, she looks to the panel on the inside of the elevator where there are only four buttons, she remembers noticing it the first morning she was here, but she was too caught up in her own stupid, hungover mind to care.

The first two are the ‘open doors’ and ‘close doors’ symbols and the last two are just plain black.

She blinks at the button as the doors slide shut but the elevator stays still, there are no labelled buttons for any of the floors that have to be in the building, which means…

“You have a private elevator?” Ellie says, her eyebrows tilting up in disbelief. “There’s no— wait— all those cars are yours?”

He grins, reaching forward to press the black button, the elevator starts to climb and Ellie blinks at him as he leans back, settling a little against the mirrored wall.

“One of the few, stupid things I spend money on, yes.”

“There was like… ten cars in there.”

“Eleven, but two of them belong to security.”

Ellie blinks. “You’re serious.”

He laughs, tugging her closer, she stumbles a little into him, but he’s steady, warm and solid as he curves his arm around her waist to pull her into his side. “Why would I lie about that?”

Ellie blinks at him. “Does everyone have private lots?”

“No.”

She thinks about his loft, the balcony she only spent a moment out on. There was no one above them, was there? Just sky. “Is it because you’re on the top floor? Like, top-floor loft privileges?”

Nico’s laugh is a puff of air as he tilts his head against the mirror behind him; he’s too tall, she thinks. Too… just big. Even in his back button-up, jacketless and leaning all easy against the elevator wall and looking down at her with something like amusement in his eyes.

“It’s because I own the building, sweetheart.”

The doors open but she’s too busy looking at him to move until he straightens off the wall and pulls her along with him.

“And it’s the penthouse, not a loft.”

She knew that he was wealthy, more than wealthy— have to be kinda an asshole to have that much money, Aunt Jilly had said— but that was all just numbers on a screen, articles and words she couldn’t really— didn’t really care to understand. Too focused on the man with his dark hair and perfect suits, sticking out from all the other articles. Grey-haired men and women, inherited wealth. Apple, Amazon, Walmart. Tech, Finance, retail.

He’s not that, she thinks, but still… it's different to see his wealth in person than just a number on a screen in a list of other numbers and names and companies.

He pulls out a set of keys, they jingle quietly in the hallway that the elevator opens up into; the exit sign above a door at the other end glows. “So, this whole floor is yours?”

Nico pushes the door open, holding it for Ellie to walk in ahead of him. It’s barely lit inside, the city-light and moonlight streaming in from windows and illuminating the penthouse. The stretch of it as it opens up into a large living space, sectioned off into different areas.

“Want a tour?” Nico asks, his keys clattering onto a narrow table in the entryway behind her before she feels his hands on her shoulders, edging his jacket off of her shoulders. There’s a big round mirror above the table and from the corner of her eyes, Ellie can see him, his height behind her, his hands on her shoulders. The slight fall of a strand of dark hair over his forehead as he looks down at her.

It’s weirdly…

She looks away.

(Domestic, her mind whispers. Intimate.)

She isn’t entirely sure she wants to give the jacket back; it was comforting, warm, helped dampen that edge of feeling exposed that her dress made her feel. Without it, she’s back to being overly aware of her own body; like her skin brings those feelings, those thoughts out of her, that every inch of her is aware of every inch of him.

Bracing her forearm on the wall near what she assumes is a closet, she lifts her foot and bends her knee to take off her heels.

Nico’s gaze is down, but when it flicks back up, her stomach twists at the idea he was looking at her— it’s stupid, she isn’t sure where he was looking, and him looking doesn’t mean he was looking—

And God, she thinks, her fucking head.

Nico reaches down to slip off his shoes, nudging them nearer to the wall; she moves to copy him, but he waves her off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Overly aware of her bare feet on the cool floor and her height now, without her heels as Nico steps up to her— a crooked little smile in the corner of his mouth that says he’s absolutely thinking the same thing— Ellie rolls her eyes and steps backwards before turning around.

“Don’t be mean.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

The humour in his voice is obvious, she glares over her shoulder at him, fighting the stupid little burst of fizzy joy in her stomach at the sight of his grin as she walks into the open space ahead.

To her left is the kitchen with its big island and steel appliances; a double-door fridge with one side made of glass that spills a little pale-white light over the area. The space to her right stretches towards an exposed-brick wall with huge windows, the city glimmering through them, stretching out across the Upper East Side and towards Harlem. Ahead of her, past the kitchen, the sections of couches and rugs and décor, are the glass-walls that make up the front half of the space, the ones that look down over Central Park.

It’s a bit ridiculous, she thinks, the sheer amount of space that highlights just how wealthy he is… but it’s also… kinda cool looking, she can’t lie.

“Want a drink?” Nico asks, stepping into the kitchen as Ellie turns to look at him; he’s unbuttoning the sleeve of his shirt as he walks, rolling it up and over the thick of his forearm—

Her insides tighten and she bites her cheek, following him into the open kitchen and shoving the feeling away.

Slipping up and onto one of the stools on the other side of the island, Ellie doesn’t watch him roll the other sleeve, doesn’t watch the way his arm and shoulder move beneath his shirt— but she does watch him move in his space; the span of his shoulders, the dark of his hair at the back of his head, the spill of light as he tugs open the fridge and pulls a carton of fresh raspberries out to drop them on the island in front of her.

 She’s torn between wanting that little bit of ease that more alcohol will give her and worrying that having more might… loosen her brain too much. Trip up all her carefully— okay, not so carefully, she thinks, shoved and stomped on thoughts— and leave her thinking and saying things she shouldn’t.

Drunk-Ellie isn’t the most reliable thing.

Pretty much puked on him and then cried for him to stay with me. Which is just… ugh, she thinks.

On the end of the wall that separates the hall from the kitchen, there’s a shelf that holds rows of glasses and racks of alcohol bottles; Nico opens the bottom half, pulling out a bottle of something chilled before pulling down a glass.

It’s as neat as it is ridiculous, also… not entirely surprising after the car thing. What’s a wall-insert shelf next to like, nine cars and a private parking lot in New York?

Not much, she thinks.

Nico grips the lid of a bottle of vanilla syrup, the seal gives a quiet little crack before he spins the lid off and pours some into the glass.

He does everything so… there’s just something about how he exists, she thinks. Confident and easy and sure.

Maybe it’s a size thing. Ellie guesses she’d be pretty confident too if she looked like him. Six-foot-whatever and stupid strong. Top of the food chain, or something. Megalo-Dadd—

Oh my God, she thinks and bites her cheek until it hurts. You did not just think that.

She hates Mya, it’s official.

She wonders who he bought the syrup for because obviously, it’s brand new. She thinks of him leaving the restaurant, the tap to the hostess-stand, the champagne’s too sweet. His face at the chocolate Frappuccino she made him…

She isn’t sure he likes sweet things.

Girlfriends, she thinks. Girls who’ve seen him just like this. Girls he’s made drinks for. Girls who’ve seen him roll on one of those cond—

There is something wrong with her.

She tears her eyes away from his hands, stealing a raspberry from the container and trying to focus on the bright, sweet-sour burst of it in her mouth, but—

But she watches his hands on the muddler, mushing the raspberries and the syrup together in the bottom of the glass before adding in vodka and fizzy water.

The drink turns pink as it fizzes and bubbles inside the glass as he drops a metal straw into it and slides it across the counter towards her.

Nico braces his hands on the island; the scar is there, her eyes land on it before she reaches for her drink. Their eyes meet as she lifts the straw to her mouth, and the bright burst of raspberries and the hint of vanilla beneath the fizz of the drink, pulls her out of the weight of his eyes.

“Oh wow,” she says, licking her lips and taking another sip. “That’s so good.”

“Good,” he says and pops a berry into his mouth before turning away and grabbing a bottle of something amber and pouring a sloshing inch or two into a glass for himself. “It seemed like a safe bet, little sweet tooth you’ve got.”

“You’ve never had it before?”

He shakes his head. “Never made it before.”

Did he buy it for her?

“You don’t like sweet things?” She tears her eyes away from him, looking down at the pink, fizzy drink. At the bottle of vanilla syrup. She didn’t mean for it to be a question, not really, but it comes out tinted that way, waiting for an answer.

“Not really.”

She glances at him, at the crooked smile on his lips— and then at the raspberries. “At all?”

His chest shifts with a breath and for a second it looks like he’s going to say something, but he smiles, a low laugh slipping out of his chest as he pushes away from the counter. “Do you want a tour, sweetheart?”

She wants to press the question, but— but if he didn’t, would you be disappointed?

Yes, she thinks.

It’s stupid, they’re raspberries. So what if he didn’t buy them for her.

Not everything is about you, you baby, she tells herself even though the question sits right there in the middle of her tongue.

Instead, she hums around her straw, making a show of looking around by spinning on the stool slowly. “I mean… I can kinda already see everything. Big open space, and all. Not sure what the tour would be. More cars?”

His eyes flick up as he pulls in a slow breath and lets it out; it’s almost an eye-roll and she fights a laugh as he steps around the counter, carrying his drink and tilting his chin towards the space ahead of him. “C’mon, brat.”

She slips off her stool with a grin, slipping her hand into his and carrying her drink in the other as he leads her forward through the wide-open space of his penthouse.

There’s a big, wood dining table in the space between the kitchen and the first sitting area. A hallway she peers down as they pass by. There are no real sections to the space after the kitchen, just one huge open area divided by decor. The first area has two big, cream-coloured sofas around a low, dark-wood coffee table, pops of colour from dark-red, soft-looking chairs. There’s a tv mounted on the brick wall that runs along the length of the left side that’s big enough she bets she could watch it from the kitchen.

Or anywhere, really. Seeing as it’s all just open.

They pass the dark, open-backed stairs. Ellie glances up at them, knowing what’s up there already. (That morning, him following, his hoodie heavy and warm on her shoulders.)

(His bed.)

It feels like years ago. It’s strange to think of how much a stranger he was in that moment, compared to— to everything he is to her now.

Whatever he is to her now.

(Friend. Father. Fantasy.)

After the stairs, across the dark-wood floors and nearer the panels of glass that makes up the west side of the penthouse overlooking Central Park, is another sitting area, set up nearly the same, soft couches and big comfortable chairs, ottomans and loungers. A sound system that looks like it’s worth thousands.

With no neighbours, she guesses he doesn’t have to worry too much about noise complaints.

Nico leads her up to the glass, his hand coming out of hers as he grips onto a bit of the black border between the panels of glass that span the height of his penthouse.

He pulls, and just like the wall in his bedroom, the glass panels fold like an accordion, sliding heavily but quietly together as he pushes it back. The cool October air sneaks in and brushes against her legs as she steps out onto the balcony.

There’s a long, rectangle pool that’s lit from inside, and it spills a shifting, blue-tinted light over the area, the water moving just a little in the wind that catches some loose pieces of hair that have frayed out of her bun and brush over her cheeks.

She tucks a strand behind her ear, hugging herself one-handed as she wanders further out, looking over the space; the loungers and tables, potted plants and big, carefully cultivated bushes, lights set into the stonework, like little orbs glowing up at them.

It’s cool. Stupidly, ridiculously over the top. But cool.

At the edge, Ellie looks out over Central Park; all the dark spots of trees and green space, the winding, dim lights that trail along the sides of the paths. The inky stretch of the lakes tucked inside of it.

The stretch of the glowing, bright city around it, all the towering skyscrapers to the left, her school ahead, Jersey and the harbour in the distance.

It’s somehow brighter and darker than her campus, this high up. Her campus feels more secluded, a pocket of quiet space tucked into the city even if it is tucked right into it. But this… the wind pushes through her cardigan and she shivers, but it’s too pretty to go back inside yet. There’s something about the massiveness of a city glowing around you, beneath you— being so high up that everything, all those noises, all that life is just… sounds on the wind. Sirens and cars and people.

It’s this thing caught between lonely and comforting. A quiet moment stolen away from everything, filled with the awareness of all those people that could be doing and thinking the same in the towering buildings of the city, all the buildings just like his, lined up along the stretching length of Central Park.

The wind is strong, but Nico steps up beside her and he’s this wall of warmth at her side that she presses a little closer to. Sink towards, like his warmth is a bit of gravity she can’t help but be pulled into.

He’s big enough to have his own orbit, she thinks, and indulges in the feeling of it, the comfort of the easy pull.

Neither one of them say anything but it’s not, she thinks, uncomfortable. It’s just quiet.

The balcony on this level is wider than the one outside of his bedroom, and Ellie cranes her head up to look at it, lingering for a minute in the memory of him that first morning.

It’s not the first time that she’s thought about the fact that this is his home, that this is his life— but the awareness of it all just sits there, waiting for her to think about more.

She isn’t sure she’s ready too, yet.

He told her this was one of his favourite places, didn’t he?

She looks up at him, his head turns just a little, meeting her eyes. She wonders who else knows that about him. If he’s… if he just tells people those things or if it’s… if those things are just hers to know.

It’s stupid, but the little bit of crawling jealousy feels like a spider slinking along her insides, wondering what he tells a girlfriend, what he looks like while he does it, where he does it. (A hard orange seat, the heaviness of his arm, trading facts as the ferry cuts over the water.)

(Laying beside him in bed, in the dark, in the early morning light she woke up in that first morning?)

She wants it so brightly and so viciously it feels like a torch against her insides. It’s stupid and fucked up and she pushes away from it as she pushes away from the railing and Nico. Wandering over to the pool, putting out one arm to balance herself and dip a toe in. It’s warmer than she expects and she does it again, the water a soft little swish beneath the path of her toes.

“I’ve never been in a pool at night, it’s pretty.” She pulls her foot out before crouching down to sink her hand into it, feeling the warmth of the water even as the cool air licks at her wet foot. “Is it warmed?”

“A bit. You can go in if you want.”

She glances up at him. He’s leaning against the ledge and watching her, a bit of his inky-dark hair moving on the top of his head in the breeze. It’s too dark to understand what’s on his face, or maybe that’s not true, because there’s enough light, tinted in that pool-blue glow, all those little orb lights that spill a bit of light over the balcony stones that she can see everything on his face, it’s just—

It’s just that she doesn’t know what it is— he’s just looking at her but it feels like it always does, that he’s just… content to watch her.

Her pulse trips and she loses her balance, plopping back with an oof— and a laugh in her throat as soon as her ass touches the cold stones beneath her; her cheeks heating with embarrassment and her drink sloshing in the glass.

He’s still watching, she can’t help but think it’s a beat too long before he smiles— but then he does and it’s his normal grin, so she brushes the moment off as he pushes off the railing and crosses the distance between them, holding out his hand to pull her up.

“You can go in if you want, I don’t mind.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“Your dorm isn’t far, we can grab it, if you really want to go.”

“Oh,” she says with a shake of her head. “No… all my suits are back at home. I don’t bring them to school. The school pool is like… all swim-team and like, super chlorine-y. So… I’d have to wait to grab one till I go home on the weekend, maybe.”

He shrugs. “Bathing suits aren’t much more than underwear. I’ve had people over who’ve done it before.”

Oh, that be cool, she thinks, looking back to the water just as his words settle into her mind. People?

Girlfriends?

Ellie gets the sudden, stomach-churning image of Nico in the water, water lapping at his skin as he presses a girl— a woman— a woman against the side of the pool, his mouth along her jaw, his hand on a damp bra-strap—

Ellie bites her cheek, pulling in a breath that feels too shallow. Her head is— her head is so fucked— (she’d strip down, slip in, and he’d be there, all broad-shouldered and hot, his skin against hers, his hand sliding over her side—)

(And his voice, his voice.)

She’s swallowed by the idea of getting in the water with him, but— but she shakes her head, blinking up at him and trying to push the images out. Focus on reality. On the cold air that brushes over her too-hot cheeks. At the flicker, licking beat of heat between her thighs that feels like water, lapping against his hand on her shoulder.

“I can’t. I’m not—” she motions to her chest, cursing herself twice over for skipping a bra. “You know.”

Nico’s eyes flick down, and it’s just for a second, just one— but it makes her overly aware of every small inch of herself. Her nipples peaked in the cold, the thin of her dress, the silky slip-side of it that slopes just a little too low, the drape of silk meant to be looked at but—

But not by him, she thinks. A boyfriend. And he’s—

He’s not that.

The wind moves the silk over her skin; she feels every smooth, cool slide of it, every whisper-like brush on her thighs and stomach as the wind slips beneath it, cold-tipped air on her skin—

Her pulse trips, her mind spins— (warm water, his mouth on her bare shoulder, baby) but his eyes are already settled back on her face as he shifts, tucking one hand into his pants pocket, his shoulder shifting with a slow shrug as he takes a step back and takes a mouthful of his drink.

“Another time, then. I’ll keep it open depending on the weather, but there’s a hot tub—” he points, lifting his hand with his drink to the hot tub she hadn’t noticed, sitting near the far end of the pool. “If you want. That stays open.”

Ellie’s stomach is a knot. She nods, lifting her drink and taking a too-large swallow while she tries to stamp all her thoughts, all those slippery images down.

Stop being such a freak, she tells herself, focusing on the lingering taste of the alcohol in her throat. Thinking he’s attractive is not at all the same as thinking about—

Nothing, she thinks, she’s not thinking about anything—

“This place is very bachelor pad-y,” she says, forcing a smile because she’s fine. It’s all fine. “What else does this place have? Other than the underwear swimming parties.”

Nico laughs, a rough short sound and he looks away, out over the pool, his jaw tensing before he shakes his head. “Underwear swimming parties.”

“Hey, I don’t judge,” she grins up at him, taking a step back and tilting her head. “Is there a sports room? Penthouse version of a man-cave? Uh… golf simulator?”

His eyebrows jump. “Golf simulator.”

She shrugs, laughing. “I dunno. All the older rich dudes I know play golf. You have to enjoy doing something in your free time.”

He snorts, lifting his drink and speaking into the cup before drinking. “I don’t have free time.”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “You’ve spent plenty of time with me. Obviously, you have some.”

His lips twitch as he lifts his chin, his eyes narrowing as he looks at her, like he’s making sure she’s serious. “Sweetheart, I make time for you.”

Ellie’s skin prickles at the sound of his voice, rougher than before. Alcohol-touched, maybe. Prickles more at the words. (At the memories, coffees, texts, him on his laptop in the Roastery.) “You do?”

His eyebrows twitch together, his eyes flicking over her face again— and then he huffs a laugh. Like it’s obvious. Like she should know.

(And she does, doesn’t she? Everything he’s done since she ran out of that club. Everything he keeps doing—)

“C’mon,” he says, lifting his hand and tucking a loose strand of hair that blows over her cheek, behind her ear. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

He wants her, she knows he does.

(I want you, if that’s what you’re asking.)

But still, she thinks.

She wants—

She doesn’t know why it doesn’t feel like enough.

                He leads her across the loft, down the side opposite the kitchen, along the brick wall filled with towering windows that let in the light of the city just enough to light their way.

It’s sort of a hallway, she thinks, but way too wide. There’s a pool table, a few soft-looking chairs against the interior wall.

“Ah, so it’s pool,” she says bumping her side into his with a grin. “That’s the true staple of a bachelor pad, isn’t it?”

He snorts, wrapping his arm around her and letting her walk a little awkwardly, tucked into his side. “You’ve got a lot of opinions on bachelor pads.”

“Know a lot of people with divorced parents. At least there’s more than just beer in your fridge.”

“Cupboards full of instant noodles, though.”

Ellie laughs, her eyebrows tilting up. “Really?”

Nico laughs, deep and rolling into her side. “No, baby girl. I can cook.”

“Because you're Italian.”

“Because I’m not a man-child.”

“Nope,” she says with a grin, curving her hand over his wrist, hanging big and lax over her shoulder. His pulse is steady and low beneath her fingers. “You’re a very independent bachelor.”

“I can even do my own laundry.”

“Wow.”

I know, he hums. “It’s right there,” he says, pointing to a door against the back wall. “Very useful for underwear swimming parties. Or, little girls who are overly fond of melon balls and can’t hold their liquor.”

“So mean!” Ellie gasps, turning her head into his forearm and feeling his muscles tighten in his arm as he pulls her closer, his chest rolling with laughter. “You’re so mean!”

Something coils tight in her stomach, knotting up her insides in a heat that sinks and slides and settles, a pulse-beat between her thighs that’s all… all images, flickers, skin and hands and muscles and a gasping—

She tenses, just for a second, just a bit— but she isn’t sure Nico notices, not when he’s leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She isn’t sure what to do with herself when that doesn’t kill all those feelings, all those images dead— but rather, leaves her heart beating a little too off-kilter, her stomach a hot knot, and her cun—

Stop it. Stop it.

A kiss to the head is so… so fucking fatherly and she still—

She bites her cheek. Stop it.

At the end of the hall that’s too wide to be a hall, she realises that the elevator wasn’t the start of Nico’s penthouse, but the middle of it.

There’s a whole other space back here.

Nico’s arm comes off of her shoulders and he pushes open the door to the right, holding it for her to walk in.

Inside, it’s low-lit in the same way most of his home is, brightened only by the city outside of the wall-to-ceiling glass panels in front of them. It’s a bedroom, a big bed against the wall to her right, opposite the windows.

He flicks a switch near the door and a pretty, cascading series of lights hanging from the ceiling light up the bedroom and the big, white, braided basket on the bed. Nico’s nudges her forward.

“Go on.”

She isn’t sure what she feels as she walks over to it and gets a better look at it, at the pile of décor magazines and paint colour swatches sitting next to it.

Swallowing the quiet little trip of her pulse as her heart settles somewhere in the base of her throat, she sets her drink down on the nightstand.

When she looks back at him, he’s leaning against the doorway, but she has no idea what’s on his face. Nothing, maybe. She can’t read him at all, but… but in the basket, when she tears her eyes away from him and looks down at it… is a hairbrush, hair-ties, toothpaste and a toothbrush. A white bath-puff and jars and bottles of fancy body washes, moisturizers, shampoos and conditioners. Another smaller basket with little glass bottles of what she can only guess is stupid-expensive skin-care line, toners, moisturizers, and face-wash.

It’s all for her, isn’t it?

She feels when Nico steps up beside her, hears his glass clinking lightly down next to her drink before he’s sitting on the edge of the bed next to the basket and reaching into it.

He pulls out one of the little bottles of skincare, looking at it before setting it back. “I had a colleague pick some things out. I wasn’t sure what you’d use. If there’s anything you’d prefer instead, let me know.”

There’s a set of fluffy pink towels underneath everything and it all blurs a little, as she blinks at them. She knows what he’s saying, or what he’s not quite saying.

The room is for her.

She doesn’t want to cry, but it’s sitting there, a hot little thing at the back of her throat and her head is a jumble of all the years in between them, of all the times she asked about him, all the times she was told no. All the moments of hope and doubt in between a photo and a club.

(That very first time she typed in his name and… and there he was.)

He wants her. He makes time for her. Day after day and— and she isn’t going to cry. She totally, absolutely isn’t going to cry over toiletries.

She leans away when Nico reaches for her with a low Ellie— a strained sound slips out of her throat as she pushes at the tightening grip of his hand on her arm.

“You’re so m-mean—” she whines, twisting away from him and blinking at the blurry city lights outside of the glass because she can’t look at him.

He pulls, just enough to let her know that if he was really trying, she’d have no chance of getting away from him. “Hey. How am I mean?”

She whines in her throat, leaning backwards more, all her body weight on her bare feet sliding on the hardwood floor as Nico holds her just by one arm. One steady grip. It doesn’t even look like he’s trying.

“We were having a good night and you ruined it.”

“How’d I ruin it?”

He doesn’t sound sorry. Curious, maybe. She shakes her head.

“Because—” she whines, even as he tugs her closer, reaching out for her other arm, an exasperated huff out of his chest when she avoids the grab because she’s small and wily and wiggly. “I’m crying over a gift basket. It’s stupid.”

He reaches for her other arm again, trying to pull her into him. “Ell— sweetheart, come here.”

No, Ellie pouts, yanking backwards. “It’s mean. You’re mean.”

Nico stands— and the angle, the shift in her body weight and his, tilts her off-balance, her feet sliding towards him— the world spins but it’s with a caught gasp and a tripping laugh that she’s caught again. Nico scoops her up, an arm beneath her legs, the other around her back, hauling her up and into his chest.

“That’s cheating,” she says, tucking her face into his neck because his face is just a lot— and she doesn’t want to deal with it right now. “You’re a cheater.”

“Thank you, Nico,” he says, carrying her out of the room as she laughs wetly into his neck. “That was very thoughtful of you. I’m so relieved that the next time I get completely shit-faced I’ll have a place to stay without breaking my neck climbing through a window.”

Ellie laughs, thumping her fist against his chest as he carries her across the penthouse. “That’s so mean.”

“It’s so nice of you to give me all that stuff—”

“You know what they say about assuming, don’t you?” she mutters as he carries her down the hall they passed earlier. “It makes an ass out of you—” he pinches her side and she jerks in his arms, shrieking a laugh. “And you!”

His laugh is low and rolling as he brings her into another room, standing in front of a couch where he drops the arm he had beneath her knees; her legs fall, feet touching down onto the couch cushions beneath her.

Ellie grabs onto his shoulders, wobbling to find her balance on the soft of the cushions and ignoring the surge of heat in her stomach as his hands curve (too hot and too big and too slow. Fingers to palm, to a pressure, just a little, just enough, his thumbs on her stomach) on her hips, waiting for her to steady herself.

She’s the same height as him, she realises, and it trips inside of her. They smile at each other, his smile widening more at her breathless little laugh, his eyes flicking over her face.

His palms are hot. She wonders, if he pressed in, just a little, just enough— straightened out his fingers along her back, if his hands would span her waist.

His thumb moves, barely a brush, barely anything, but it spills through her like lightning, cracking out from just above her hip and splits her open, head to toe. She sucks in a little breath and Nico’s eyes dart to her mouth.

It’s barely a second. Barely a beat— he smiles again, his eyes moving slowly back to hers as he eases his hands off of her, making sure she’s stable before stepping back.

“Wait,” Ellie blurts, trying to ignore every inch of her body that’s too cold in the absence of his touch. Filled with a phantom little touch-memory that’s stealing nearly all her focus. For a split second, just one— just one— the words are there, put your hands back— keep touching me—

Touch me more.

But she chokes them down, cuts her teeth into her cheek to stop them, pushing out the only other thing she can think to say. “Can I borrow a sweater? I’m kinda cold.”

It’s lame. It’s stupid. It’s all she can think of, to fill the waiting silence.

Nico nods, and Ellie watches him go with her heart in her ears.

In the quiet, she drops down to the cushions, folding herself in half and touching her forehead to her knees; breathing out slow and steady. Ignoring the ache, that slick little feeling of arousal of being stupid and seventeen.

She pulls in a deep breath and pushes it out as slowly as she can, until her lungs are empty and burning, until her heartbeat is pounding in her ears… and then sucks in a breath.

You just have to get used to him.

Ellie’s face twists against her knees. Get used to him. Come on. He’s your— he’s your dad.

She shouldn’t need to get used to him.

Sitting up and sinking backwards, she slumps against the soft couch back, looking around the room and waiting for him to come back.

He’s your dad and this is his home.

He wants it to be your home, doesn’t he?

It’s a strange fact, this quiet awareness that she knows… no matter how fucked up she feels, no matter how fucked up the things in her head are— she doesn’t want to leave.

She has no idea what to do with that. She should want to leave, shouldn’t she? Run away and pretend none of this is happening. That she doesn’t want him— she squeezes her eyes shut, breathing in and out before opening them again.

It’s a much darker room than anywhere else in the penthouse, even though the same big panels of glass make up the wall to her right, there’s a thick, black curtain covering half of it, only letting in a bit of the city light.

There are two big, soft chairs to her left and a big, swing-like seat, hanging low from the ceiling to her right. It’s neat enough that her curiosity outweighs her pity-party, and she slips off the couch to walk over to sit on it.

She hates feeling mopey about things, and it’s sort of what she’s feeling, mopey and uneven. Stuck in her head and sinking beneath all the things she can’t stop thinking about.

Bracing her feet on the floor, she pushes back, it moves a little, but it’s heavier than she expected. She does it again, looking around the room from her new perch.

There are low-lit shelves on the wall with the door, glasses and what looks like more alcohol… and if the big TV mounted on the wall is any clue, the room is obviously an entertainment room sort of thing.

She wonders, stupidly, if someone like him Netflix and chills— and then promptly pulls herself away from that thought because it’s full of TV-light and a hard chest against her back, a wide hand on her stomach—

She startles when Nico comes back in, a bubble of guilt that she tries to ignore because it’s not like he can see the thoughts in her head and it’s not like they’re anything. It’s all just… intrusive thoughts and a stupid, seventeen-year-old brain.

He sets her drink down on the low table in front of the couch before handing her a black hoodie. She pulls off her cardigan and pulls his hoodie on over her head, standing up at the edge of the swing-seat and letting it fall. It’s huge, longer than her dress and the size of it makes her laugh.

He’s looking at her when she looks up at him, and there’s something in his eyes, or maybe it’s just the shadows from the lights above them, but there’s a beat where he’s not smiling, a beat where his eyes are on her but not… not on her? She doesn’t know.

But then his lips quirk and he lifts a finger, spinning once in a lazy circle.

With a laugh, Ellie holds out her arms and spins. “Good?”

“Very fashionable.”

“Thank you,” she says, curling her hands into the hem of the sweater and puffing it out. “I always aim to look like a toddler in a hoodie.”

He laughs and Ellie drops back against the swing and pushes her feet against the floor, making the swing-seat move. “This is cool by the way. Very much another point in the bachelor-pad column. Did you like, design this place by yourself? Or is there a bachelor design magazine I don’t know about?”

“Very funny,” he says as he walks to the wall behind the couch where there’s a mini-fridge that he grabs a water bottle from and tosses it her way before grabbing one for himself and twisting the lid off to take a drink. “I hired someone. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been on that thing. And it’s not a bachelor pad.”

“That’s lame. And it totally is a bach—” she cuts off, her stomach drops at the realisation that he could have a girlfriend. Why wouldn’t he? Of course—

Just because he hasn’t mentioned a girlfriend doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. Isn’t that what Paul’s said?

She swallows around the sharply-bitter thing in her throat. “Oh, so you— you have a girlfriend, then?”

Please say no, she thinks even as part of her mind says it doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, he’s your father.

His eyebrows twitch together and then he smiles at her. “Is that how you define a bachelor pad? By my relationship status?”

“Not just that,” she says, his non-answer gnawing at her as she tries to not think about the pool. His bedroom. Him rolling on a cond—

Her cheeks burn as her stomach twists at the image that flashes through her head, and she hopes he can’t see it in the low light. She shifts backwards, leaning against the curve of the seat and pulling her feet up and onto it, to hide the things she thinks must be on her face until she can catch the plummeting feelings inside of her and wrap them up into a too-tight smile.

“You have underwear parties,” she says, trying to sound like she’s entertained by all of it, instead of feeling a little sick at the thought of— of what, she thinks, sharing him?

She rolls her head back against the soft, velvety cushion of the curved swing, pushing out a breath. “You just need some hookers and blow and you’re all set for a cliché.”

His laugh is short and deep. “Jesus, Ellie. There are no underwear parties—”

“You said—”

“That people who didn’t have a bathing suit, have gone swimming in their underwear? Have you really never done that?”

She shakes her head before rolling onto her side and scrunching her nose. “No. But I’ve never done hookers and blow either so… I mean, kinda irrelevant.”

“So, if I had a girlfriend, and also had hookers and—” he stops, lifting his hand and rubbing his forehead. “Is this an appropriate conversation to be having with a seventeen-year-old?”

Ellie laughs, her mind striking on the if in his statement like lightning to a rod and the relief is—

Fucked up.

“If you think seventeen-year-olds don’t do hookers and blow you’ve never been to a rich kids house with absent parents.”

He laughs. “Believe me, I know what rich kids get up to.”

Right, she thinks. He was one, wasn’t he?

“Ooh,” she teases, watching as he straightens from where he was leaning against the bar area and circling around to take a seat on the couch. “You do a lot of hookers and blow back in your day? Oh, wait, was it more like… harlots and opium? Ladies of the night and cocaine?”

“Jesus—" he laughs. “The toddler in a hoodie is calling me old. I’m stung.”

Ellie laughs, hey! “You have a bachelor pad, admit it,”

He grunts, dropping his head back against the couch. “It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Not.”

“You— ugh. You’re annoying.”

“I’m right, is what I am. Also thinking that you’ll never be allowed at another rich kid’s house ever again.”

“Oh, no. I’m devastated. You’ll ruin my social life. Anyone who’s anyone partakes in the hookers and blow,” Ellie drawls, watching the grin split his face before he schools it.

“Alright. I’m glad we agree. No more teenage boys for Ellie.”

She laughs, watching the edges of his grin as he leans forward and grabs the remote from the coffee table. “What do you want to watch, trouble?”

“The Hangover.”

He glances at her, one eyebrow tilting up.

Ellie fights a grin. “The Bachelor Party. Old School. Hot Tub Time Machine.”

He fights a laugh, dropping his head back against the couch with a groan. “You’re such a brat, Christ. Seem so fucking sweet at first.”

Her insides twist, a hot flare of a feeling that catches inside of her, hooked sharp in the shape of his voice around one word. Sweet. Sweet.

She pushes through it, forcing a smile, tugging the hoodie strings forward like an antenna. “I’m like an angler fish. Lure them in and then…”

“Brat,” he finishes for her, a low laugh in his throat.

Ellie ignores the warmth, the quiet little throb between her legs when he grins at her across the room.

“Exactly.”

                She has no idea what’s going on.

Kristen Stewart’s been running from some big underwater monster for twenty minutes but that’s all she’s got. She’s been sneaking glances at Nico, watching him in the glow of the movie’s shifting lights and— and all of her focus is on the spread of his knees, his thighs, the way the shadows fall, the creases in his pants that lead to the bulge—

She looks away, biting her cheek and thinking about cuddling Marcus when they watch movies— but it’s not Marcus, not really—

She glances back. (His chest against her back, his hand on her stomach, spread hot and wide. His hand on her thigh, the slide of his thumb on her skin.)

“You really going to spend the whole movie over there?”

Ellie startles, her face and body flushing because God, she hopes she wasn’t so zoned out he caught her staring.

With a grin, Ellie slips off the swing seat and drops down next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest and tilting sideways when he wraps his arm over her shoulders to tug her into his side.

I’m stupid, she thinks, telling herself to not look at his thighs or his hand, or his forearm, that’s all… thick and shadowed with winding veins—

In the blue glow of the movie’s flickering light, Nico’s hand touches the top of her head, tilting her into him a little more, his lips pressing dry and warm on her hair.

Better, he hums into her hair.

Her heart is a little off-kilter, but that’s okay, she tells herself, it’s okay.

You’ll get used to him.

                Ellie breathes in; she’s warm and soft and boneless with sleep. It’s quiet, but there’s a dull light on her face and she blinks heavily at the steady glow of a news channel playing on mute on the tv.

She closes her eyes, breathing in the warmth of the smell beneath her nose… soap and cologne, aftershave. She turns her hot cheek into it more, breathing in again as stubble scrapes lightly across her forehead.

It’s nice.

Her eyes are too heavy, her mind too slow, everything feels weighed down, caught in each slow blink, in heat, in the warmth of her body and the body she’s curled against.

His heartbeat is a current beneath her ear, slow and steady and lulling against her cheek. His pulse against her forehead, whump-bump.

She blinks slowly. The news rolls on, and in the flickering, silent light, she watches Nico’s thumb moving over his phone. He’s texting; one leg stretched out over the couch, the other bent at the knee, braced against the floor while Ellie’s knees curve over his stomach where she’s curled up with her head in his neck and her cheek pressed against his collar. They’re not quite lying down, but it’s… it’s almost—

She blinks. Nico’s heartbeat lulls, his cologne is as warm as his body is, as hard as it is soft. It’s all she can smell and feel. She breathes him in and blinks slowly at his thumb on her thigh; registering the thick weight of his arm curved behind her, his palm hot, tucked behind her knee, wide on the back of her thigh.

It’s like syrup inside of her, dripping from her mind all the way down her spine to pool hotly, thickly between her hips.

She swallows; his belt digs into her ankle where her feet are tucked beneath his hip. He’s nearly half off the couch. She’s weirdly caught by his socked-foot, curved to the side of the armrest on the other end, hanging off the couch.

He’s too big for it, she thinks, and somehow, she’s tucked herself, slumped herself in such a way that she’s taking up most of it.

She’s too tired to be embarrassed.

He smells nice.

She pulls in a slow, deep breath and worms her foot away from his belt, unclenching her hand from where it was holding onto his shirt just under his ribs and brings it higher, up to his shoulder, his muscles warm beneath her palm, his heart a steady thump against her forearm.

His thumb strokes over her thigh, warm and a little bit rough.

“Time’st?” she mumbles because it has to be pretty late, doesn’t it?

Late, Nico mutters, but it’s all just rolling vibration all along her side, sinking into her, more feeling than sound.

She should get back to campus, she knows she should. Part of her knows it’s time to get up, to go home and wash her face and brush her teeth and go to bed, but…

She curls her hand into a bit of fabric near his collar. His thumb strokes over her skin and she thinks… get up, get up…

                She wakes up as her world tilts, at the first cool slide of fabric beneath her toes, ankle, calf…

Sheets, she thinks as she sinks into them. Bed.

It smells different, feels different than her dorm bed, too clean, maybe. No traces of perfume, room spray, a mix of her and Mya…but underneath the clean smell, in the warmth of the sweater she’s still wearing, is Nico.

Oh, she thinks, it’s the room, isn’t it? Her room.

Blankets settle over her, his hand soothes over the side of her head, brushing back loose strands of hair frayed out of her bun… she feels his lips press, soft and dry above her temple, his warmth, his smell, his hand falls away but—

Ellie reaches for him, catching his hand; she remembers the first night only in pieces, little parts, his hand, her own voice, his.

She doesn’t say anything this time, even though it’s there, the memory and the want to say those things again— she just holds onto his hand, too tired to speak. Knowing she shouldn’t, terrified of what she wants. All the things that linger in between her mind and heart and stomach.

It’s dark in the room, he’s lit along one side by the pale, off-white tint of the city glow, looking down at her, his face half in shadows, his hair an inky-dark splotch even darker than the rest.

He sits on the edge of the bed and it sinks a little; the please in her throat is clawing its way out but everything’s too quiet and she’s afraid any sound at all will break the moment open.

He leans down over her, brushing his hand over her head again, his mouth on her temple. He inhales, it’s slow and deep through his nose, his voice low and deep and rolling on an exhale. “Go to sleep, baby.”

His hand soothes over her head when he leans back, his thumb on her cheekbone…

He’s all shadows. The bed is soft, and sleep is there, dragging her back under as slow and sure as his thumb is, tracing the curve of her eyebrow.

                It’s barely blue when she wakes; the faintest sort of light in the room.

Ellie pulls in a slow breath, on the edge of too hot, swamped and twisted up in Nico’s hoodie and the silky slide of her dress beneath it.

Her mouth is dry, her eyes heavy, her fingers clenched tightly into the sheets.

All she can smell is him.

And in every blink is a voice, every breath is fluttering weight in her stomach, an uneased ache, a slippery heat between her thighs that beats in time with her unsteady pulse.

No one has to know, her mind whispers, he would never know—

She stretches out beneath the duvet, pressing her thighs together, breathing out at the flickering feeling that sparks through her. (His hand on the gear-shift, the scars on his knuckles, his fingers curled around her thigh. A slow, thick slide, that’s it, baby girl, you can take one, can’t you— just one for me—)

She turns her face into the pillow, breathing in cotton instead of him, her breath catching as her dreams linger… the pink of a cunt, a man’s long fingers all shiny as they sink inside—

It’s not him, she tells herself, it’s just the idea, you’re horny, your period is coming soon. You’re just—

Horny.

Fucked up.

So fucking fucked up.

Her hips roll on their own, her breath falters, huffed hotly into the pillow, her knuckles white in the sheets.

It’s right there, that ache. That slippery hot feeling in her underwear. Her hips seeking, chasing that pressure against the bed; it sparks hotly through her stomach and she rolls over, turning her face into the bunched-up collar of his sweater. She squeezes her eyes shut as she slips her hand over her stomach, over hot skin… slipping her hot little fingers underneath the band of underwear, stuttering a breath at the first brush of her fingers over the sticky-hot heat of her cunt.

Her clit is slippery and hot as her finger slips between her lips, as the pad of her fingers slip over it, around it, chasing the sparks, the flickering flame of need that burns in between her hips. Her toes curl, her eyes clenched shut as she breathes Nico’s cologne in.

C’mon, baby, sweet little—

Her breath hitches and her hips twitch up as she rubs at her clit, as her mind slides images, blurry-dreams of shoulders and a voice and big hands with long fingers; a flexing back, forearm, voice that melts against her bones, my pretty little girl— she breathes in his soap and cologne and her own perfume, her feet sliding over the bed, her body sticky with heat inside and out as she soaks her fingers, as she pulls in sharp little breathes and bites her cheek to stay quiet, to keep his name in her mouth as her fingers move harder and faster, chasing the burn in her body, the ache throbbing between her hips, the spine-tightening need— a finger, two, stubble scraping her thighs, a hot mouth, a low voice, her knees over too-broad shoulders, baby girl—

God, she whimpers, God—

The idea is there and it shapes into a word, the outline of it sits on her tongue like a taste, like it’s bitter and sweet and salty, each curve and line and idea of it, she swallows it as her head tilts, as her hair knots beneath her head and she grips at the sheet, white-knuckled as her hips roll up and her fingers slide quick and hard and it’s there, right there, right there—

The word imprints on her skull as she comes, as her thighs tremble and close and her feet slide quietly over the mattress, toes curled and tense, her chest trembling as she pulls in too quick breaths.

Daddy.

A stamp behind her eyelids, a taste in her mouth, a smell like cologne and sweat and sticky-sweet release, smearing hot on her fingers and between her thighs.

God, she thinks, her chest full of an unsteady wobble, her fingers glued to her cunt as her mind pieces itself back together—

Daddy.

She rockets out of bed, flipping back the covers and stumbling her way to the bathroom, thighs sticky, fingers sticky, mind stuck— shutting the door behind her like it’s the bed’s fault and not her own fucked up mind.

She trembles and shivers; stripping off Nico’s hoodie like it’s its fault, too.

In the mirror, her bun is sagging and fraying, her face flushed and creased with pillow lines. Wearing her stupid, inappropriate dress. She looks normal and she hates it. There’s nothing in the mirror but herself. No one to blame the thoughts on. Nothing to see and say— there, there it is— peel it out and you’ll be fine.

It’s just her.

The familiar soft of her cheeks, the mess of her hair, the shape of her eyes and mouth and chin.

It’s just Ellie.

The basket he gave her is on the vanity, but there’s a towel set out, the toothbrush and toothpaste opened and waiting, but next to it…

Her chest tightens, her breath hitches.

Daddy is carved behind her eyelids, in every thump of her heart, in the throbbing of her cunt that’s aching for more. In the rolling tightness in her stomach that’s all hunger, unsatisfied, ready for more.

Her chest trembles, her breath catches.

Next to the basket is a gift bag, white paper with a boutique’s name printed on the front. It crinkles beneath her hand, the tissue paper a soft rustle as she pulls it out and her fingers find a pair of jeans almost exactly like a pair she already has. Beneath it, there’s a soft cotton shirt, long-sleeved like the one she wore that night at the bar when he brought her home and then… at the bottom of the bag, a soft, lace-edged bra and underwear set in a light baby blue.

Her heart skips. Her hand closes around the fabric as she sinks down onto the toilet, pulling in steadying breaths as she squeezes her eyes shut and her chest tightens more and more.

He’s your dad, she thinks, he’s your dad. He’s your dad. He’s your dad.

But all she can think about, all there is behind her eyes is his fingers on a strap, her own skinny shoulder… the idea he picked it out just for her.

He’s your dad.

Parent. Biological fucking father—

Her lip wobbles and she pulls in an uneven, unsteady breath as she squeezes the lace in her hand like she can choke out the thoughts in her head.

The shape of the word, everything he should have been… sticks.

               Sweat drips down his spine as dawn crawls closer, slowly brightening the sky around him, chasing the blue tint along the west side of the city stretching out through the glass walls around him. Music beats in his ears, a bass-heavy thump in time with his pulse as his shoes pound against the track of the treadmill.

The news plays on mute on the tv mounted to the one solid wall in front of him, subtitles scrolling through the early morning updates; traffic, politics, weather.

The forty-minute timer on the treadmill beeps and he slows his pace to a walk for the cool down.

He rolls his head on his shoulders, feeling the sweat on his skin, the chill leaking in from the panel of glass open behind him as he reaches for his water.  His phone buzzes on ledge of the treadmill screen and it rings in his ear; he taps the bud to connect the call.

“Yeah.”

“Burqhart would like to amend his meeting time.”

He pushes out a breath at Gabe’s voice in his ear. “He’s put it off once already. Tell him no.”

“I did. He seems to think he has room to negotiate… he had some choice words for you.”

He snorts, sweat slides over his temple and he grabs the small towel on the arm of the treadmill to wipe his forehead. “I’m sure he did.”

“Seems to think you’re an upstart. A thief, even. Undervaluing his company to steal it.”

He laughs, breathless. “His judgement has improved in the last few months, apparently. Send the photos, tell him he has until noon to get his fat ass in my building.”

“Will do,” Gabe answers, the grin in his voice obvious. “See you when you get in. It’s sure to be a fun morning.”

He grunts, tapping the earbud and hitting the stop button on the treadmill. The news rolls on, the weather catching his eye as his heart rate slows a bit more. No rain, clear skies, nothing he can’t see out his own windows. With another breath, as his mind starts to slide back to the girl that lingers, (still, fucking still)— he steps off the treadmill and moves towards the weight rack.

He powers through a mindless routine; counts the reps, feels the strain of his muscles when he pushes out one more last set for each. There’s nothing to think about but his own body, the machine he maintains out of ego and necessity. Thirty-four years—

Thirty-four years and he won’t think about a seventeen-year-old. Won’t let his mind wander through his loft, slip into a room and linger on the girl sleeping there.

He pushes the bar back up, tilting it up to set it back in place with a metallic clack, before sitting up and rolling his head on his shoulders, breathing hard, damp with sweat. (Oh, I can’t— I’m not—)

Wearing anything, his mind finishes for her.

(An inhale, her soft mouth, his hands on her hips. His thumb, stroking over the barely-there line of her underwear.)

Christ, he thinks, scrubbing a hand through his hair and pushing up from the bench. He reaches for his water and drinks heavily, heading around the dividing wall that separates his bedroom from his workout room and towards his bathroom. He strips, tossing his pants and earbuds onto the bench before turning on his shower and stepping under the scalding spray.

It wasn’t anything. She pulled in a breath. (At what, his mind itches. At what.)

His hands on her hips, his thumb brushing over the heat of her hip and lower stomach through the thin silk of her dress. A little breath. A little fucking inhale and he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t help but look at the shape of it, sitting pretty on the fucking pretty pink of her mouth.

(His fingers on a pale little thigh, a slow-slide of black silk dress up bare skin, climbing higher and higher, pooling over his hand as it slides over her—)

He breathes in and thinks about Burqhart, the photos of him around his home, so sure he’d be unseen there. Like waitstaff can’t be bought. Like cameras can’t be hacked. He wonders what it is about old men and young girls.

Power, he thinks. Almost everything is.

He’s not as worn-out as he wants to be; as soon as he steps under the spray and tilts his head up, she’s there, a fucking little sun-flare behind his eyelids, standing in the glow of the pool. (Bare shouldered, a gentle little slope from her neck to the lapping water edge, his hand and mouth chasing—)

His anger— it’s not even anger— it’s this hot coal behind his ribs, a parasite that feeds itself on every image in his head, grows brighter, blistering— because she’s there no matter what he fucking does—

(Flickering blue tv-light, skinny knees digging into his ribs, a smile that twists into a gasp beneath his mouth. Something innocent tangling into something not. Her hands on his chest, lax in sleep. Her hands bracing, scratching, please.)

There’s no unwinding the knot of his attraction, affection, want of her. It’s constant, unending, a fucked-up mess of warring desires.

It’s not about power. Or influence. Or innocence.

He knows it’s not.

He scrubs his hair, breathing in the smell of the shampoo, the steam of the water. (She’s so fucking small— against his side, curled up— the soft puff of her breath on his neck, the curl of her hand in his shirt, the way she looks in his clothes.)

He’ll hit Vadim’s after work. Fight it out of himself until he’s nothing but sore muscles. Lactic acid and aching knuckles. He thinks again about calling a woman he’s fucked before, Jessica maybe, who’d never wanted more from him than he’d wanted from her; make it quick and clean. Stress-relief, take the edge of his frustrations out— burying a need, a want, a fucked-up tangle of emotions.

But he knows, just like every time he’s thought about using someone else— every time he tries to set his hand to his own cock, that the images behind his eyelids will not be of a woman.

He grits his teeth, pushing out a hot, angry breath.

His cock is half-hard and hot against his thigh; he scrubs his skin and doesn’t think about a girl or her skin, or her looking up at him in the pool-light, moon-light, city-light of his balcony.

(Or her in his bed, hot-cheeked, soft-skinned, barely-awake but gasping with those pink lips, white-knuckled hands gripping at sheets while his mouth sinks between her skinny little thighs.)

He doesn’t think about a girl.

                He hears the shower running and steps away from the door; it’s just past seven, he knows he needs to get her back to campus and he’s glad she’s awake but there’s a little part of him that’s disappointed he didn’t get to wake her up himself.

Which is— he scoffs at himself, heading back to the kitchen and popping her oatmeal into the microwave.

He’s older than his sister by thirteen years, his brother by ten; over the years he’s experienced moments, shades of being a parent. Putting them to bed, getting them breakfast or dinner, helping with homework. Shaving, boy problems, terrible-twos to teenage-terrors. He’s seen and heard it all.

Maybe that was part of the reason why he never felt inclined to have his own.

Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to tilt the images in his head and see all the things that should have been. These moments, waking her up, feeding her breakfast, taking her to school— should have been his years ago. Not now, not when everything he thinks about, every moment that should have been, gets tinted and twisted around the knot of his attraction to her.

(A little inhale. His hands on her hips. The heaviness of her lashes. Wait, she’d said. Wait.)

He shouldn’t have to shut down his own thoughts at something so simple as hearing his daughter in the shower. (Or waking her up. Or swimming. Fucking holding her.)

But he does.

He’s just making his post-workout shake when Ellie comes out, her hair damp, wearing the clothes he bought for her last night.

“Morning,” he says and catches a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hesitation in her step, the way her smile falters, spreads, sits too tightly on her face.

It’s nothing.

“Morning,” she says, boosting herself up onto a stool on the other side of the island and lifting her arm to drag her hair over her shoulder. The shirt is a little thin, plain white cotton with a scoop neck and long sleeves, he can see the outline of her bra beneath, a thin peak of a pale-blue strap on her shoulder and he turns away, fighting the flicker of an image that thickens his cock just enough that it takes him a moment to force his thoughts back into order… and away from the awareness that she’s wearing the things he bought her.

It shouldn’t do the things it does to him.

Burqhart, he thinks, lines them up, seven shots one after the other. Gabe. Work. Daughter. Seventeen. Thirty-four. Fucking daughter.

He pulls the oatmeal out of the microwave; it’s hot but not burning as he slides it across the counter with a spoon.

Her face is a little pink, her eyelids tinted a bruised sort of red. It almost looks like she’s been crying, but he brushes it off as the heat from her shower as she touches the spoon with her finger, sliding it a little in place as she looks down at the oatmeal, her lashes long and dark; her jaw shifts, cheek pulling in and she worries it.

(Wait.)

He faces her across the island, waiting. His worry expands a lead balloon in the pit of his stomach; was she crying?

Did he make her uncomfortable?

Ellie looks up at him and their eyes meet. It’s nothing like looking in a mirror, even if he can find himself in her eyes and smile. Even if he’s the roots of her, who she is, what she is, every small curve and soft angle, is… wholly Ellie.

 She’s still, he thinks, a sick sort of addiction for him.

And he knows, logically, that feeding it will only make it worse. That giving her up, going cold, (no more one more hit, one more hit like every time he went to watch her at her work,) is the only way to stop it, but—

But.

Ellie looks away first, her finger sliding the spoon over the marble as her cheeks pink-up and she pulls in a little breath and smiles. It’s still not quite right. It’s uneven, weak.

“This is a little weird.”

It is. He has no idea what he’s doing. Feeding the addiction. Sating the itch. Burying attraction behind affection and pretending it’s enough to cover up the rot of all his thoughts.

“Is it?”

There’s something a little strained in the moment, just like the one in Nomad. Just like the moment on the couch. A little breath, her hips and skin and warm little self beneath his hands. She’s a little too still, a little too stiff—

(Wait.)

He reaches for his post-workout shake and uncaps it; Ellie’s eyes flick to it, then to his eyes. “How long have you been up?”

He shrugs, downing some of it before answering; she doesn’t need to know the truth. “A little while. You sleep okay?”

She nods. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“It’s your room. Whenever you want.” His voice is too rough, it feels like it’s stuck to his ribs. Like that inhale was a sharp little knife scraping out his brain matter until all he can think and see and feel is the shape and sound and idea of her.

She breathed, for fuck’s sake. It was nothing.

Ellie looks away, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, before she nods and lifts her spoon, digging it into the oatmeal. “Do you have to get to work?”

He shrugs. “Benefits of being the big boss-man, CEO, right?”

A truer smile twitches to life on her face at him echoing what she’s called him before. He smiles in reflex. A fucking little spark of creation born on the curve of a girl’s lip. The dip of a dimple.

It’s as ridiculous as it is fucking poetic. The inverse of reality. Her smile is his, isn’t it?

“Eat,” he says, as lightly as he can with his gut full of anger and want and hunger. “We’ll leave when you’re done.”

                She hugs him before she leaves, her forehead hot through his shirt, pressing hard against the middle of his chest as he wraps his arms around her.

It eases the knot inside of him, the one caught on a breath, on her eyes in the dark, her lips in the dark, an inhale that didn’t mean anything. On the worry of her eyes this morning, the pink of her eyelids. Maybe it’s just fatigue.

He tries not to think about the difference in her reactions to him. How skittish she was, how she tensed any time he touched her, but always met his eyes… how she melts now and won't look at him. A warm little bit of a girl that leans her cheek into his palm when he tilts her head up and cups her cheeks, brushes his thumbs over too-warm skin and steps back, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

Her hands clench onto his jacket, white-knuckled and clinging onto him as he breathes out against her skin. “Alright, baby girl?”

She nods, the flush in her cheeks doesn’t mean anything. The heaviness of her bruised-pink eyelids, the downcast weight of her eyelashes as he strokes his thumb under her eye, checking, he thinks, just to make sure she's not crying… it’s all…

Nothing.

He can’t trust his own mind to rationalise it.

He lets her go. Willing her to look at him. Wanting to stop her and make her. Gritting his teeth and watching her cross the field and slip into her dorm with something heavy in his chest that feels like led and barbed wire.

Like he's standing right in the middle of No Man's Land and everything around him sounds like an inhale.

Chapter Text

chapter nine

            She isn’t going to cry again.

She won’t.

Ellie presses her face into her stuffed bunny and listens to the steady hum of Mya in the shower, giving herself a few more minutes to feel sorry and guilty and sad for herself. A stupid little pity-party for one, curled up on her bed and letting her guilt and shame eat her alive.

The shower shuts off; she breathes in the soft, old fluff of her childhood toy and pushes up, pulling herself back together like she’s realigning herself, one bone at a time. She feels heavy, worn-down, like her thoughts are made of iron and stuck in her lungs and it’s hard to breathe around them.

Everything around her feels distant as she heads towards the closet to grab her uniform; like a camera shifting out of focus, her mind slides back to him, to the morning, to every moment she’s spent with him since she saw him across the shifting lights of Elysium. It’s all… heartbeat, smell, touch; feels so wrapped up in him that if she closes her eyes, she can still feel his stubble against her forehead and cheek. Hear the rumble of his chest when he speaks. Feel his hands, his thumb, sliding beneath her eyes.

Her guilt swirls low, hanging inside of her like a chord she keeps tugging at. He’s everything— everything someone could want in a father. Caring and careful and there for her. He’s done nothing but treat her like his daughter and she’s—

The smile on her face, when the bathroom door opens and Mya leans out, is picture-perfect even as it cuts the corners of her mouth.

“Hey,” she pushes out, as Mya grins at her around her toothbrush, steam spilling out from the bathroom.

She’s going to tell her. She’ll just say it. Just get it out. Tell Mya everything— because maybe having someone else tell her how fucked up she is will be enough to figure out what to do. To kill the (still) aching little want inside of her that’s all for him.

“Hickey ‘heck,” Mya says around her toothbrush, her eyes bright. “Lez’see.”

She bites her tongue so hard it bleeds, and it takes everything in her to not just scream.

(But she smiles, tilts her head, and pretends it’s all just a joke, a joke.)

            He steps out of the elevator and finds Burqhart, forehead shiny with sweat, face red with anger, pointing at his secretary.

Ridiculous— forty years I’ve run this company— he thinks he can—

Francisca is more than capable of holding her own; she sits, straight-backed behind the large desk, her lined-faced impassive in the face of Burqhart’s spitting anger. Her eyes shift to Nico across the sleek white floors of Cordarius’ top floor. Burqhart doesn’t notice, not until Fran is smiling over his shoulder and lifting a folder to hand to Nico over her black marble desk when he gets closer behind the other man.

“Good morning, Mister Cordova,” she says with a smile that says he’s sure to hear about her displeasure at being forced to deal with the other man later.

“Francisca,” he greets, ignoring Burqhart as he lifts his coffee to his mouth and turns towards his office, the other man following at his heels.

“Listen here, you underhanded prick—”

He smiles around the rim of his cup, hearing the breathlessness in the man’s voice, the hollow quick little pats of his expensive leather shoes on the floors behind him, trying to keep pace.

It’s nearly impossible not to laugh.

Burqhart’s years of excess have taken their toll, and like so many of his generation, he thinks age and wealth have made him untouchable. Fed fat by the status quo. A hungry vacuum, insatiable appetites that haven’t heard a no since they left their mother’s tit.

It’s fucking pathetic.

There’s a lounge area in the stretching hallway between the front desk and his office. He points to it, not bothering to turn around. “Sit.”

Burqhart sputters. “I will fucking not—” he grabs Nico’s arm, gripping onto his suit jacket. “Do you have any idea what I could do to y—”

Nico turns, looking down at Burqhart’s hand, at his quivering jowls, his open collar— hastily dressed, stinking of a fear badly hidden— playing at a confidence that’s built wholly on how much money he has in his bank accounts— and lets the other man see him. Not the Nicolas Cordova he’s been dealing with for the last few months. Not the businessman who courted him and his company, took him out through his city, wined and dined and wooed him like a he was ready to kneel for a piece of Burqhart’s business; convincing him that a partnership would be beneficial to them both.

Not that man.

But him. Everything else he is. Everything he’s capable of.

Two decades of fighting for his place. All the things he’s done to get where he is.

He has no patience to pretend today.

“Sit.”

Burqhart’s hand comes off his arm, his eyes darting over Nico’s face as his mouth snaps shut.

He turns away and steps into his office, letting the heavy door thunk shut behind him.

            “It’s a little self-serving, isn’t it,” Holden says, his voice hollow through the phone, it’s not really a question, just an entertained fact.

“You can do whatever you want to him after he signs. If his reaction to this is any indication he’ll fold like wet paper.”

“They’ll want to take apart his financials.”

Nico grunts, leaning back in his chair and looking down at his phone, at the little red dot nestled into the outline of the MOMA.

“They can have whatever they want. I don’t think he’d be so stupid as to pay the trafficking rings through his company funds, but they’re welcome to look once I get a hold of them.”

He flicks into his messages.

Enjoying the trip?

She doesn’t know, he tells himself. He’s good at what he is. What he does. Can hide parts of himself as easy as breathing, but—

But something happened between him leaving her asleep in her bed and her walking out of it the next morning. Something happened.

He scrubs his hand through his air, closing his eyes as he drops his head back against his chair, ignoring the thing inside of him that’s keyed to the vibration of his phone, waiting. Waiting.

His worry for her is a hacksaw. (Her face, her eyes. His thumb, the flutter of her lashes.) It cuts into him, sawing at his focus, tipped in something corrosive that whispers about perversions and morals and you never should have touched her.

He shouldn’t have. He knows it. He should have stayed in his car and been satisfied knowing she existed. Should have left her the Should Have Been she was.

Is.

Should have let himself wallow, for a moment, a minute, in those stolen bits of time outside of her work, in everything that could have been.

But wasn’t.

Isn’t.

“How fast can you get a hold of them?”

He grunts. “It’s early. Today, tomorrow at the latest. Depending on how fast he folds. Officially, depends on his lawyers.”

Holden snorts. “Official can come later.”

Nico hums, looking down at his phone, at that red dot, holding steady.

He knows Sergei is parked outside of the gallery, probably looking at the exact same screen Nico is, but the comfort of seeing her location staying steady in one place calms him as much as it rubs like flint against the already rough-edged anger sitting inside of him.

She’s too many things to him all at once. A comfort and a temptation. An addiction and a choice.

His and not.

Burqhart’s photos sit on his desk; bright coloured pictures that would make picture-perfect movie stills if it wasn’t for the fact that the children in them aren’t Burqhart’s children. That Burqhart has no children. No nieces. No nephews. No fucking godchildren.

Boys, girls, it didn’t seem to matter to him, so long as they were in the right age range. As long as they had the right amount of that thin-limbed, wide-eyed inexperience.

Innocence, he thinks, is a commodity.

He thinks about Ellie.

(And here he is, he thinks, with all the things in his head.)

“Where’s he now?”

Ellie’s response comes through as a picture; it’s her and her friend, their heads tilted together, grinning.

Her dimples, her eyes, the shape of her smile… a knife working its way beneath his ribs. (Her lips, an inhale, her hot cheeks and unsteady hug.)

“Waiting outside my office. I thought he needed a bit more time to ruminate on what I could do to him.”

Holden laughs and through the phone, Nico can hear the honk of a horn, the sounds of traffic. “Ruminate, mhm. Stewing in sweat, I’d imagine. I’m on my way to take him in, I’ll let you know when you can pull your men off him.”

Nico grunts his agreement, looking down at Ellie’s photo, at the text underneath it.

It’s good! Just got here but we’re going to get some coffee and then go look at some weird art and pretend we understand it. How’s your day?

“You know, I like it when these things fall in your lap,” Holden says and then laughs a little. “It makes my job so much easier. Tell Sergei I said hello. Or, what is it? Preev-yet?”

Nico huffs a laugh and hangs up on him. Holden knows Sergei might tolerate him because of the work they’ve done together over the last six years, but he has no affection for the government. American or otherwise. And he doubts there’s anything in the world that will change Sergei’s mind.

With an exhale, he looks back at Ellie’s text.

He has no words to explain his day to her. Some days, most days, he knows she’d be better off as far away from him as she can get. Some days, most days, he’s tempted to steal her, like the criminal he really is. To lock her up in the tower of his home like some fucked up fairy-tale princess.

By her a spindle. Make her guess his real name.

He’d take care of her. Anything and everything she wanted. Spin her gold. Keep her safe from all the things out there that would like to hurt something like her.

(An inhale, the part of her lips. Blue flickering light.)

He breathes out and rubs his jaw, feeling the scratch of his stubble as he looks at the photos on his desk and thinks about the little girl in the framed photos in Loren’s apartment. The little girl in the hard drive of photos he’s looked at more than he will ever admit.

The urge to kill Burqhart is as sudden as it is vicious; he scrapes his tongue over his teeth, imagining it. He’d make it slow, make him ask for it, make him beg for it— the crack of bones, the wet-gurgle of it, p-please kill me—

He pulls in a breath.

No, he’s more useful alive. Burqhart is the demand, not the supply. If a man like him has ever held any real value, Holden will crack it out of him, one bone at a time.

He pushes out a breath and looks away from the photos, clicking back into Ellie’s messages, his thumb sliding over her smile.

Good. Probably going to be a long day. Up for a late dinner after your shift tomorrow?

He knows all the things he should do.

I can’t. I have a dorm thing I have to go to :(

It’s alright. Another night, he lies, even though his disappointment is sharp, tinted in a greedy sort of anger. His worry is there, sawing at him, that whisper about perversion and guilt and her knowing— He sets his phone down, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes on Ellie’s face until the screen goes dark.

He pushes up, straightening the lines of his jacket, his mind, preparing himself to deal with Burqhart. To take the edge of his anger, guilt, frustration out on the thing waiting outside of his office that calls himself a man.

Her smile lingers, a sunspot behind his eyelids. He’s too selfish to cut her out of his life. Too selfish to do all the things he should do.

Holden’s right, he is self-serving.

He’s one of the things that could hurt her, too.

            If we turned up the "volume" of this painting, how might it sound? How has the artist created a sense of volume?

“That’s stupid,” Ellie mumbles, scrunching her nose and looking back up at the painting in front of her, wishing Mya would hurry up in the bathroom so they can commiserate the dumb questions together and keep her mind from wandering to places she doesn’t want it to go. So she can focus on anything, anything other than the things that linger like some sort of phantom in her peripherals, a ghost in her step that’s made up of warm hands and a low voice and heavy body that—

Her guilt surges in the quiet of the gallery, the shape of the word in her mouth, like thinking it has left it there, stamped down on the pink of her tongue. A black mark for everyone to see just how fucked up Ellie Evans really is.

“Best not let any art connoisseurs hear you say that, they’re very easily offended.”

Ellie startles, looking up at the man standing near the painting, in front of her by a few feet. He’s older, broad-shouldered in a black jacket, with his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, standing near where she’s sitting on the bench in front of a series of modern paintings in varying shades of green that she’s supposed to be examining.

The man looks over to her with a small smile; he’s familiar, she thinks, with his dark-blonde hair peppered with grey and a beard to match.

“Oh,” she exhales and smiles at him. “You’re uh— black coffee with one sugar, and a croissant?”

He grins, his eyes crinkle, his teeth straight and white as he turns more to face her. “Often my second name, yes.”

Ellie laughs and holds out her hand. “Sorry, I’m Ellie.”

“Max,” he says, stepping forward and taking hold of her hand. “Though I picked up your name already. Your shop has the best quick breakfasts I’ve found in the city so far. Much better than Starbucks.”

There’s an accent in his words, she’s noticed it before, an odd pitch to the way he says hello, but she still isn’t sure what it is. Something thick and a little rough.

“Thanks, the owner actually has a bakery in Union Square, they bring in most of the baked goods from there. We do make some things there though.”

“I’ll have to look for it, I’m still… learning my way around the city.” He smiles at her, lingering near the bench.

 Ellie looks him over as a man instead of a customer for the first time, he’s attractive, in an older-man sort of way; fit and tall, with a broad jaw beneath his short beard, blue eyes. The lines around his eyes when he smiles make him look kind.

“What’s stupid, if I can ask?”

Ellie blinks, confused before she remembers her work, looking down at it and tilting her notebook towards him. “Oh, it’s stuff for school. We’re on a day trip here. My school, I mean,” she winces. “Obviously.”

His eyes crinkle a bit, and she tries not to feel embarrassed for rambling as he looks down at her notebook before moving closer, sitting near her on the bench and tilting his head at the painting and then looking back at her page.

“Turn up the volume,” he reads, his eyes sliding over the words. “That’s interesting.”

“I guess.”

“May I?” he says, motioning for her notebook and taking it when Ellie hands it over.

“Take a moment to look closely, what do you notice?” he reads before looking up at the paintings. “What associations come to mind?”

“That a lot of art is weird,” Ellie huffs. “Especially this stuff.”

“Yes,” he says, handing her the notebook back. “It is, often. Though I think this series is supposed to be inspired by the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Where’d you read that?”

Max shifts on the bench, pulling his phone out of his pocket, his thumb sliding over a passcode before turning it to face her.

“Oh,” she says, as she reads the page on his screen. “Huh. I thought it looked more like a forest than an ocean.”

He looks at her, his eyes blue. “I thought the same. I’ve always thought it looked like a forest fire. A dying one.”

Ellie tilts her head. “Yeah, I can see that. Though I’m not sure what I’m supposed to hear. Most abstract stuff just looks like white noise to me. It’s all the scribbles. What else would it sound like?”

“Like a… radio?” At her nod, he pulls a considering face. “White noise, yes. That’s true. I suppose it does look like that.”

“What does it sound like to you?”

He looks away, thinking it over. “Depends on the painting. The scribble ones, as you say… are just, thoughts. Not the emptiness of white noise, but the… the weight of a busy mind.”

Oh, she thinks, because that’s… kinda something. “That sounds better than white noise.”

Ellie startles when something bumps her shoulder— and eases when Mya drops down next to her, smelling like generic soap and puffing out a breath.

“Back, sorry,” she says leaning forward around Ellie and looking at Max with a narrow-eyed head-to-toe.

“Don’t,” Ellie hisses, glaring at the other girl.

Mya ignores her and smiles, holding out her hand. “I’m Mya.”

Max chuckles, taking her hand. “Black coffee with one sugar and a croissant.”

Mya frowns in confusion as Ellie laughs. “He’s a regular from the Roastery,” she explains as Mya pulls her hand back and Max grins, pushing up to his feet. “His name is Max, I just… called him by his order because I couldn’t remember his name.”

Oh, Mya says with a little hum, looking over Max again. “That makes more sense.”

“I won’t keep you, it was nice to see a familiar face here but I’m sure you two have work to do.”

“Hey, I’ll take any insight into this stuff,” Ellie says, lifting her notebook. “You seem to understand this stuff more than we do.”

“There’s rarely one answer in art, that’s the best way to look at it.”

“I dunno, portraits tend to be pretty straightforward. It’s just,” she motions to her head. “A face.”

He considers her. “You don’t think the subject made requests of the painter? To form them in the view of their own idea of themselves rather than a true reflection?”

Ellie looks at him. “… I never really thought of it like that, but yes, I guess sometimes.”

“Most, I’d imagine. Ego is an incredible motivator…” He looks at her, leaning closer, an entertained crook to his mouth. “Or delusion.”

She laughs, catching the edges of a buzzing sound, his phone vibrates in his hand, a call coming through; he looks down at it before thumbing the lock to stop the vibration without answering. “I think you answered your own question though, Ellie.”

He smiles, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

“What?”

“What it sounds like? A forest, no? They aren’t silent.”

She narrows her eyes, a smile playing at her mouth, aware of Mya looking between them. “Are you one of those art connoisseurs you warned me about? Was this all a sneak attack attempt to make me more cultured?”

He laughs. “Ah, darling, I would never. Appreciation must come on its own, but I think there is something to works like this, in some ways. Stand ten people in front of one painting, most would find something different in it. That’s something, no?”

She and Mya look to the painting and back, Ellie meeting his eyes again, understanding his meaning; a sea to the painter, a forest to her, a fire to him. “I guess so.”

He smiles, tilting his chin. “I’ll see you for my next baked good, yes? I’m meeting someone about an apartment, I don’t want to be late.”

Ellie nods. “And a coffee with one sugar. Good luck with the apartment-hunt.”

He thanks her, putting his hand out to take Mya’s again. “Mya,” he says with a shake. “Lovely to meet you.”

“You too, Max. You’re new to the city?”

He nods. “Just moved here a few weeks ago, still settling in. Your friend’s café was the best I’ve been in so far. Even if the clientele is a… little younger than me.”

Mya grins. “Oh, not that much younger, I bet. If you ever want a tour guide, we’ve been running around the city for years. We’re experts.”

Ellie fights hard not to roll her eyes.

He laughs and nods, straightening up and looking at both of them. “I’m not sure I could keep up,” he jokes, tucking his hands into his pants again. Ellie imagines he’s somewhere near Nico’s height, somewhere north of six-foot where her mind just puts everyone in the same group as stupid-big. “But I’ll keep it in mind, thank you. It does get a bit overwhelming sometimes.”

Mya smiles. “You’re very welcome.”

He looks to Ellie, his smile warm as he turns away.

“Don’t forget the bakery,” she calls after him. “Union Square. Rise, it’s really good!”

He turns and lifts a hand, his teeth white beneath his short beard.

Once he’s gone, Mya’s hand smacks down flat and hollow on Ellie’s tight-covered thigh. It’s sharp and loud and Ellie jolts and trips out a laughing ow!

“You have to get me into the Roastery!”

“What?” Ellie laughs as she slaps away Mya’s flapping hands.

“Seriously! When did this place become sugar daddy central? What the hell! It’s always all students! When do these guys come in?”

Ellie stomach plummets and twists as her mind latches onto the word like its red-hot brand, stamping itself against her eyelids. She isn’t going to react. She isn’t.

It’s just a word.

She forces a smile even as her stomach twists tighter. “He’s like fifty!”

“I don’t discriminate! Ageism is wrong.”

Gross, Ellie pushes out, leaning away from Mya’s still flapping hands as the other girl laughs and keeps reaching, come on, Ellie, where’s my sugar daddy? My hot coffee daddy. My croissant daddy!

It’s a stupid fucking word—

She leans forward and covers Mya’s mouth, her skin prickling like everyone knows.  Like they can all see Ellie’s slick fingers and the word on her tongue and how real that word is— she’s too aware of the curious, entertained looks from some of her classmates who are in the same room. The security guard near the entrance to the next gallery, narrowing his eyes at them.

It’s all Mya’s fault. Her guilt swirls with anger, looking for an outlet. Looking for someone to blame that isn’t just herself— Mya put that word in her head. She’s not responsible for what her mind does when it’s asleep.

Right?

Except she was awake, wasn’t she? Stuck on the images like sleep clinging onto her edges, weighed down with it like the dreams behind her eyelids— but she was awake.

She feels like she might throw up. He’d been awake, getting her breakfast, getting ready to take her to school and she had— she’d been tucked in his bed, tangled in his sweater, breathing him in like he was weighing her down and it was his fingers on her clit on not her own slick little hand.

She wants to throw up. She wants to scream. She wants to shake Mya and blame her for all of it just because she can.

Look what happened. Look what you did.

Ignoring the wet press of Mya’s tongue on her palm, she leans forward, her smile faltering until she bites down on the thing in her stomach that’s stuck on the word, on the man it represents—and pulls herself back together.

It’s no one’s fault but her own.

“Stop saying daddy! God, you don’t even need a sugar daddy. Your parents are literally rich. We go to private school,” she hisses, eyeing the security guard across the room.

Mya twists away, grinning and slapping Ellie’s hand when she tries to wipe her spit-covered palm on her chest. “Want and need are very different things, Ellie. I don’t need a daddy, I want one.”

Her mind flickers to Nico again, her stomach tightening at the thought of him. His voice. The feeling of his body beneath hers. (Her fingers on her clit. His fingers sinking inside.)

Being put to bed by him.

Because that’s what he did, didn’t he? Put you to bed like a kid. Because you’re his kid.

“And like, rocks, stone houses, Ellie. You already have one, all I want is my fair share of the Roastery’s Premium Daddy selection. Premium Dark Roast Daddy, ooh.”

Her insides curl like plastic against a flame. The word won’t leave her alone. It’s all she can see and taste and think about. Her in his bed, the slide of her feet, the images in her head. Her body, hotter and hotter and hotter. Drowning in him. In his hoodie. In his smell. In the fantasy—

She burns up. It wasn’t a fantasy of him, it was just— bits of him. Parts. Not— not all of him.

It’s a lie, even as she thinks it, she knows it is.

(She thought the word again at breakfast, it was on her tongue, what he is to her. Watching him slide the oatmeal across the counter, the metallic little slide of the spoon beneath her finger; his eyes as he leant against the counter behind him, dressed for work, ready to take her to school. All she could think about was the ache in her cunt, her want slicking the silky-seam of underwear he bought her, the flickering, carousel of images behind her eyelids that were all his hands and his mouth and his body and his voice and—)

And and and.

This is weird, she’d said, when what she meant was: you’re my dad.

She isn’t sure what it says about her that right then, with a sudden, heart-pounding ache, despite all the other bits of her that are screaming with a need to run away—to ignore him and pretend none of this ever happened— all she wants is to curl up against his side and listen to his heartbeat.

To bury her face in his neck and hide.

“Sure,” Ellie forces out, twisting her hand into her skirt near her thigh until her fingers ache. “I totally believe you want to scope daddies while making minimum wage. Uh-huh. Totally.”

Mya grins and shrugs. “I mean, the sugar daddy would off-set minimum wage so it’s all like, for the cause.”

Ellie chokes on her laugh, the weight of her guilt and want hanging inside of her like lead.

It’s no one’s fault but her own.

            Ellie’s cheek vibrates lightly against the cool leather of the bus seat, the world a hazy, out of focus thing. (The morning in his kitchen. His hand and hers on the gear shift. His hand behind her knee and the slow stroke of his thumb. The flicker blue light of the TV. His hand between her thighs in the restaurant, inching up and up and up.)

She blinks. Her thighs twitch together and she swallows around the newly-familiar twist of guilt that wraps itself around the uptick of her heart.

The car is still there.

She blames him for making her notice cars more. (His hand on the gear shift, him leaning against the black of an SUV. His hands on her hips, lifting her up to sit on the hood.)

“You know when you notice something and then you see it everywhere?”

Mya turns to look over the back seat of the bus where Ellie is peering out the back window. “Yeah, that’s uh—shit, uh, the Baader—”

Right, Ellie thinks, she knows that, too.

“Baader-Meinhof,” they both say at the same time and glance at each other with a laugh as Mya finishes with a stretched out: Phee-nom-en-nom.

“What do you keep seeing?”

“Black Rovers. Nico drives—” she puffs a laugh against the seat, watching the Rover that’s been behind them… or, well, she isn’t positive it’s the same Rover, actually. She can sort of make out the man behind the wheel, but the windows have a bit of tint in them and he’s been a car or two behind since they left the MOMA.

She saw one on the way there, too. Across the street and idling. A flicker of over-eager, pulse-pounding excitement that it was Nico, looking for that familiar tall shape, that broad-shouldered, well-dressed man leaning against his car and waiting for her.

But it wasn’t.

She's like, Pavlov's dog. But for a stupid car.

“He has like, fifteen cars, it’s stupid. He’s stupid wealthy. You should see his place.”

“Well, I would, if you’d stop hoarding the sugar daddies.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, ignoring the way the word pricks at her insides. They can’t meet until she figures out how to tell Mya that, ha, funny story, Nico’s actually my dad. Not a daddy—

Ugh.

Her father.

What were you thinking? This is karma, this is God being like— hey, you, the fuck’s wrong with your head, kid? I give you the father you always wanted and look at what you’re thinking about.

Not that God has much of a leg to stand on, she thinks, seeing as there’s like a whole bunch of messed up stuff in the bible and—

Ugh, she thinks, scrunching her face and twisting to sit properly in her seat. You’re so fucked up. You did not just think that.

“I was serious, though, do you really get a lot of hot older guys in the Roastery? I thought it was mostly students? Every time I’m there it’s always students.”

“Not really,” Ellie says, thumbing into her phone and answering Marcus’ snap. “And none that look like Nico.”

Mya pouts and then blinks at Ellie and her grin is wide and full of a shit-eating sort of mischief. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Ellie frowns and then smiles, thrown off by my Mya’s smile. “What?”

“None that look like who now?”

“Nico?”

“So, you’re saying he’s attractive.”

“I—” Ellie starts and cuts off, her own words flowing through her head. “That’s—”

“You’re saying you think he’s hot.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re saying he’s the supreme daddy. The daddy overlord.”

Ellie chokes on a laugh, even as the word scores itself against her brain. “You’re insane. Overlord, really.”

“Don’t try to sarcasm away from this. You said it. You think he’s hot. Hotter than anyone, by your own words.”

She swallows, forcing a weak smile. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was just… I mean, objectively. Factually. No one looks like him. He has a very… individual face.”

Mya smiles in a sickly-sweet sort of way. “You know, Ellie, it’s okay to admit you have an older man kink. I won’t think any less of you.”

She chokes on her own breath. “Excuse me! That’s— you’re just projecting. If anyone has an older man kink it’s you!”

Mya laughs. “Oh, I definitely do, but that doesn’t change yours. This is why we’re friends, you know. Common bonds we’re still unearthing. True BBF’s share kinks.”

Ellie laughs, but it’s a bit hollow and sits sourly in her throat as she tilts her head against the seat, thinking about Nico in the Roastery, about him driving, his hand on the gearshift.

Is he a kink?

“I don’t think…” she swallows, because she’s already said it, hasn’t she? Mya knows. No matter how often Ellie denies it. She is—

She is attracted to him, isn’t she?

It’s not just his face. It’s not just getting used to him. It’s not just intrusive thoughts.

Is it?

“He’s just…” she trails off; her mind is a mess of thoughts, her stomach a pit of wants burning against the truth of who he is. How can she even… even think the things in her head, knowing what he is to her? All her fantasies; those hands, that body, mouth, dick—

She swallows around a trip in her pulse, a surge of bitter heat at the back of her throat.

Those things made her.

She looks at her hand, white-knuckled around her phone. He built her. The things that make her up, the bones in her hand, the shape of knuckles, the veins beneath her skin… they’re from him.

And this morning—

Last night she dreamt about him— last night she dreamt about — woke up hot with it, sticky with it, tangled up in a want of him so bright and burnt that she got off to the idea of him wanting her, too.

Mya’s waiting, watching her; the bus bumps over the road and Ellie has no idea what to say or do or think about. It’s all so fucked up.

When she doesn’t say anything, Mya drops her head beside Ellie’s on the seat, pushing out a breath and taking her hand. “Sorry, I just like teasing you. It’s okay if you’re still worried about the age thing.”

Ellie nods, her words stuck in her throat. A scream there, jagged with everything he is to her.

“If it makes you feel any better, you know that like, I love my parents so, I mean… it’s not always because of daddy issues.”

It takes everything in her to not jerk away from Mya. The words hit her like a brick. Is that what it is? Does she have daddy issues? Is she just one, messed up ball of stupid, cliché problems?

(His chest beneath her, his body hot and hard and big, his thigh and leg off the couch. Her hand gripping onto his shirt in the blue-light glow of the tv. His belt and the way the fabric beneath it—)

She swallows. Is that all it is? An absent father, a cliché, a kink?

(His heart, steady and slow beneath her ear.)

She wants to see him so badly— she needs to realign what he is, needs to make him the father that he really is to her. Needs to— to what, she thinks, how can I treat him like a father if I don’t know how to do it?

Except he’s showing her, isn’t he? The time he makes for her, the way he treats her, he— he wants her around. He wants to be her dad, doesn’t he?

Yes, she thinks. He does.

How the hell is she going to fix this?

Mya squeezes her hand and Ellie squeezes back, her heart thumping, her mind spinning, the phantom in her step lingering like a threat.

A tell-tale heartbeat, thumping one name.

            Ellie calls her mother as she crosses the city, trying to think about being seventeen, about being a daughter. That she knows how to do it. How to be one.

How to love a parent.

She feels a bit better by the time she’s on the 2 and nearing the Financial District; there’s a big guy in a suit on the subway that stops some other dude who was pretty obviously trying to get his phone under her skirt in the busy train, and Ellie thanks him.  He lifts his chin, and it’s barely a nod, but she guesses he isn’t bothered because he takes hold of the handrail above her head and blocks her from the rest of the train for the rest of the nearly sardine-like ride.

As she gets off and she loses him in the crowds, she can’t help but wonder what the hell businessmen are feeding themselves nowadays. What happened to sweater vests and polos and dad-bods? This would all be a lot easier if Nico was more like any of the other divorced, single dads she’s met through her friends over the years.

She snorts, jogging up the station exit and blinking into daylight, searching for the market that Google Maps told her was close by.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if her mother had a type and Nico looked like Paul.

            Ellie looks up at the building and pulls in a breath, breathing through the butterflies in her stomach that make it a little too hard to feel steady. Letting it out, she grips tighter at the coffee tray and tells herself again that this is good, that she’s not a kid, that she doesn’t have issues and this isn’t stupid—

Even though she’s a little terrified it is.

Pulling open the big glass door of the office building, Ellie steps into the big, stupid-nice lobby of Cordarius. It’s quiet inside, there’s a man to her left that’s talking lowly on his cellphone and a group of three business people near the front desk. She passes by a security guard who eyes her curiously; she’s glaringly out of place, she knows she is.

She heads towards the desk and smiles a too-tight, awkward-sort of smile at the guy behind it.

“Hi,” she says to the man with short, curly-dark hair, and sneaks a glance at the woman working at a computer next to him.

The man, probably in his late twenties, smiles at her behind his glasses, his eyes flicking from her to her coffee tray. “Are you… delivering?”

Ellie pulls in a steadying breath and lets it out slowly. Just say it.

“No, I’m— this is going to sound like, crazy, but my— I mean—” she cuts off and winces. “So, Nico— uh, Mister Cordova is my—” she huffs, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “Mister Cordova is my father.  And I’d really like to surprise him with some coffee because he always brings me stuff for like, lunch at school, and I thought it’d be uh, fun? To surprise him.”

It’s hard not to cringe. She kind of wants the floor to just… open up and swallow her.

He blinks at her, glancing at the woman beside him who’s already looking at Ellie. They both, she thinks, look like they're trying to hide their surprise. Neither one is doing a very good job.

At all. So much for professionalism.

She pushes on. “Right. So, I know this is kinda weird and you don’t know me, but… do you think you could let me go see him? Without telling him I’m here? I promise I’m not like, a stalker or anything. I go to Trinity. And I’m like, five foot nothing and definitely not a threat, so…”

His lips twitch. “I—”

“I’m Ellie, by the way.” Shut up, she tells herself, as the guy behind the desk blinks at her. Holy moly, stop talking.

The phone rings and the woman answers, a polite, professionally-clipped greeting while the man looks at Ellie over the tall, marble front desk. “Uh,” he clears his throat, looking at the woman and then back to Ellie. “I’m not sure—”

The woman hangs up and leans towards the man, whispering something in his ear Ellie doesn’t catch. The guy’s eyebrows tilt up and he clears his throat again, a smile stretching quickly across his face.

“Well. Oo-kay. This is by far the strangest, cutest thing I’ve ever seen happen here.”

He rounds the desk, and she takes an eager, quick few steps closer to where he’s rounding the desk, her heart ticking up that her shitty, desperate plan is coming together.

“You’ll let me? I mean you won’t tell him I’m coming up, right? I want to surprise him.”

He smiles and laughs a little, tilting his head. “Mister Cordova? No, I won’t tell him, but I am going to walk you up, just in case your cuteness is all a very clever deception.”

Ellie laughs, skipping a step to catch up to his stride as he turns and heads towards a bank of elevators down the wide space to the left. More people are milling about, most distracted by their cellphones or talking to each other.   

“I’m Yusuf, by the way.”

With a smile, Ellie holds out her hand. “Ellie.”

He grins and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t…” he hesitates, the elevator doors open and two people step off before he leads her in. They slide shut and as it starts to rise, he looks down at her, curious. “I didn’t know Mister Cordova had kids.”

With a shrug, Ellie glances at the number of floors, wondering if Nico’s on the top floor just like his penthouse. It wouldn’t surprise her. She can’t see him being happy with anything less than the top. “He doesn’t— I mean, it’s just me. There’s no like, plural there.”

Yusuf laughs quietly, leaning against the wall and tilting his head as he looks at her. “We’ll have to stop by Fran. I can bring you up, but she— well, you’ll see.”

Ellie thinks that sounds a little ominous, but he continues on like it isn’t, leaving her mind rolling on who Fran is.

“So, what’d you get him?”

“Oh, it’s—” Ellie cuts off and steps back as the elevator dings and two businessmen step in, talking about numbers and an account; she feels the once over they give her and steels herself for a comment. It wouldn’t be the first time her school uniform has caused her some grief in the streets or on the subway— it wouldn’t be the first time today, even. But they turn away to face the doors; she relaxes and slides a little closer towards Yusuf, tilting the coffee tray a little so he can see it.

He grins, fighting a laugh and giving her a thumbs up.

The men fill the quiet with their low voices; their suits cut sharp and neat, no different than anything she’s seen on Nico, but— but even as she watches one lift his phone to send a text, she can’t help but think there’s just something completely different about these men compared to Nico.

She isn’t sure it’s just his height or shoulders or… face. She isn’t sure what it is, exactly. He’s just...different. There’s something different about him.

One of the men glances back and Ellie drops her eyes, biting her cheek at being caught looking, even if she wasn’t looking at him, exactly— thankfully, the elevator slows and the men get off at the next floor. Yusuf scoffs under his breath as they both look back at her with an obvious once-over and two sharp sort of smile, before he steps forward to hit the ‘close doors’ button.

“Men,” he grumbles, settling back beside her. “So predictable. You’re in high school, aren’t you?”

Ellie tilts her head against the wall behind her, looking at him, a bit surprised by his tone, but he keeps talking without waiting for her answer.

He shakes his head. “Gosh, I wish I could see their face if they knew you were Mister Cordova’s daughter. Ha! Gold. I can imagine it.”

Ellie smiles, a little confused but entertained by his rambling as the elevator slows, stops and dings, opening up to the top floor.

“Franny!” Yusuf calls out with a grin as they reach the big black desk set straight ahead of the elevators. “I have a very important delivery for Mister Cordova.”

The woman, who Ellie guesses must be over sixty, finishes typing something on the computer in front of her with no acknowledgement of either one of them before pushing up from her seat and rounding the big black desk.

She’s straight-backed and poised; her low heels clipping quietly on the floor, her wrap dress tied smartly around her middle, her grey hair coiled neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck, contrasted against her skin.

She’s sort of imposing, Ellie thinks as the woman stops in front of them, looking her over, down at the tray in her hand.

“Hi,” she says, swallowing her nerves and holding out her other hand. “I’m Ellie.”

Fran’s lips curve just a little.

“Did Serg—” At Fran’s cutting look, Yusuf’s mouth snaps shut.

Ellie looks between the two as the older woman takes her hand gives it a shake. “You have his eyes.”

Her heart skips and something— something aches a bit for the way she says it, so easy and true, so quick and like… like it’s unmistakable. Unmissable.

Ellie has her father’s eyes.

She has to let out a little breath at the feeling inside of her; seventeen years old and it’s the first time she’s ever heard anyone say anything about her father that wasn’t a no.

And this morning…this morning she—

Her smile is quick and too tight. “Yeah.”

The woman smiles a little more, it softens her appearance and Ellie eases a little as the lines around Fran’s eyes crinkle more. The older woman slips her hand out of Ellie’s and steps to the side. “He’s in a meeting—”

Ellie’s heart sinks.

“—but, I think he deserves a little... surprise. Come with me.”

Yusuf doesn’t follow; she glances back at him and he lifts a hand in a wave before heading back to the elevator. At the end of the short hallway, there’s a sitting area that looks more modern than comfortable, and a wall of opaque glass with a door, straight ahead. The hallway continues to the right, but Fran stops in front of the door and knocks once, a sharp rap of her knuckles before pushing in.

“Apologies for the interruption,” she says to the room, stepping to the side and holding the door for Ellie to step in after her.

The office is bright with the daylight shining in from the glass behind the desk, and she’s aware, in the second she takes in the room, that Nico’s not alone, that there are two people in the office with them, but for a minute, it’s just him.

He looks at her across the space, and for a second, he’s a stranger. He’s— there’s something—but then he blinks and his grin is sudden and sharp before he lifts his hand to rub over his mouth as he looks at her, standing in his office doorway her little tray of coffee, still in her uniform, stealing away from Trinity to see him.

(To try to line him up in her head, follow the example of… of care that he set. Realign her thoughts, actions, wants. To be a daughter.)

He’s her dad.

Not… not the other word.

Nico’s grin tilts, crooked and pleased and it still flickers through her, the sight of it, of him, all broad and easy in his chair as he looks at her, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand rubbing over his jaw as he laughs, low and warm behind it.

The other two people he’s with turn to look at her, twisting in their seats. A man, older than Nico, with greying hair, smiles and gives a short, sharp laugh. The woman in the other chair, glances at the man, at Nico, and then back to Ellie.

Ellie tries not to stare back but her nerves prick at the sight of the woman, something hot along her spine that bubbles into her stomach. She’s beautiful, shiny and long dark hair. Red lips. A cool sort of aloofness.

The man pushes up from his seat and pulls on his suit jacket; he’s tie-less and his shirt is wrinkled along his back, but his eyes are entertained, darting over Ellie and Fran and then back to Nico, who pushes up from his desk, his eyes still on Ellie.

She smiles at him, she can’t stop it. It flickers to life inside of her, so bright she aches with it.

“I guess that’s our cue,” the older man says, looking at the woman straightening up from the other chair in front of Nico’s desk. “Lunch break?”

Ellie’s eyes sink back to the woman. She’s… pretty much the definition of a well-dressed businesswoman. Tight, high-waisted pencil skirt, a flowy but fitted blouse that shows off all of her curves. Deadly sharp heels; looking like she stepped straight out of a tv show about lawyers.

Like, Suits, or something.

Ellie’s smile falters, feeling all of her five-foot, patent-shoe, and thick-knit-pantyhose wearing frame as the woman smiles at her, a slow thing that’s full of red lips, white teeth, and a sharp sort of curiosity. “I guess it is.”

It’s not quite nice, and Ellie’s confidence sinks like a rock. She looks down at the coffee tray and the protein bars on it and wants to hide the stupid tray behind her back.

They’re good protein bars, she thinks, she made sure. She went to a City Acres. There wasn’t enough time to get anything else.

Was this a stupid idea?

When she looks back up, her eyes meet the woman’s, she has no idea what the woman is thinking, because Ellie tears her eyes away too quickly, only that she has to stand there, in her rolled tartan skirt and buckled shoes and watch the woman from the corner of her eye as she smooths a hand over a skin-tight skirt that shows off everything Ellie is pretty sure she’ll never have.

Her heels click over the floors. Ellie watches the shine of her heels as she steps forward, stopping right next to Nico’s leather shoes as he settles into a lean against the front of his desk.

Ellie looks up at that. At how close the woman stands next to him. At how… unbothered Nico looks with her closeness. That hot, tingling feeling crawls along her spine, right up her nape and into the back of her brain.

Why is she standing so close? He said he was single. Didn’t he?

Her stomach sinks, thinking about that if. (If I had a girlfriend, he’d said. If.)

The woman says something to Nico, a quiet conversation she can’t hear. She watches Nico’s head turn to look at the woman, just a slight tilt down because she’s tall, unlike Ellie.

She doesn’t mean to check her out but she can’t but notice her curves, the way she stands next to him—that feeling in her spine sharpens, and she swallows the bitter-edged taste of jealousy at the back of her mouth, watching Nico’s focus shift to the woman, leaving Ellie standing awkwardly, holding her stupid little tray and thinking she could just show up and fit into his life as easily as he slid into hers.

She looks like she belongs next to him. Like she’s the kind of woman someone like Nico would date. (Fuck, her mind scratches at her, with those condoms in his bathroom.)

She breathes through the lurch of her insides as the other man speaks, something about a team, about finances and Burqhart. Ellie’s too focused on the woman to pay attention. Too focused on that bitter-bite of jealousy that’s not—not jealousy, it’s—

“You bring anything to share with the class, darlin’?”

Ellie startles, the man grins at her, somehow standing right next to her when he was across the room a blink before. He looks down at her tray and then at her; she opens her mouth to say no, but Nico’s voice interrupts her.

“Holden,” he says, low and firm in a way that makes Ellie’s eyes dart from the man and back to Nico, the back of her neck tingling at the tone. She’s never heard it before.

He’s still talking to the woman, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, he glances at Ellie and then back to the woman; her stomach gurgles unhappily.

The man, Holden, looks at her another beat, his eyes flicking over her face, a hushed huh, slipping out of his mouth before he grins again and looks to Nico and lifts a hand in a sharp, lazy sort of salute. “Heading to the office, I’ll be in touch.”

Ellie thinks it’s a weird statement when they’re already in an office, but maybe he’s from another company. With a wince, as he steps around her and Fran and towards the door, she hopes she didn’t interrupt anything important just because she’s… stupid and seventeen. Guilty and wanting.

Trying to shove him into the shape of Parent.

“See you around, Miss Ellie. Great to finally meet you.”

Finally? Wait— he knows her name?

“Bye,” she says dumbly, holding on to the stupid tray as he walks away.

“Irina,” Fran urges, still holding the door open.

Ellie turns back to look at the wom— at Nico, and isn’t (she is, absolutely, disgustingly) relieved to find his eyes on her; tilting his chin in a come here motion at her.

But it fades just as quick when his attention shifts back to the woman beside him.

Irina, Ellie thinks, lingers next to Nico, waving Fran off with a flick of her hand.

Go away, she thinks at the woman and tries not to pout. Go away.

Ellie glances back and sees the tightening of Fran’s mouth, but her eyes settle on Ellie and she gives her a little nod. A little go on.

With a smile, and feeling a bit like she won the older woman over despite her imposingness, Ellie heads towards Nico, overly aware of the gut-rot feeling of him not looking at her. Too caught on watching the way he looks talking to the woman. Too caught on her mind whispering stupid little thoughts about what he likes looking at.

She picks at the underside of the stupid little tray in her hands, biting her cheek and wishing she’d changed before coming— But no, no— she’s here to realign things, isn’t she? That’s the point.

He’s obviously known how to see her, right from the start. How to treat her. How to care about her. And she just needs to… to follow his example, right?

Right.

He can look at the other woman, or any woman. Ellie doesn’t care. It’s one thing to want him, to think about him— but it’s completely another to want him to actually want her back, isn’t it?

She just wants his attention, not for him to… to look at her.

She hates how untrue it all sounds, even to herself. How, even as she repeats it, sticks it like a mantra into her brain, there’s a truth scratching at the back of her skull and it’s all about his eyes and his hands and (him sitting across the Roastery, across the Ferry, across a hot and blurry bar.)

“Later,” he says to Irina, his eyes finally settling steadily on Ellie as she steps in front of them. She’s aware of Irina looking at her again, the pressure of her curiosity, the weighing of— of who Ellie is.

Ellie smiles her customer-service smile at her, feeling like… like a stupid little flower, blooming under Nico’s closeness. Which is stupid. She’s not jealous, it’s not a competition.

Nico’s her dad. Irina obviously works for him or with him, so. It’s fine.

Totally fine.

She swallows, feeling her cheeks heat as Nico looks at her, his smile crooked, his eyes flicking from her face down to the tray in her hands.

“I thought, you know, you bring me stuff all the time, so…”

His smile curves more, the woman shifts in Ellie’s peripherals, waiting to be introduced, but when Nico doesn’t say anything, when the silence hangs and the moment stretches… Irina picks up a file from the desk and turns to leave.

“I’ll see about getting access to his files today.”

“Loop Holden in,” Nico says, but doesn’t look away from Ellie as Irina’s heels echo, fading towards the door. Ellie won’t say she’s happy about it, but the sick little roll in her stomach turns to a sparking sort of fizz when the door shuts with a thud behind her and Nico’s grin stretches; toothy, wide, just for her.

He takes the tray from her and sets in on the desk beside him. She’s almost disappointed he doesn’t even look at it, not really, but then there’s this low sound in his throat as he steps forward, scoops her up into his arms, tilting his head and sinking into the side of her neck and cheek.

“Fuck, what a surprise you are,” he grunts, his voice is warm and rolling against her neck, his lips moving against her skin as he speaks, as he presses a kiss into the skin behind her jaw, another near her temple.

Ellie swallows her heartbeat and clings on, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face into his neck as everything in her twists and burns; that fizz of happiness that comes so easy with him blurring into the heat of her attraction to him, the one that notices every scrape of his stubble, every rough-edge in his voice, the press of his lips and the feel of his body against hers.

But this, she thinks, breathing him in and feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, is exactly what she wanted all day.

She clings tighter and wills that ache in the back of her throat, (and the one beating between her thighs) away.

Eventually, after a warm bit of quiet filled with his heart beating steadily against her cheek and ear, Nico leans forward, easing the grip he has on her legs, setting her back down to her feet; his hands smooth over her sides, down her skirt and Ellie bites her cheek, feeling the gentle tug of his grip as she meets his eyes, her arms still wrapped around his neck and keeping him close.

It can’t be comfortable for him, bent over the way he is, and his face is—  

Close.

So close.

His eyes flick over her face; the same colour as her own, the same hazel ring, the same shade of blue. It’s impossible to ignore.

You have his eyes.

“Hi,” she pushes out, easing her grip on his shoulders, feeling the muscles of his shoulders, the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt, the hard slope of his chest beneath her palms as he straightens up to his full height.

She curls her hands into his shirt, the looser fabric at his sides, just beneath his ribs.

“Hi,” he says looking down at her, a little curve of amusement in his lips. His hand comes up and he touches the side of her head, his fingers sinking into her hair a little, smoothing her hair down as he brushes it back.

Ellie watches him, her breath caught in her chest because he’s just… his eyes shift to his hand in her hair, the slow drag of it over her shoulder, his eyes following it, moving back up as his hand cups the side of her neck, his palm big and hot, his thumb brushing over her jaw, slow and warm and slightly rough.

Nico pulls in a slow breath, she sees it, the shift of his chest, the broadening of his shoulders, like he’s… (like it really is true, that there’s nowhere else he’d rather look than at her.) He pushes out a slow, warm exhale before his eyes flick back to her face.

“You are a constant surprise, you know that?”

She breathes in, forcing a smile. “What?”

 His smile is tight and quick, a little huff of a laugh as he drops his hand, leaning back against his desk and tucking his hands into his pockets. “Elysium. My fucking lamp. You,” he says, with a low breath of laughter. “Nothing surprises me anymore. Except you.”

Her eyes burn and her throat tightens; this is what she came for, isn’t it? To define him in her head more clearly. To fill in the outline of ‘Dad’ she’s had in her imagination her entire life. To shape him, Nico, into the figure of what he should be— is, what he is, more fully.

Like she’s… like she’s a cheap, knock-off Pygmalion, where her hands know her wants more clearly than her mind does and every time she tries to shape into something more real, her fingers slip a detail, a want, a slippery little fantasy made of clay and childish dreams and he’s…

Everything she wants and

everything she shouldn’t have.

Ellie steps forward, pressing her forehead into his chest, that spot right in the centre of it, just above his ribs, and breathes him in; hating how aware she is of his body. His smell. The buttons of his shirt. The line of his belt. The— the feeling of the bulk and heat beneath his belt.

She isn’t going to think about it. (She does. A flickering thing at the back of her mind. A memory, a dream. His breath on her cheek, that’s it, baby girl.)

His hands are still in his pockets, but he lets Ellie lean against him. She wants to ask him to touch her. She wants to ask him for a thousand things. To make her breakfast, to take her to school. To put her to bed and kiss her goodnight. To press her up against the side of a pool and slip a strap off her shoulder. To look at her when she’s wearing his clothes. To take them off her. To put her to bed and follow her into it. To make her breakfast after.

To look at her. In every way he shouldn’t.

Nico shifts, one hand slipping out his pocket and sliding under the drape of her hair, his palm is warm as he cups the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin. She shivers. She wants to tell him to stop. To tell him she’s fucked up. To tell him she’s wrong and she doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Everything okay, shrimp?”

Ellie’s laugh is weak. Her guilt eats her alive. “Yeah,” she pushes out, pulling in a steadying breath and forces a smile, stepping back and trying to push it all away.

Stop being such a sad-sack, she tells herself, your pity-party is stupid and useless.

“You didn’t even look at what I brought you,” she pouts.

Nico grins, turning his head and looking down at the tray. He lets out a short laugh, looking back at her, picking up one of the two protein bars on the tray and holding it up.

“I didn’t think you’d want microwaved oatmeal, but you’re all like—” she stumbles over the words in her head that are all about his shoulders and arms and body— “You know, stronk.”

Stronk.

She wants to ground to open up and swallow her whole. Her skin crawls. Her cheeks are on fire.

Nico laughs, his eyebrows tilting in confusion. “What?”

Ellie groans, covering her face with her hands. “Strong. It’s a stupid— it’s like, uh— it’s totally dumb. Forget it.”

He laughs again, his hand closing around her wrist, her head still buried in her hands, and tugs her into him again, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his smile and laughter all shape and sound against her skin. 

She buzzes with it, the idea of making him smile, (laugh, happy—) the fucked-up mix of intimacy that makes her cunt clench as much as her heart does. 

It’s fatherly. It’s fantasy spilling through her. (A kiss, a touch, his thumb on her jaw, tilting her head up as his lips slide down.)

The word tattoos itself against her ribs. She breathes it in like a stitch.

“You got time to drink your abomination with me? Or do I have to get you back to school?”

She should go, she knows she should, not just because of school but because she’s messed up and all he does it make it all worse— but she shakes her head. “I got time.”

“Good,” he hums. “One of these bars better be for you. You gotta get stronk, too.”

Ellie laughs and groans, shoving away from him, feeling him grab onto her wrist to keep her close even as she tilts away. “No. That’s terrible, oh my God.”

“Am I going to have to learn, what— Tik-Tok slang to keep up with you?”

“I’ll get you a dictionary,” she teases, still leaning away, liking the look on his face, the easy way he grips her wrist, the feeling of being… so comfortable with him? Of knowing that he has her, maybe.

“I’ll even make it large print for your old eyes.”

His eyebrows tilt up and he laughs, short and quick before yanking her into him, twisting her around to wrap his arm around her middle. Ellie’s back bumps into his chest and she eases in his hold as he tilts his head down, his voice low and warm against her hair as she laughs in his arms.

“You’re a very rude little girl.”  

“Maybe an audiobook, how’s your hearing?”

He pinches her side, making her jolt and laugh harder; she feels him laugh, too, a rumbling feeling against her back. “My hearing is just fucking fine, brat.”

Ellie laughs, tilting her head back against his chest, letting herself enjoy it, just for a minute.  “Mmhm, sure.”

“Stronk,” he mutters, but she can hear the grin in his voice. “That’s fucking terrible.”

            After study group, she changes into pyjamas with Mya, hauling their pillows and blankets into the common room to build a little nest in front of one of the couches. Kate and Sara hang a white sheet on the wall that’s going to be their make-shift movie screen for movie night.

She watches Mya Snap Chris and looks down at her own dark-screened, silent phone.

Later, he said, twisting her phone over in her grip, his voice in her head. Later.

She can’t stop thinking about it.

What does later mean? Why did the Holden guy leave so easily but Irina didn’t? Why did she stand so close? What’s later?

It’s been in her head all afternoon, all through her work-shift; later later later.

Ellie plucks at her bottom lip, scraping her nail over it as she rolls her phone over in her palm again. He could be doing anything. He said it was going to be a long workday but— but he can’t work all the time, can he? Even if he says he makes time for her. He can’t… obviously he has a life? Obviously— obviously those condoms are there for a reason.

Ellie looks over at Brooke, her blonde hair straight and glowing in the projector-light as Pride and Prejudice starts to play on the sheet, the image shifting as Katie centres it.

Brooke’s texting someone, her lips twisting in a smirk. She’s still wearing makeup, a few of her friends are. Ellie tries to judge her for it, feeling a spark of meanness in her chest, but it’s weak and stupid. Petty. She doesn’t care about Brooke.

It’s a little bit of a lie. She cares about Brooke enough to avoid her. And she cares enough about avoiding her as much as someone would, sharing a room with like, an active petri dish of Ebola.

Okay, maybe that’s too much, but she isn’t sure she’s been in the same vicinity as the other girl outside of classes since—

She wonders if she’s talking to Ethan.

Mya, still distracted by Chris, glances at her and then Brooke and winces, but it’s Katie, sinking down on Ellie’s other side that speaks first.

“Sorry, I couldn’t not invite her… I really didn’t think she’d come. She never comes to these things.”

Ellie shrugs. “It’s fine.”

She can feel the doubt from the girls around her, nestled together on the less cool side of the social-divide bifurcating the common room. Brooke’s side, claiming the bigger couch and the floor in front of it, is like… Pride Rock.

But like, when Scar took over.

She rolls her phone in her hand again.

“I made some candy bags,” Katie says, looking hopeful as she twists and pulls out a little baggy of candies from behind her, and handing one to Ellie. It has her name on it, a little smiley face at the end. So does Mya’s.

She feels bad for ignoring Katie and Sara so much last year— not that she was ignoring them, exactly, she was just… too wrapped up in Ethan and how he was when he was with her. She didn’t do it on purpose, and she knows the other girls don’t hold it against her, but it’s still there, a bubble of guilt for giving into Ethan at all.

No one told her ‘I told you so’ but there hadn’t been any surprise, either, when the rumours started going around about what happened. Hell, she thinks, even Paul knew. Which was just— horrifyingly embarrassing.

She looks down at her phone, willing Nico to text. Her mind full of images of deadly-sharp heels and Nico’s expensive leather shoes stepping next to them. Between them.

He doesn’t need to have a girlfriend to use those condoms, her mind whispers. She glances at Brooke and it whispers again, Ethan told you it was a boring party.

(She’d been working that night, and she was supposed to meet him after she finished her shift, but he’d shown up as she was closing, fucked-up and pressing kisses to her mouth and jaw and saying how much he’d missed you, babe. Party was so fucking lame. He’d smelled like toothpaste and cologne, and she’d thought it was kind of nice that he didn’t taste like beer or weed or whatever he was fucked-up on from the party.)

Brooke pulls her bra-top down a little, smiling and taking a Snap; Ellie thinks about Scar picking his teeth with a bone.

Stupid, she thinks, (in her memories, Ethan sinks into her dorm bed, and they make out while watching Triple Frontier. He tells her about his uncle’s new vacation home in Mexico and how she’ll come with him in the summer.)

It seems like years ago and yesterday, all at once.

Stupid, she thinks and settles in to watch the movie, trying not to think about what sort of woman would catch Nico’s eye.

(If, he’d said, if I had a girlfriend.)

She worries her lip with the blunt edge of her nails and opens her messages.

Hey

His answer pings back in seconds.

Hello, brat, how’s the movie night?

She lets out a breath and eases into her pillows.

                        ‘Night, sweetheart.

Ellie buries her head into her pillow; Nico’s voice, thick and warm, is stuck like molasses in her head, from the phone call that absolutely wasn’t about her making sure he wasn’t with anyone else. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t even her idea to phone. Mostly. Sort of.

Stupid, she huffs into the pillow. He could just be saying he was at his office. You’d have no idea.

Except that it was nearly silent on the other end, she’d been listening. Some paper being shuffled, the ding of an email on his computer, a man’s voice saying something low and, she’s pretty sure, not in English.

Still, she can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop hearing him. Like a seashell to her ear except it’s not the ocean, it’s the current of his voice.

It swells into fantasies that she can’t keep back no matter how hard she tries, scrunching her eyes shut and ignoring the ache in between her thighs. A tide, cresting hotter and heavier at the edge of roughness in his voice. Fatigue, she thinks. A long day, he’d said.

It rushes through her when she presses her legs together, half-chasing how good it feels and half-wanting to squeeze the feeling out of herself.

Her bullet is right there.

Mya will be gone for an hour or two, maybe a bit more. A quick hookup with Chris. There’s time, her mind whispers, c’mon.

(C’mon, he says in her ear, his breath on her cheek, or maybe through the phone, listening to the hitch in her breathing— let me hear you.)

God, she thinks, rolling over and dragging her pillow over her face, clenching her hands into it. You’re so fucked-up.

She isn’t going to do it.

She won’t.

She won’t.

But he’s there, in her head, (his lips on her cheek, his hand on her thigh, sinking up under his hoodie and her dress on the couch, rolling them over until she’s beneath him and he’s big and bracing over her and she has to spread her legs—)

And God, she can imagine it, his belt digging into the soft skin of her inner thighs, how wide she’d have to spread them, what that bulk in the front of his trousers—

(His hand, his fist, the slow slide of a condom, shiny in glowing, tinged-blue light.)

Ellie sits up, scrubbing her hands through her hair, her heart pounding; she isn’t going to think about that.

But it’s there, intrusive, an image in every blink, like a flickering roll of images straight out of a porno. (His mouth on her jaw, his voice in her ear, his hand on her hip as he works himself in.)

The word is there, too. A heated stone in her stomach, burning against her insides.

Picking up her phone and opening the browser, Ellie watches the cursor blink as her keyboard pops up, her thumb hovering over the D.

She’s not attracted to Paul. If she had— if she had a kink— she’d have thought about him, wouldn’t she? He was the one who was around. He was the one filling the role. Between the two, she thinks, Paul has been the one more… more father-like. He’s helped her with homework, made her breakfast, taken her to school and picked her up. They’ve had family dinners and birthdays, trips, movie nights.

If she had a kink—

Her thumb slides over D A D D—

She doesn’t have a kink. She doesn’t have issues. Her mother loves her. 

Her thumb presses down on the Y, the word sits in front of her, glows up at her, stark black in the white search box.

It feels like its in her mouth.  The shape of it; tongue to the back of her teeth, weighted on her tongue, slow and round and smooth until her tongue touches her teeth again, the word trailing into something meant to be whined. Begged.

God, Daddy.

Her pulse trips and skips and plummets like she missed a step; her hips wind on their own, pressing down, seeking, squirming against the mattress as she bites her cheek against the echoing pulse of the ache in her cunt, sticky and too hot. Her thumb slides over K I N K and she hits search quickly—like if she doesn’t look at the word, it’s less real. Weighted. Fucked-up.

The page loads in a blink, Urban Dictionary gives her a definition that makes her stomach twist and her body flush with a rush of something that feels like she’s been dropped right off the top of a roller coaster.  Disgust, she thinks, it’s disgust, right?

The love of degrading, spanking, name calling, or domination that may be associated with calling your s/o daddy. A daddy kink is not always characterised by its ...

Her heart batters against her chest and she sucks in air, uneven, too loud in the quiet.

It’s not like she doesn’t know what a daddy kink is. She does. Everyone does.

Right?

Right, she thinks, with her thumb hovering over the next result:

What does it take to be a Daddy?

It's a fetish that elicits a lot of very visceral reactions — people seem to either love daddy kink or hate it. Even though it seems to be ...

Her heart pounds. She looks over her shoulder at the window behind her, at the time on her phone… Mya won’t be back yet, but… but she dims her screen brightness and shifts, putting her back against the wall her bed is against, even as she tells herself that there’s no one to see what she’s looking at. No one will know.

Still, she faces the window, hiding her phone from the world, and clicks the link.

My daddy kink used to embarrass me.

Ellie blinks and swallows, squirming against the bunched-up bulk of her covers, the slippery seam of her sleep shorts digging into her cunt; she curls her fingers into her sleep-shirt on her stomach, feeling sticky and too hot. Everywhere. Inside of herself.

Her stomach is so tight it hurts; like something’s about to happen, that trip of a gut-instinct, edge of precipice where you know there’s nothing but the fall.

It’s disgust, right?

The article is written by a woman, there’s a little profile pic of her on the blog. Ellie reads it all, stopping to re-read sections that make her insides clench in ways she isn’t sure what to do with.

It’s disgust, right?

--not every girl means the same thing when she moans out “daddy” on her way to an orgasm—the dirty stepdads, or mom’s boyfriend who plays fast and loose with the boundaries, or the father figure who has always been part of your life and is just starting to realize that you’ve blossomed into a very sexy woman.

To me, family roleplay fantasies aren’t hot because they involve a daddy. They’re hot because they’re scenarios saturated with forbidden love. It’s about being irresistibly drawn to someone — so much so that you’ll fuck them even though you know you’re not supposed to.

She squirms again, her toes curling over the edge of her bed as her heart pounds its way out of her chest like a hammer against her ribs.

Is it disgust?

God, she thinks, her eyes skimming over the paragraph again, lingering on forbidden, daddy, fantasies—

Roleplay.

It’s not roleplay, her mind hisses. It’s not a game. There’s no make-believe. Nico is your daddy.

He’s not a kink.

But… but is that what’s wrong with her? Is that all it is? Crossed-wires, misfiring synapses, brain waves merging where they shouldn’t?

Does she really just have a daddy kink and it’s… what? Latching onto him because he’s— he’s him.

Her eyes sink back to dirty stepdads, mom’s boyfriends— and for a second, she thinks about Paul. In class, the sound of his voice, his hand on her arm or shoulder, the splay of his hand on her mother’s cheek and jaw as they kiss.

She can’t even imagine it, can’t put herself there instead, the pictures won’t line up in her mind; they blur and shift and blur back into her mother.

But… but the images shift and blur again, and it’s a scarred knuckle on her jaw, a sharp-toothed grin against her mouth, the thunk of her body against the hallway wall as the tv chatters in the living room. The hunch of a too-big body caging her against the wall as his lips skim her cheek in a hush. (Shh, you gotta be quiet, baby girl.)

Ellie drops her phone and pulls her knees up to her chest, shaky and hot, blinking the images in her head; bursts of still frames that make her pulse pound and her body burn-up like a struck match.

(Did you have a good dinner? her mother calls from the living room, just like Ellie had. But there’s a mouth on her jaw, a hand slipping up her skirt, shirt, side— it flickers and shifts and settles into a thumb tracing the edge of her underwear, a hot palm on her thigh, his voice a steady and sincere: of course we did, Lore.)

Ellie scrunches her face, blowing out a breath as her cunt aches enough to make her squirm again, a little noise in her throat that’s almost pained.

She thinks about Professor Langley. About his hands handing back papers, about…the sharp edge of his desk, a tilted, accented Miss Evans— that flickers and sinks into expensive leather shoes stepping between her patent-leather school shoes and nudges them wide, wider— good girl—

God, she thinks, her face twisting, sinking her nails into her palms sharp enough to hurt.

She’s soaked. She can feel it, the slick-slide of shorts, the heat of the slide of the fabric when she squirms, the drag of the seam… she breathes out, trying to keep herself still. Trying to think about Paul, Professor Langley, fucking Ethan— anyone that isn’t Nico.

Grabbing her phone, Ellie exits out of the article and scrolls the page, DDlg sticks in her eyesight and she weighs her thumb down on the word, opening it into another search… before quickly clicking back out because she isn’t— she might think about what having Nico around would have been like when she was a kid, might think about him waking her up, taking her to school, making her breakfast, but she— she doesn’t want to be a kid.

Right?

It’s just a what if. A moment of a missing memory. A should-have-been.

She thinks about him in his office, about Irina, about a shiny leather shoe and a deadly-sharp high heel.

No, she doesn’t want to be a kid. She wants— she wants—

(His hand on her thigh in the restaurant. His eyes on her across the ferry deck. The taste of a hot dog, the warmth of his shoulder against her thigh. His heartbeat. His smell. The shift of his chest beneath her ear.)

Everything.

Too much.

Just him.

It’s not a kink. She doesn’t want to call anyone else that word. She doesn’t want anyone else to— to pretend to be what he is.

There’s no roleplay.

God, she laughs, reedy and weak, how fucked-up is that?

Her face twists. And for a second, she wants to cry, for a second, she wants to give into the fear-tipped, clawing thing in her chest that made her cry in Nico’s spare-room shower this morning.

In her shower this morning. Because he’s her dad and he’s given her a room and he wants her in his life and to be his family and to take care of her.

She pulls in a shaky breath and holds it, crawling back into bed, ignoring the slickness between her thighs, the flush in her body that makes her tremble, her pulse still pounding against her ribs.

Her chest aches and burns. She holds it. A beat long. A beat longer.

It bursts out of her, before she sucks in another wobbly breath. She’s hot and sticky all over, but she still sinks under her blankets and buries herself in her bed; hugging her knees to her chest and trying to ignore the weight of her arousal, thumping in time with her pulse. Aching and desperate to touch herself, needy and wanting of all the things that are still flickering behind her eyelids.

She closes her eyes.

The back of her knees get sticky with sweat. She doesn’t move.

Sweat gathers in the soft, inner curves of her elbows, the nape of her neck, beads on her temples. Still, she doesn’t move, keeps herself small, like if she shrinks enough, if she’s small enough, none of her thoughts will matter.

The words in the article run through her head, roleplay, dominant, fantasy, daddy.

Daddy.

Her mind spins, her body sweaty and too hot. Frustrated, she kicks off her covers, spreading herself out on the bed like a starfish, tilting her head up at the window and the moonlight slipping into her room, trying not to think about that bed— her bed— and his mouth on her temple, the slow inhale, his lips, dry and warm—

Go to sleep, baby.

She can’t.

She can’t sleep. She can’t move without feeling it. Can’t think without wanting him. Can’t close her eyes without seeing it. Every flowing, flickering fantasy.

Her bullet is right there.

Just once, her mind whispers, just do it once. Maybe that’s all it is. A fucked-up itch in your brain that you just need to scratch. Something new you want to taste, and once you do, you’ll hate it and you can get back to normal.

Just because you don’t want to call anyone else that word doesn’t mean it’s not a kink. It just means your head is fucked-up.

Her head is so fucked-up.

But… maybe she should. Maybe if it was just once. Maybe if she just lets herself think about it once, just once, she can… stop feeling this way.

Ellie moves slowly, twisting onto her side, hanging over the edge of her bed and reaching for the bottom drawer of her night table. It’s so fucking loud when she opens the drawer, even though it’s nothing more than wood dragging over wood, it sounds like an accusation. An indictment, a crawling, creeping bit of shame.

Her bullet is there, a bright little shine of gold beside a few pairs of fluffy socks and old schoolwork. It doesn’t look like much more than a weird tube of lipstick; a quick, giddy, online-purchase with Mya’s credit card, both of them as nervous as they were eager. Almost more concerned with it not looking like a vibrator, than they were about what it could do.

She looks down at it, shining in the moonlight and picks it up. Her insides clench and she pushes out an unsteady breath full of anticipation; her body knows how it feels.

She drops back against the bed, holding her bullet on her stomach, rubbing her face with her other hand and breathing out. Flopping it down against the bed, she reaches blindly for her phone, grabbing it and scrolling back to the article to read again.

My daddy kink used to embarrass me.

Daddy kink.

She taps the search box; she doesn’t watch porn often, but sometimes she likes… to see it. To watch and build fantasies in her mind of all the things she hasn’t done. That feeling is hot inside of her now, the curiosity. The things in the article, the things in her head. She knows what daddy kink is.

Everyone knows what it is. A joke. Something people call Chris Evans. Something laughed and joked about, and— and school skirts and teddy bears, thigh highs and frills. A big hand on her thigh. A man too big for her bed, slipping in beside her.

That word made into a whine.

God, she thinks, and closes her eyes, thinking about his chest, his cologne, the tug of his hands on her skirt— but up—

Up.

She types in Pornhub and doesn’t think. Types in daddy and doesn’t think beyond the beat of her heart drowning out her pulse, the ache in her cunt, the weight of her bullet, the tugging grip of his hands on her skirt.

But up. Up. (Are you wet, he’d ask, demand, grunt. Let me see. Show me.)

Videos pop up, her finger shakes when she makes sure her volume is almost completely silent, her heart beating right in her throat in a way it never has. She thinks she’s sweating and shivering all at once. Her guilt is there, but it’s buried behind her belly button beneath her bullet, lodged in her ribs beneath the shape of the word trying to push its way out.

It’s there, still.

She clicks on the first video with a school skirt. She doesn’t think about why, even though it’s in every blink of her eyes. It loads, the play button popping up in the middle of her screen. She breathes out and presses it, her thighs slinking together, chasing a bit of the ache, throbbing inside of her.

The video starts, there’s a girl coming home from school, a bad grade; it’s stupid and corny and cliché— she doesn’t need to really hear it to know what’s playing out. But her heart still pounds away in her chest and when the guy yanks the girl over his knee, Ellie’s cunt clenches and throbs and her hips roll, chasing the seam of her sleep shorts, the drag of the fabric, anything.

The guy isn’t right. The skirt is too short. Her shoes are sharp shiny heels, not flat Mary Janes. The girl’s ass turns red beneath his hand.

She can hear the whiny, stretched-out sounds the girl is making, just hints of them, nearly drowned out by her own breathing. Like a TV in another room, inching cries, pitches of voices she can barely make out.

They guy isn’t right. His button-up, shoulders, arms… she can hear the edges of his words, slut, bad girl— you want this, don’t you?

It settles hot and strange in her stomach, and she thinks about the article— temptation, forbidden, loves you—

Tapping the back button, she scrolls down the page, flushing at the titles, ignoring the trip of her heartbeat and the way the words settle in her stomach like the burn of alcohol even though it’s stupid, cliché, predictable.

Daddy’s girl. Teen. Daughter. Little slut. Big cock. Punished.

But then, there’s a picture of a girl curled up on a guy’s chest. She stares at it, and it shifts in every blink. TV light, a blue tint, a warm palm tucked behind her knee. A heartbeat, cologne, his chest beneath her hand.

She flicks on her bullet, just the first setting; it buzzes against her stomach as she sinks it down, sneaking her fingers under the band of her shorts.

She clicks on the video as her bullet buzzes, low and steady against her mound, her hips twitching up. On her screen, the guy is older, brown-haired and still not quite right. His hair is too light, his shoulders not broad enough, but he drags his hand through the girl’s hair as they cuddle on a couch and she curves her legs over his, shifting closer, nearly in his lap. He drops his hand to her thigh, it’s thick fingered and pale but in her mind, it’s tanned, bigger, with a scar on the knuckle.

The girl tilts her head up and kisses his jaw, the word is there, a soft little sound that makes her stomach clench and her cunt ache. Daddy.

Daddy.

She has to bite her tongue at the fist real weighted vibration of her bullet against her cunt. Her hips roll, she’s soaked— the bullet slips over her as her legs twitch apart. She sucks in a breath, and like a switch, she thinks, like a flickering light as her bullet brushes her clit, Ellie’s mind spins all on its own.

Her dreams come spilling, blurry images and hazy shapes; his hands, his chest, the sharp line of his belt digging into her spine. His hand on her stomach. They don’t settle, they roll together like paint in water, bleed and blend and blur. She’s panting into his cheek, his stubble sharp against her skin, his arms braced, his hips working— he’s tugging at her skirt, her hot cheek against a cool desk, shiny leather shoes nudging her flat, buckled shoes apart.

She’s soaked and slippery and she bites her cheek so hard it hurts when she presses her bullet right next to her clit; she turns her head, trying to breathe into her pillow, her feet sliding over her empty bed.

He laughs against her cheek, his stubble scraping, sweet girl, he says, with his hand on her wrist, like this.

She blinks. The guy spoons the girl on the couch, her dress tugged down over her breasts, her leg bent and tucked behind his as he works his cock inside of her. It’s thick and heavy and his other hand skims along her hip, her stomach—

And God, God— she thinks of his hand on the ferry, the spread of it, a little tug back against his chest. The line of his belt. The bulk beneath. Condoms in a black box. She’s never seen someone put one on, not really. Porn always skips that step, but she knows how it’s supposed to look. And she doesn’t know why— no, she does— she’s caught on the X’s, the idea, implication, meaning behind them. The way his pants bulk and fold when he’s sitting. The way the line of his zipper sits beneath his belt.

She can’t focus, can’t relax, the video plays in little bursts of colour and noise, barely audible, barely visible through the weight of her eyelids every time her mind spins off on something else. Her bullet hums beneath it all, her hips rolling, her breath catching, twisting higher even as her frustration grows.

She needs to think about it. She wants to think about it.

She can’t think about it.

His hoodie is on her desk chair, a splotch of black in the dark of her room. She closes her eyes and thinks about his cologne, his chest beneath her cheek and hand and his stomach beneath her knees.

The girl moans and whines and the word cuts and burns her, Daddy, daddy daddydaddy—

Ellie pushes up, her fingers sticky, her bullet still buzzing on the bed; she’s weak-kneed and colt-ish, stumbling towards his hoodie, yanking it on over her head and stumbling right back to her bed. She drops down and buries her face in the sleeve, the crook of her arm, reaching blindly for her bullet and shoving her hand underneath her hips, pressing it up, fumbling and desperate to get it against her clit.

She cries out, muffled and hot into her arm, breathing him in; faint and weak but there. Still there.

The girl’s noises are pitching, inching noises from her phone on her bed, a weak light in the dark as Nico weighs her down, his belt against her spine, his hand on her stomach, hip, spine.

Is this what you want, he hums, and drags her hips up, his cock heavy and hard and impossibly big for her to grind against. Just like that, baby girl, my needy little girl.

She’s never wished more desperately than right then that she knew what it felt like, what a cock would feel like, sinking inside of her; her fingers never did much, it felt awkward, too small, like she was doing it wrong. But God, God, she wishes she knew, her mind trips images of men and women, porn-stills from videos she’s seen, slick cunts and thick cocks, that first shove in.

Nico grips her hip, his belt digging a buckle into her thigh, his arm beneath her stomach is as hard as rock, as heavy as his body is, weighing her down as he pushes his cock inside of her, hot and hard and too big, too big…

Come on, he grunts, because he’s fucked-up, too, just like she is. Just like she is. Say it. Say it. Say it.

Ellie bites his hoodie sleeve and groans, her bullet slippery and buzzing, her hips working, her feet sliding as her thighs and knees and whole body trembles, as she lights up—

And sobs out, muffled and damp into his sleeve. Comes with her cunt clenching around nothing, around his cock, against her own fingers and toy and God, she’s so empty—

So empty.

Say it, he grunts, say it.

Daddy.

Daddy.

Daddy.

            Ellie slips out of her bed, grimacing at the feeling between her thighs, the sticky, cold mess of her orgasm, the way her sleep shorts stick and slide against her skin.

It’s almost embarrassing.

No, her cheeks burn. It is embarrassing. She’s never gotten so wet. Her hands shake and she doesn’t turn on any lights as she stumbles into the bathroom, grabbing toilet paper to clean herself up; her lip wobbles, her body trembles, she’s still—

She still aches.

Her guilt weighs her down, the rock settling itself right back where it was before. She can’t look at herself in the mirror; her tears blur everything, her frustration spiking sharp and hot at the back of her throat as she grabs another bundle of toilet paper and wipes again. And again. A sharp, panic-filled thing in her throat.

He’s there, tugging down her skirt, saying parenting books, sitting on that bed, her bed, giving her his home, his hand in hers, his lips on her temple.

You don’t have kids, then?

Just you.

Just you.

She’s still wet and aching when she crawls back into bed, curling up into a ball and burying herself into the blankets, still wrapped up in his hoodies.

The tears come slowly, hotly, until she’s hitching uneven breaths and burying the sound of her sobs into her pillow.

Chapter Text

chapter ten

            Ellie wakes, blurry-eyed and exhausted with salt crusted in her eyelashes. Her dreams are there, a fluttering, gauzy like fabric over a window. She can’t quite see through it, just shapes and ideas, his voice and hers. Skin, heat, words.

She rolls over, tilting her head to look up at the shifting of the curtains, a cold little breeze from the cracked-open window. Mya is curled up in her bed, her dark hair a mass on her pillow.

She must have left it open when she came back.

Tilting her head again, she watches the curtains shift, her thoughts distant, hazy. Her head full of cotton.

She’s still wet when she pushes up and slips into the bathroom; keeping her eyes low as she peels out of his hoodie, her sleep-shirt and steps into the shower.

She doesn’t want to see herself.

You have his eyes.

               The weekend passes in a weird disconnected haze; she doesn't want to think about anything, doesn't want to think about him. She goes home to spend time with her mother and Paul, visits Jilly with Mya, hits the gym more than she should.

She just wants to be normal again.

(And at night, when she's alone in her bed, she refuses, refuses to touch herself.)

                Bracing her foot on the bleacher steps, Ellie leans forward and grabs onto the railing, her palm sweaty and sticky, hair sticking to the burning nape of her neck and the furnace-like heat in her face.

Her world spins as she gasps unevenly, her thighs shaking as she turns and drops her ass down on the cement steps beneath her. Her stomach rolls, spit gathering in her mouth.

She tugs her earbuds out of her ears, the music making it too hard to focus on just breathing through the lightness in her head and the pitch of the world.

Too much, she thinks, even as another part of her thinks: but, for a minute, you aren’t thinking about anything else,  are you.

She gulps for air, pulling in lungfuls and trying to push down on that sudden twist of nausea in her stomach, that little tremble in the tips of her fingers. Below her, moving across the field, the football team is a white-noise of male voices as they practice.

It drags back her dreams. She just doesn’t want to think— so despite the dizziness and unsteadiness, Ellie pushes up— only to drop back down again when her vision blacks out.

She closes her eyes and breathes out until there are footsteps on the stairs, getting closer and closer. She blinks, squints, trying to focus, to steady the world around her—blinking at the slightly blurry shape of the guy in front of her.

“El?” it says, crouching down in front of her, a step below her as his hand settles on the nape of her neck. The feeling of it makes her skin crawl.

“Head down, babe.”

Don’t call me that, she thinks, but there’s saliva pooling in her mouth, and even though it’s Ethan’s hand hot on her neck, and he’s telling her to breathe, slowly, in for three, out for three. Like that, yeah… she lets him.

Her breathing slows, her stomach stops its churning; she swallows the spit in her mouth and blinks at the water jug in front of her.

“Here,” he says and Ellie takes it. For a second, as she tilts the jug back and her eyes meet his, it’s like it’s junior year again, when they’d meet out here to warm up before his practice started and it was just him and her and an empty field.

It’s a weird feeling that sinks through her like the cold water she swallows down. How she felt about him, once.

He touches the top of the jug to tilt it down. “Easy. You’ll chuck.”

Ellie shakes her head, wiping her mouth and swallowing around the roll of her stomach. At the bottom of the steps, Marcus’ hand is on the railing, his face twisted with concern.

Her skin prickles as she realises that practice has stopped and all of the football team is looking up at her and Ethan.

“Evans,” Coach Callahan calls, holding the football in his hand. “You alright?”

She nods, gripping the railing to pull herself up, breathing through a wave of nausea and swaying on her feet. It’s really only the railing and Ethan’s hand on her arm that keep her up.

But still, she flaps her hand at him. “Don’t.”

He scoffs, and turns his head, not letting go. “I’m gonna walk her back to her dorm, Coach.”

Marcus opens his mouth to argue, jogging up a few steps, but Coach Callahan calls him back. “She doesn’t need both of you, Dacre. Back to practice. Come on.”

Marcus pauses, looking at Ellie up the length of the stairs, she stares back, and even though she wishes it was him, she shakes her head. His mouth twists and he eyes Ethan, his jaw tensing.

“Dacre,” Coach calls, his voice sharper. “Conte has her. Let’s go.”

Marcus’ hesitates, looking back up at her, tilting his chin, his voice lifting. “You sure?”

She nods, not trusting her voice, giving him a weak thumbs up instead.

His lips twitch and he nods, stepping back down a step and glancing at Ethan again. “Alright.”

Ellie watches him jog back down the steps and onto the field. Coach Callahan calls them back out into whatever drill her little fainting-scene interrupted, and in front of her, Ethan holds out his water again.

She tries to keep herself impassive, she doesn’t care about him, but his hand is hot on her arm and it rubs once, up and down, making her tense up as she takes another mouthful of water. It’s too familiar, too much like he has a right to.

“Want a piggyback?”

Wiping her mouth, she shakes her head at him. “Don’t.”    

His mouth tightens even though he shrugs, playing at being unbothered. “It’s just a piggyback.”

Her legs are shaky, Ethan’s hand closes tighter around her arm, holding her steady as they make their way across the top of the bleachers, giving her some time to just walk before the inevitable climb down.

She can feel his eyes on her, but her head is still floating and every step feels like she’s about to fall over. When they reach the end, when all there is left is the stairs down, she hesitates and Ethan steps down a step, turning his back to her. “It’s no big deal, Ellie. Just get on.”

Determined, (a brat, Nico says in her head,) Ellie steps down, her hand white-knuckled on the railing. Her vision blurs and she turns and spits over the railing, swallowing more as it pools in her mouth.

“Fuck.”

Ethan sighs and steps down another step, stepping in front of her and hunching a little. “Ellie.”

Gritting her teeth, she looks down the steps as he says her name again, distant beneath the rush of her pulse in her ears.

With a scowl, she steps forward; he’s quiet as he leans back and hunches down more, hooking his hand under her thigh when she lifts one, pressing her inner thigh against his side and gripping his shoulders to pull herself up. His hands are hot on her thighs as he grips her, even through her leggings. It brings back memories she doesn’t want, dates, make-out sessions, how he used to make her feel.

It’s stupid, but for a second, she misses it.

It was just… so much easier. She never wanted to call Ethan daddy.

Gross.

Neither one of them say anything as he piggybacks her down the stairs. He smells like the same body wash she remembers, and a little bit like sweat. Ellie imagines she does, too.

His body is familiar, and it’s weird to know his shoulders and his arms and his neck; the way the thick of his brown hair fades into baby hairs on his nape.

It’s stupid, but for a second, she misses him.

They’re quiet all the way back to her dorm, he doesn’t say anything about her letting him carry her, and Ellie’s too jumbled to say anything, either. Nico’s there, the way he always is, this constant weight in her mind and body, tilting everything off-kilter.

That tell-tale heart, beating in the echo of hers.

In front of her door, he eases his grip on her thighs, letting her slide down and off his back. He’s always been tall to her, but she can’t help but think about how far it feels to the ground when Nico lifts her in a hug. How much he has to bend forward, hunch… fit himself into her space.

Her stomach twists, but this time it’s not anything to do with exercise and nausea and all about fitting.

Ellie steps back, swallowing around the beat of her heart as she rolls her keys off the stretchy elastic keychain around her elbow. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, taking a step back, his gaze heavy. “You should eat something.”

She nods, chewing her cheek. Thinking about all the times they’ve been here before. About his mouth and his hands… and his hands and his mouth, a gauzy, hazy fluttering image over every memory like curtains over a window.

“El,” he starts, his eyes dark, only a little bit lighter than his pupils... “I—”

Ellie shakes her head. “Don’t.”

His eyebrows twitch as something passes over his face. She almost feels bad, her mouth opens, but she snaps it shut again. She didn’t do anything. There’s nothing for her to feel sorry for.

It’s all on him.

Ethan takes a step back, his smile tight and more like the guy she sees at school now, the one she didn’t like before she got to know him and then did. The one he became again after they broke up.

“Party at Chris’ after the game on Friday. Maybe I’ll see you there, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, sinking her key into the lock and not watching him back away, still looking at her. Expectant. Hopeful. Something. “Maybe.”

In her dorm, Mya’s still asleep. Ellie keeps her eyes away from her own bed and the memories of what she did there, and slips into the bathroom, carefully avoiding her reflection.

She doesn’t want to think about any of it.

            Nico drops by for a coffee on her shift on Wednesday; she tries not to flinch when he holds her hand when he walks her home, tries not to tense when he hugs her goodbye, but she's sure he feels it.

She doesn't know what to do with him, how to be around him, how to not think about what he is and that word, the shape of it, sitting on her tongue whenever there's a quiet moment.

Daddy.

"You alright, baby girl?" he asks, his hand brushing lightly through her hair at the back of her head. She breathes him in, the heat of his chest and cologne and tries not to think about anything at all.

She's fine.

"Just tired," she lies. "School's been busy, you know? And work."

His hand cups the back of her head, he grunts a little agreement; Ellie fights the heat in her stomach, the flickering ache between her hips. (The black of the letters on her phone screen, her bullet on her clit, the quiet sound of the woman in the video, daddy, daddy, daddy.)

            Trinity wins. Ellie’s pretty sure she’s deaf from the cheering.

They turn down a ride to Chris’. Slipping in and then right back out of dorms, trekking across the city after the game; they’re a little too tipsy, a little too loud, just her and Mya and a whole city to get lost in.

It’s nice, it’s easy, she doesn’t have to think about anything else. Bundled up in their school scarves and hats, matching corduroy skirts, tights and heeled boots. They might catch a few eyes and have to ignore a few more, but they’re a bit alcohol-loose and she knows it’s not the safest they’ve ever been, but she just doesn’t care.

She doesn’t want to think.

The subway comes to a rolling stop into the station, rumbling and pushing warm, stale air over them; they slip on after the crowd pushes off, and sink into their seats, flushed and chilled, pressed close together as the doors shut.

It would have been easier to take the ride or get an Uber, but sometimes, Ellie knows, they both just like to be out in the city. There’s something exciting about it still, the freedom of movement and being unknown, just two little parts out all the things that make New York what it is.

Plus, she thinks, she wanted the distraction. To feel normal. To feel… like herself. (Who she was before that moment across a club where everything tilted and left her a little bit like Alice, tripping down the rabbit hole.)

'It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!'

Ellie isn’t sure she can run much faster.

The B line rolls through it’s stops, First Street and the museum, Columbus Circle, Seventh... station after station as the sink south towards Nolita. Mya’s head drop against her shoulder, sinking comfortably against Ellie as she opens a Snap from Chris that’s just a picture of a pile of condoms on his jersey. And then another of himself, with two fingers spread in front of his mouth, his tongue sticking through them, still sweaty post-game.

Fuck her life, she thinks, tearing her eyes away from the condoms.

“God, he is such a douche, I don’t know why I’m into him. Do you think he got hotter this year? I feel like he did. Since like, September, I swear.”

Ellie pulls a face Mya can’t see. Chris is… cute enough, she thinks. Blonde and blue-eyed. “I think it’s because you’re biased on Chris Evans. Do you just squint at him and call him Captain a lot? Does he know you’re using him?”

Mya laughs, elbowing Ellie in the side. “That’s so mean. But I should, he’d probably just think I’m confused about football positions. Kamel, that’s soccer. There’s no captain in football.”

With a soft laugh, Ellie tilts her head back, absorbing the bump and roll of the train over the tracks, trying to focus on it and not on the things still lingering in her head. Still stuck in every blink. Weighted on her tongue like the still-sore cut from her teeth in her cheek, trying to keep herself quiet.

She slides her tongue over it, an ache flickering its way through her body, at the memory of how she got it.

But she isn’t thinking about it. She’s going to be normal tonight. She isn’t going to think about him or what she did or what she wants. She isn’t going to think about kinks, or articles, or whether or not she (definitely) might have issues.

The other night was… a one-off, just like she said. It won’t happen again.

The thought sours in her brain even as she thinks it. (All she wants to do is slink into her bed and do it all again.)

(And again.)

She wants to ask Mya how she knew what she liked, when she knew— if she’s even serious about liking it. If she wants the same things that were in the article. If her heart skipped and her cunt throbbed, just like Ellie’s did at the idea of it. And did it lurch a bit, too? At the idea of being pressed against a wall and hearing your mother in the other room?

Or is that— is she really just that fucked up?

But the word roleplay sticks in her head, the word fantasy in black typeface against her screen in the dark— and she knows she can’t ask, can’t say it out loud because it’s not roleplay, it’s not fantasy—

It’s all true.

But, she isn’t thinking about it.

The train slows and rolls into Broadway—Layafette station. As they’re moving towards the doors, Ellie’s eyes catch on a dark-haired man that stands a head above most of the other passengers; he’s big, thickly-built, leaning against a pole and looking at something on his phone.

She isn’t sure why he’s familiar, only that she’s sure she’s seen him before— but the doors open and by the time she looks back, the guy is already stepping through the doors and his face is blurred through the subway windows.

They head off, pushing through the busy Friday night crowd; jogging up the stairs and into the bustle of the street. It’s chillier than it was earlier, and it feels even cooler post-game with their pre-game alcohol buzz fading, but they link arms and hike east, pressing together to ward off the chill, arm in arm.

            She bets the downstairs neighbours hate the Petersons.

Or rather, hate that the Peterson’s are never here and leave their condo to their eighteen-year-old, football-playing, private-school-attending son.

The music thumps in the long, narrow main room. Even muffled through the walls when she went to the bathroom earlier, there’s no escaping it— but even louder, is the cheer the football team gives, gathered in the kitchen and raising their drinks in a loose huddle.

Ellie laughs, sitting on the kitchen counter with Marcus standing between her knees, his back to her chest as they whoop and holler so loudly, she can feel it all the way through her body like she’s pressed against a subwoofer.

She knocks her shot back, flushed and loose already from the first shot of tequila and lime burning away in her stomach. Overly aware of Ethan’s eyes on her, the way they have been since he walked in the door, pulled out a six-can pack of her favourite pre-made drink, and slid them across the counter to her without a word.

She isn’t sure what she’s supposed to think about that, so she chooses not to think at all.

Tequila, she thinks, is really good for that.

            She’s nearly two Tiki Rum Mai Tai’s down, watching Mya and Chris play beer pong against Marcus and Tank before she feels Ethan lean against the counter next to her. His can cracks, pops, fizzes against his fingers.

“You want to play a round with me after?”

She kinda does. They used to be a good team, but… she turns her head, feeling his forearm pressing up against her thigh. She thinks about Nico.

She isn’t thinking about Nico.

She could totally kill a hotdog right now.

Mya’s ball bounces off a rim and plops into another, Chris whoops, tugging her into him and pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek like it wasn’t just pure luck because Mya is possibly the least sporty person Ellie’s ever met. But she grins, watching them, taking another mouthful of Mai Tai and debating a round with Ethan. They were good teammates, once. It’s fun. In a stupid, mindless sort of way.

And mindless is what she wants to be.

There’s a commotion to the left just as she opens her mouth to say sure— and another wave of her classmates stream into the condo. Ethan curses just as Ellie’s Mai Tai-hazy mind picks Brooke and her friends out of the group—

And then another familiar face, smiling crookedly, a head above the girls peeling off their coats in the front entrance.

“He probably meant he would come down,” Brooke bites out, her face twisted with disdain. “Not for you to come up with us.”

“You think so?” Liam says with a lazy sort of eyebrow raise. “Man, and I was under the impression I could read.”

She huffs. Turning away from him and heading towards the kitchen, she falters a step, just a blink of a hesitation when she sees Ethan leaning up right next to Ellie on the kitchen counter, but she keeps moving, yanking open the fridge to put some of her drinks onto the nearly bare shelves.

“Who invited the dealer to the party?”

Ellie frowns, eyes darting to Liam and the duffle slung his shoulder. He looks more like a college student than he has before, with the duffle and a ballcap, backwards on his head. But there’s still an edge to him, something that sets him apart from her classmates and the university students that come into the Roastery. It’s not just the tattoos.

He tilts his chin at her, a little nod of a greeting.

“Ohh,” Brooke laughs, looking between them, her eyes glinting. “Of course you two know each other.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, knowing exactly what she’s getting at. Everyone knows where Ellie lived her first year of Trinity, where she went to school before their English teacher put his girlfriend’s daughter into school with them.

It wasn’t anything like this place, even if it was just a few blocks south of Nolita. But a few blocks make all the difference.

And you know, all broke kids know each other. Apparently.

“Bee, back off.” Ethan doesn’t move, but Ellie can feel the tension in his body, the slight shift of his shoulders.

Liam says nothing, his smile still crooked and entertained as he leans against the fridge and crosses his arms. He reminds her of Nico, strangely. An easy edge to his confidence, almost like he’s untouchable.

“Oh, come on. It’s cute. Did you two go to school together? Or did his parents deal to your parents— oh, sorry, your mother, before she started fucking Mister Hethridge?”

Her anger sits, hot and coiled in her stomach, but she tilts her head back against the cabinets. She’s too drunk to care about Brooke. Too fucked up by all the shit in her head to care about Brooke.

But still. Ebola.

“Do you ever get tired of being such a stereotype? It must get exhausting.”

Ethan snorts a laugh, lifting his beer to drink, his arm pressing a little more against her thigh.

Brooke’s mouth twists. “Do you ever get tired of being a charity case?”

It stings, just a little. Ellie smiles at her, trying not to think about her first year at Trinity. Those same feelings she had the first morning with Nico. She’s not a charity case. That’s not what… that’s not what any of it is.

“You know Mean Girls is a movie, right? Not like, a how-to guide?”

She hears a few laughs, and Ellie realises the beer pong game has paused. She catches Mya’s eyes and then Marcus’, before glancing at Liam, his eyes flicking from Ethan to her and back again.

“Funny," Brooke sneers, her eyes shifting to Ethan. “She’s never going to fuck you, you know that, don’t you?”

Ellie tilts her drink to her lips and chugs; she doesn’t care about Brooke. She doesn’t care about Ethan.

Distantly, Ethan says something, she thinks she hears Marcus, too. Ethan’s voice is angry and annoyed— never fuck you—the heat of his arm leaving her thigh as he straightens off the counter, his anger sitting in his shoulders. Ellie blinks, wiping her mouth with her wrist –bitch all the time— she curls her fingers into the back of his shirt and he pauses, his shoulders easing a fraction.

It’s hot, familiar. The memory of him sits weird inside of her.

“Bee,” Chris voice is angry as it cuts across the kitchen, holding onto Mya’s arm. “Seriously. Back off. There’s a whole fucking house.”

Brooke’s laugh is cold and sharp. “Have fun fucking your hand, Conte.”

“Better my hand than you,” he sneers as Brooke walks away, heading down the narrow, long condo towards her friends, her laughter trailing.

Ellie blinks and rolls her head against the cabinet, uncurling her fingers from Ethan’s shirt.

She wants Nico.

It’s this… aching thing in her chest that has nothing at all to do with attraction. It’s quieter, easier to understand. (And somehow a little bit more terrifying, too.) She wants to call him and ask him what later meant when he was talking to Irina, wants to call him and hear his voice, wants to call him and get him to come pick her up so she can get a hug and fall asleep on his chest and pretend, for a little while, that she isn’t fucked-up.

The group is silent for beat, Ellie looks to Marcus and Mya, her world blurry at its edges. Ethan turns to look at her and when she finally focuses enough to look at him, he looks… sorry.

He looks so sorry that it trips her back in time to the moment in Trinity’s lunch hall before the screech of Marcus’ chair when he’d said— El, wait—it didn’t mean anything— and after, when he’d been angry, spitting blood, telling her it was just a fuck, it wasn’t like you were putting out— the weeks after, when he’d been sorry, I’m so sorry— I was fucked-up, a mistake, never again.

“What is it, bad home life or something? Absent parents?”

The moment breaks, Liam hauls his duffle bag up and drops it heavily on the counter. Ethan’s slow to look away, glancing at Liam and the duffle before looking back to Ellie, his voice rough and not as unbothered as she thinks he wants it to be. “Nah. She’s just a bitch.”

Ellie swallows, trying not to think about anything at all. She wasn’t the one in a relationship, she wants to say, but doesn’t, because she just… doesn’t care, anymore.

Liam snorts and unzips his bag. Chris rounds the island, peering into the bag and then handing him a nearly-ridiculous bundle of bills.

“Thanks, man. Feel free to grab whatever, drinks are in the fridge, or,” he waves his hand over the counter, where bottles and cans are spread out, before grabbing a black, plastic-wrapped bundle and hollering out Mack— before chucking it across the room, straight to a teammate.

She looks at Mya, both of them a little relieved Chris hasn’t started doing coke, or something. Watching Chris dig through the drugs in the bag, watching Liam lean against the fridge with his arms crossed; he looks at her and then at Ethan.

She wants Nico.

Alcohol burns in her stomach as her focus drifts, as alcohol tingles and pricks the tips of her fingers; she presses the back of her head into the cabinet behind her, sharp and hard. “Make me a shot and I’ll play beer pong with you.”

She wants to be mindless.

Ethan blinks and grins, his thumb presses lightly against her thigh. “Lime Tree?”

She wants Nico.

“Pink Lemonade.”

“You got it, babe.”

She avoids Mya’s eyes and Marcus’ frown.

            Time slips and slides and, in the mirror, she’s a gold and blue-tinged blur until she leans forward and her face comes into focus, her nose nearly against the glass.

“You’re fucked,” she whispers as the tap runs into the sink. The water is cold beneath her fingers, she tilts down and takes a mouthful, holding the water in her mouth to try to cool herself down.

Her cheek burns where Ethan has pressed his lips, his hand on her hip, squeezing as they celebrated their beer pong win. All she could think about was Nico.

She should just fuck Ethan and get it over with. Maybe it would help. Maybe she should fuck Tank; that would stick it to Ethan and Nico.

Tank is nice enough.

She blinks at herself, swallowing the water and staring at herself. Flushed and messy, fucked-up and lonely.

Lonely?

Stupid, she thinks, stupid.

She wants Nico.

            Time slips and slides and Ellie thinks she might have a bit of a second-hand high, she wanders out of the condo and out onto the balcony, feeling impatient, restless. Wanting. Leaning against the railing and pulling in the bite of the late-night cold air.

Through the windows and the open balcony doors, she can see her classmates in front of the TV, some video game. Her friends, splayed out over the couches and the chairs around the sound system at the other end. Marcus baked and boneless in a bean bag chair next Tank, who lifts the bong to his mouth and inhales before passing it to Ethan.

Mya, taking Ellie’s early seat on the kitchen counter, is nearly hidden by Chris’ frame as they make out.

She finds Liam leaning against the railing on the far side of the balcony, his phone held up to his ear, his face shadowed except for the click-flick, orange-glow of a lighter in his fingers.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes dart to her as he flicks it again, the flame spluttering in the wind. “Gotta go. I’ll update you later.”

Later.

She thinks she hates that word.

He hangs up as Ellie steps up next to him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, watching the flick-click of the lighter. He doesn’t seem at all fucked-up, even though she’s almost sure he’s been drinking all night.

She wonders what Nico’s doing.

“So, you and Conte, huh?”

She blinks, trying to focus. Trying to not think about Nico. She isn’t supposed to think about him tonight. She’s supposed to be normal tonight. Get fucked-up not be fucked-up.

She wonders what Nico’s normal is. If he drinks to unwind, if he fucks to unwind. If he likes women in pencil skirts and high heels.

“Do you think pencil skirts are hot?”

“What?” Liam’s eyebrows jump, his laugh confused.

Ellie shakes her head. “You know, the whole, I dunno, secretary look? You ever seen Suits? Is that like, a universal thing guys find hot?”

His eyebrows sink together in confusion. “Uh, universal? No, I think it depends on the guy?”

Leaning forward and looking down over the edge of the railing, she wonders why that doesn’t make her feel any better. The distance over the edge makes her head spin more than it already is and she leans back.

Liam tilts his beer towards her; she shakes her head but he tilts it more, urging.

Ellie scrunches her nose and lifts it to her mouth to take a sip. When she swallows and there’s no yeasty aftertaste, she double-checks the bottle and then looks at Liam.

He shrugs. “Technically, I’m working.”

She laughs and he gives her a half-smile, his tattooed fingers flicking his lighter again.

“There’s no Conte and me. Not anymore, anyway. We had a conscious uncoupling. Which is a nice way of saying he fucked someone else and I found out.”

He looks at her for a beat too long.

“Oh, fucking—” His laugh is sharp and loud in the dark, for some reason she doesn’t think it sounds like he actually finds it funny. He scrubs his face, his laugh hollow. “Shit. That’s fucking— with the bitchy one?”

Ellie nods, turning away and dropping down onto one the loungers on the balcony to stretch out on it. It’s cold, but she’s so hot and the world is just… a blur of lights and that stupid tell-tale heartbeat that won’t leave her alone.

“Brooke,” she says, staring up at the dark sky. She blinks and turns her head to look at him “Hey. Do you want to make out?”

His finger misses the click of his lighter, and his eyes dart up to her. “What?”

“Do you want to make out with me? There’s a bunch of spare rooms—”

“Your ass is drunk as shit, huh?”

Ellie shrugs. “I’m not— do you think I look like a kid?”

He frowns. “What? No, you definitely— c’mon, you know you’re pretty.”

Yeah, she thinks, pretty cute. Pretty small. Pretty young.

Pretty girl, Nico said.

 “Then why don’t you want to make out with me?”

His eyebrows inch up and he laughs, his grin white. “Because I value my life. And my dick.”

She scrunches her nose. “What?”

“Nothin’, forget it,” he grins. “Want me to take you home? You look like you’re done.”

Ellie blinks. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Just fact.” He walks towards her and crouches down beside the lounger. “Come on, where’s your phone? We’ll text your friend and tell her you’re leaving.”

“I don’t… think I know you enough to leave with you, yet?”

“What, you want to make out with me but you don’t trust getting in my car?”

She nods. “Yup.”

He grins and pushes up. “Alright. Stranger danger, I remember. Let’s call someone, then. Whose car do you want to get into?”

She thinks about Nico, his smile in the glow of the dash, his hand on a gearshift. His profile, lit up in shifting streetlights.

When she says his name, she isn’t sure why it feels like a mistake and a relief, all at once.

That tell-tale heart thumps louder.

            The light from the lobby stretches out in a pale yellow around them, lighting up the entrance of the condo; Liam’s thigh is warm against hers, his other leg stretched out down the cold, cement steps of the building.

She’s flushed and still too drunk; it’s hard to focus on anything. The city-lights blur around her and she squints at a passing car, but it’s not Nico.

“So, where’d you go to high school before Trinity?”

“Seward,” Ellie says, watching another set of headlights as they pass by, more and more impatient as each car passes and none slow down. She wishes she grabbed her last Mai Tai.

He huffs a breath. “No shit?”

“What? You go there, too?”

“Nah,” he says with a chuckle; Ellie glances at him, shifting to pull out his cigarettes before hesitating and leaning back, his palms flat on the entranceway behind them. “Just… know someone who went there.”

“You can smoke, I don’t mind,” she says, looking back to the street, another woosh of a passing car, but it doesn’t slow. “Where’d you go?”

“Shouldn’t smoke around you.” He knocks his thigh into hers. “And you should care. Shit’s no good. Second-hand smoke kills.”

She turns her head, lifting a brow. “Then why do you do it?”

He groans, tilting his head back, Ellie watches the dark ink of his tattoos shift along the side of his neck and squints at them, but she can’t focus enough to make them out. “Fuckin’ smoking before my balls dropped, pretty sure.”

Her laugh is loud and sudden, and she pulls a face at his grin. “Gross.”

“You know how it is. Perfect role models for parents. Seemed like the thing to do. Supposed to quit, though. I got like,” he shifts, pulling Nicorette out of his jeans and popping one in his mouth. He chews, his lip curling up. “Y’know. I cut back.”

“Girlfriend tired of the ashtray mouth?”

Oof, he pushes out, but his smile is wide and white. “Fuck you. Ashtray mouth. What do you know about ashtray mouth? All those college boys are coke and weed. ‘Roids, maybe. Their body is their temple.” He snorts. “Like coke ain’t fuckin’ them up just as bad.”

She shakes her head, watching another car pass, trying to settle her stomach and her head. That tightness that’s all… alcohol and nerves and eagerness. Eagerness and impatience. Eagerness and… just eagerness. The blur of all the things she can’t stop thinking about. (Him. His body. His hands. His heartbeat.)

She wants another drink. She wants to know what later meant. She wants to know what he does when he’s not with her. Who he uses those condoms with. If he likes to hike up a skirt, and if it matters how tight it is.

She wonders if she’s fucked up enough to count them just so she'll know if—

God, she winces and tries to focus back on what Liam said— what did he say? Right. Ashtray mouth. Boys. Ethan.

“I don’t. I know it’s surprising to look at me now…” she grins, leaning back beside him and bumping her thigh against his. “Since I’m like, so totally sexy now… but I was like, ninety pounds soaking wet and looked like a slightly too tall toddler until fourteen. So, you know, my appeal to boys my age was pretty much non-existent. My first kiss tasted like Orange Fanta. At a friends birthday party back in public school.”

He barks out a laugh. “Mine was… shit, fuckin’ Pabst. Warm Pabst and cigarettes.”

Gross, Ellie laughs, scrunching her nose as he nods. “Yeah, wasn’t great. Copped a feel though, so…” he holds up his fist and she bumps it. “Go little Liam.”

Go little Liam, she echoes back as they both settle back against their hands, leaning back and watching the cars pass. The world spins a little; she probably should have had some water or something.

“So, who’s making you quit? If it’s not a girlfriend?”

A car wooshes by, Ellie tilts her head to look back at Liam.

He hesitates. “My boss.”

“Like… the drug dealing type of boss? That seems… kinda hypocritical.”

He laughs. “You think so, Miss Rogers?”

Another car rolls by, she tries not to be disappointed, but she is. He answered right away, didn’t he? He wouldn’t come get her if he was busy. If later meant at night. If later meant… his place. Those condoms. His bed.

She shakes her head. “I mean, a bit, yeah?”

“He’s… a different kind of boss. Gives a shit, you know?”

“Drug dealer with a heart of gold,” she teases but Liam looks at her for a second too long before his eyes flick to the street and then back to her. It feels like she said something wrong and an apology sits in her throat because it was rude, wasn’t it? To assume.

“Sor—”

“He’s just different. Kicked my ass a bit, you know? Fuckin’ who knows where I’d have been without him. Jail, probably.”

She bumps her thigh with his. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume. I swear I’m not like Brooke.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “Not a thing, Miss Rogers.”

She watches another car pass. She thinks it’s black until she realises its some dark red four door. “So, where’d you go to high school?”

“Mott Haven, for as much as I went, gotta be honest. Got my GED though, so… you know.”

“You going to college?”

“Probably have to pick up some courses.”

Have to. “Boss?”

He nods. “Boss.”

“Sounds demanding.”

He barks a laugh. “Girl, you got no fuckin’ idea.”

“Hope he pays well.”

He snorts. “You think little Brookie would like me more if she knew I probably got more money than her parents?”

Ellie scrunches her face. “Gross. You’re not gonna try to sleep with her, are you?”

He shakes his head, his grin sharp. “I dunno. She eighteen?”

She shifts to brace on one hand and hits his stomach with the other, watching him push out a breath and rub it. “Fuck off, you are not.”

“Nah. My loyalty is with Miss Rogers. Brookie is a homewrecker. No dicking.”

Ellie grins and settles back, relieved in a weird way, even though she knows he doesn’t owe her anything. But it’s nice, she thinks, to have him pick a side so easily.

Not that there are sides, really. She doesn’t care about Brooke. It’s just… the principal of it. She’s not Scar in this situation. And she refuses to be Mufasa.

 A thanks, sits in her throat, but another set of headlights appear at the end of the street and they do slow— her stomach twists as she sits up, because it’s Nico, isn’t it—

A black SUV pulls up to the curb and idles, beside her, Liam pushes up, brushing his hands off before offering her a hand.

The door opens, she sees the back of his head, his profile, the angles of the shadows on his face, lit by the streetlight above and just behind his car.

Her stomach clenches. Her dreams are there, swirling beneath the haze of alcohol still lingering in her mind. But, he came and he’s here and he couldn’t have been doing anything, could he? He wouldn’t like, stop fucking just to come get her so, obviously—

Obviously, she’s fucked-up.

The world spins when Liam pulls her up, his hand on her arm as she sways and grins at him. “Thanks for the company.”

“Not a thing, Miss Rogers.”

Nico settles into a lean against the passenger side of the Rover, his head tilted up, just a little, his eyes dark as he tucks his hands into his pockets and watches her.

She smiles around the trip of her pulse, around the flicker-spark of attraction, quick and airy and caught by the feeling, by the sight of him— she steps away from Liam and grips at the railing to head down the steps. Her heels aren’t that high but her knees are all wobbly with alcohol. (And eagerness, so much fucking eagerness. All she wants to do is bury herself in his chest.) “I’ll see you around?”

“Bet.”

She hears the buzzer for the condo behind her, but her eyes are on Nico. She thinks his hair is a little damp but her sight is a little blurry and it might just be her vision… but when she closes the distance and presses her forehead against the hard middle of his chest, right above his ribs and breathes him in, he smells like soap and his skin is so hot, even through the layer of his button-up.

“Hi,” she mumbles into his chest, thinking it might be a bit damp, and debating how weird it would be to rub her cheek against it to find out. Too weird, probably.

Right?

Yes, that’s weird, Ellie.

“Have fun?”

His voice is all rumbly and low and she has to bite her cheek at the sound of it… happy for the little point of pain from the already raw inside of her cheek that helps dampen the steady, growing ache in between her legs; his smell and his voice and all the things she isn’t thinking about.

Some part of her brain, the one she should be listening to but isn’t— is telling her that seeing him is a bad idea. That she was supposed to wait a few days. That she needs space to get her head on right. To figure out just what kind of fucked up she is—but—

But she doesn’t want to wait.

She just wants to see him. Wants to make sure that he’s— alone, her mind supplies. Not filling spaces he made for her, time he makes for her, with someone else.

Her clay Galatea, coming to life just for her.

She turns her cheek and nods. It’s not rubbing her cheek against him, but it’s also not not rubbing her cheek against him. He is damp. She tries not to think about him in the shower. Tries not to think about why he was showering—

Why isn’t he hugging her?

Nico’s hand comes up and he pulls her back and away from his chest, turning to open the passenger door for her. Ellie pouts at his back and then at him when he tilts his head at her.

“Don’t give me that. Come on.”

“Are you mad?”

His chest shifts, his eyes flick to the condo and then back to her. “Should I be?”

She shakes her head, sliding into the seat. “No.”

“Then, I’m not mad.” He leans into the car, the radio a low hum as he grabs her seatbelt to buckle her in. She tries not to think about his thumb, pressing into her hip.

She squirms as the buckle clicks. “You’re mad.”

He looks at her, still leaning into the car; his hair is damp, she thinks, an inky-dark strand falling across his forehead.

He’s so close.

She looks at his mouth.  At the stubble on his jaw as a tendon tightens like he’s pressing his teeth together, and when she meets his eyes again, he looks… different. There’s an edge to him that’s all… shadows and the narrowed-down space between his mouth and hers.

It’s a weird, blurry jumble in her brain.

His mouth and his eyes; how much she wants to lean forward and press her lips against his. To keep her eyes open, and just… press her lips to his and breathe his air. But he looks… she doesn’t know. Like the man across shifting lights of Elysium. A stranger and not. She wants to pretend he’s someone else, just for a minute. A stranger. A man. Someone she can kiss and touch and not feel guilty about. Someone who wants to kiss her.

Would it be soft?

He wouldn’t taste like Orange Fanta or weed or beer. His breath is minty and warm and her hips shift just a little against the seat as her mind fills with images of his lips against hers, his hand on her neck, his thumb on her jaw, sweetheart—

Nico’s gone in the next blink; the door shuts with a quiet thud and she’s… flushed, wet, thinking about his hands and his mouth, and all the things her fucked-up mind spun while she was getting off to the thought of him the night before.

(His body over hers on his couch, the ache in her thighs around his hips, the sharp of his teeth. His thumb sliding along the edge of her underwear, her mother’s voice in another room.)

Ellie watches him climb in the driver’s seat, buckle up and pull away from the curb. Watches his hands on the wheel, (on her hip, thigh, warm and rough just like his voice, that’s it, baby, let me see.)

He doesn’t look at her. She feels like she wants to climb out of her skin.

The skin on his knuckles looks red, and when he pushes a hand through his hair, it looks like there’s a cut right where his scar should be.

Ellie frowns, reaching out and pointing to his hand. “What happened?”

He stretches out his hand, like he has to look at what she’s saying to remember it, like he forgot about the cut, like it’s nothing. “I was at the gym.”

“Did the elliptical fight back?”

He huffs a laugh, his lips twitching. “I was sparring with someone.”

“Sparring? Like… boxing?”

“Sort of.”

“Like MMA?”

“Something like that.”

It itches her brain, a memory of something, someone saying he got into a lot of fight— but it’s all hazy and distant and drops her head against the seat, tilted towards him to watch him drive.

“Were you busy? You didn’t have to come get—”

 “I wasn’t busy.”

With her teeth worrying her lip, she shifts in her seat, trying not to think about his hands, or any of the things lingering at the edges of her blurry mind. The silence is loud in her ears, the radio a low hum, her thoughts are… blurry and heavy and hot. The word pools in her tongue, sits in every blink. His lap, his hands, her voice a slow whine, daddy—

(He’s mad, she’s late, drunk, high— his hand is heavy on her ass cheek, and she sobs the word like a plea. Like the whine it’s meant to be.)

Ellie presses her thighs together, sucking in a little breath at the needy, hot little ache in her cunt.

Nico looks at her, his face shadowed, his eyes heavy… and then looks away. She hates it. She hates it.

She fights her belt, her alcohol-stupid fingers struggling with the clip before it clicks free. She slides across the seat, bracing her hand on the center console. Nico’s voice slides over her brain, what are you—

She sways closer, lifting her hand and cupping it against his cheek to turn his head towards her. His eyes move from her face to the road.

“Ellie, get back in your seat.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“You are. It was just a party. I’m not even that drunk. There were no melon balls.”

He lets out an exasperated, entertained huff. “I’m glad to hear it. Now get your belt back on.”

“No,” she pouts, trying to turn his head to her again. “Look at me.”

“I’m driving.”

“You’re mad,” she whines, dropping her forehead to his shoulder and pressing her head into the meat of his muscle. “It was just a dumb party. I was safe. Liam’s nice. I was fine. Don’t be mad.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Liam’s nice, huh?”

She nods, lifting her head up at the lighter edge in his voice. She sways closer, bumped a little by the car rolling over the street. His stubble, his profile, the line of his nose and jaw and— and she’s aching for a kiss. Just a little one, some stubble and his cologne, a brush of her lips against it. A little rough, a little prickly, like the way it feels on her cheek.

“He looks like he’s mean, but he’s not. It’s just the tattoos. They’re tricky. He’s nice.”

His smile is quick, and he looks at her with something… something on his face. “The fuck am I going to do with you, huh?”

“Feed me a hotdog.”

He laughs and Ellie grins, watching his smile, the shine of his teeth in profile. Him. She leans forward to drop her head back against his shoulder, swallowing down the words in her chest, the want in her stomach, a hot, hungry thing that tells her to kiss him kiss him kiss him.

He smells like soap and his cologne. “I’m hungry. And drunk. A little bit drunk. I want a hotdog.”

“Alright.” He presses his mouth to the top of her head. “A hotdog. Now get back in your seat or I’m getting you a salad.”

Ellie pouts. “That’s mean. You’re mean to me.”

“Sure. Ass in the seat, brat.”

            He gets her a hotdog.

She takes a bite while it’s still steaming, perched on one of the stools in front of the front window and swinging one leg. Nico stands in front of her, leaning against the waist-high table, watching as she hums around another bite, smiling up at him with her cheek full.

He hates her a little bit for how fucking cute she is. How easy it is for her to pull him out of the mood he was in; hours spent thinking about her and the fucking Conte boy. Hours spent thinking about someone else hearing that little inhale, the part of her lips, the sounds his fucking mind creates as he pushes his cock inside of her.

Except, not his.

Dragging his hand over his jaw, he grits his teeth and watches her eat, his jealousy corrosive, consuming, burning away at his bones.

(Something’s going on between them, Liam says. Or was. I don’t know yet. He’s…

He’s what.

He’s into her. Brought her drinks. They played beer pong. It’s… they know each other. I don’t know, yet.

Find out.)

Ellie eats half the hot dog before shoving it in his face and making him, have some. Take a bite. It’s good. Like he wasn’t the one that brought her here. Like he didn’t grow up here, cheap meals, late nights bleeding into early mornings, still thumping with alcohol, adrenaline, violence.

He still takes a bite though, because she’s asking and waiting, expectant, hopeful, tripping a grin when his hand covers hers and he tilts his head to take a bite. Thinking about his teeth sliding, scraping over the edges of hers.

The intimacy of a fucking hot dog.

(They dated. He fucked another girl.)

He thinks about Loren. Lo. Seventeen and telling him he’s a fucking asshole. Think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?

He didn’t. But he was angry and lost and undefined, gathering the made-up edges of the Cordova name into something more than it was. Romantic, Irina has said,your parents, building a new life together.

But all he could see was everything his parents gave up for him. The water stains, the off-date produce, the here, Kolya, I’m full, really. Finish this.

He’d laughed and told Loren, I don’t think. I know.

But what he meant is, I don’t think God has anything to do with me.

(Did you hear me?

Yeah.

She wants you to pick her up.

What’d she say?

I asked her if she wanted a ride, she said she didn’t know me well enough, which is fucking reassuring, right? I wanted to give her a button. I asked her who’s car she wanted to get into, she said yours.)

A girl gets in his car. Full, still drunk, but the lazy sort of drunk now, full of grease and salt and carbs. He buckles her in because he can, because it’s not love, it’s a sick sort of obsession. Addiction.

His palms itch.

His ears are primed for it, that fucking little inhale. He sees it in the dark, the trip of her breathing, the shift of her hips—

A girl sits in the seat next to him, and through the gridline streets, through the bright glow of New York at night, he takes her home.

            The key scrapes the lock. Home is moonlight and city-light. Ellie sways into the wall, stumbling and trying to get her boots off.

He watches her for a moment, and then tilts her back against the wall and sinks down, his knees digging into the hard floor. He tugs at the laces on the heeled black boot she’s wearing, the same pair from the ferry; working it off her foot because she’s limp, sagging against the wall, staring down at him, his hand spread hot on the warmth of her calf, spread wider than it needs to be.

He’s hard before the boot leaves her toes, gritting his teeth when he slides his hand down to her ankle and he hears it, that fucking little inhale.

He works off the other boot before he looks at her, his hand cupped around the back of her thigh, the other around her ankle, her foot pressing against his knee. It’s dark in the hallway, she’s so fucking small that he’s nearly the same height as her, sitting on his haunches and holding her skinny little ankle.

It’s too dark to see her face properly, too dark to see anything properly, just shapes, ideas, possibilities he can’t give into. (A girl, his hands, the rip of her tights, his mouth on her cunt. A girl, his arms, easing her down on his cock. A girl, ass up, tights around her thighs and too small, too small, too small as she cries out for him.)

His jaw aches. His cock throbs. He pushes up. Ellie leans against the wall, blinking up at him, her hair the brightest point in the hallway as she tilts her head, up and up and up.

He sets his hands to her coat, to each button, trying to widen the space between possibility and reality. Beneath his hands, Ellie watches him, blinking up at him, so full of fucking trust that it kills him, a steady drop of poison on his tongue. He’s still fucking hard.

“Hi,” she whispers as he peels her coat off her shoulders.

His fondness is a living thing in his chest. “Hi.”

“Can we watch a movie and cuddle?”

Cuddle. He almost wants to laugh, wants to tell her who he is, what he is. All the things that he’s done. All the things he wants to do to her. And she wants to cuddle?