Archive of Our Own ^beta

Evening settles over the street like powdered sugar on a warm croissant—golden, soft-edged, and deceptively calm. Inside Delos Delights, the bakery glows with a cozy warmth that makes it look like the kind of place where people fall in love over cherry danishes and chai lattes. And maybe they do. But Will Solace has been standing behind the counter for the past two years, and the only person he’s fallen for is the guy who doesn’t even like sugar.

Nico di Angelo walks into the bakery every morning like he’s being chased by a storm cloud. All black everything—combat boots, ripped jeans, oversized hoodie with thumbholes that somehow make him look like a Greek tragedy turned punk rock. His hair is always a little messy, like he’s just run his fingers through it, and his voice has this low, gravelly texture that sounds like he only speaks in lowercase.

He orders the same thing every time: double espresso, no room, no nonsense.

Will never even asks anymore. He just makes it and tries not to melt every time Nico leans his tattooed arms on the counter and watches the espresso drip like it owes him something.

There’s a faint burn scar on the inside of Nico’s wrist. A constellation of ink up one forearm, black roses winding toward his elbow. A delicate sigil on one knuckle Will has never been brave enough to ask about.

He’s not even Will’s type—except, apparently, he is now. And has been. For months.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Lou Ellen says from somewhere behind the pastry case, where she’s aggressively restocking napkins. “The heart-eyes thing.”

“I’m not,” Will says, too quickly.

“Right,” Cecil deadpans, appearing with a tray of aggressively frosted cupcakes. “So your pupils just dilate like that for everyone in a leather jacket and eyebrow piercing. Totally normal. Not a symptom of anything at all.”

Will glares at them over the espresso machine. “You know what? I hope you both step on a rogue eclair.”

They ignore him, obviously. Lou Ellen reaches into the tip jar to steal a quarter. “We’re just saying, it’s getting embarrassing. You’ve watched him stir his coffee like it’s a sacred ritual. You’ve memorized his schedule. You literally rearranged the pastry display just to watch him better when he stands in line.”

“It was symmetry,” Will insists. “And he stands at the register, not in line. He never waits.”

“Hot privilege,” Cecil says with a solemn nod. “He’s got it. We’d do the same.”

The worst part is, they’re not wrong. Nico doesn’t flirt, doesn’t linger, doesn’t even say much beyond the occasional dry “thanks” or a nod. But he shows up, without fail, every day at 8:17 a.m. And Will makes his coffee a minute before that, just in case.

Once—just once—Nico had looked up from his phone, caught Will staring, and asked, “You always this chipper in the mornings?”

Will, halfway into a sleepy smile, had mumbled something like “only when you’re here,” which was mortifying in retrospect.

Nico hadn’t reacted, just raised one eyebrow and handed over a five-dollar bill like Will hadn’t just exposed his soul via latte foam. But he’d come back the next day. And the next. And once, he’d even smirked.

That smirk has lived rent-free in Will’s head for seventy-three days.

Will tells himself it’s not a crush. It’s an appreciation. A fascination. A medical case study in how one person can make black jeans look like an emotional crisis.

Across the street, Ink & Ichor glows blue and silver through the front window, the tattoo shop’s gothic logo curling across the glass. Jason works the front desk—perpetually golden retriever–adjacent and somehow immune to embarrassment—and Percy mostly sits in the corner with a sketchbook and loud opinions, probably high on espresso and poor decisions. Will knows this because they come in for muffins and chaos every afternoon.

But Nico only comes in the mornings. Nico is a storm in low light. Nico is—

The front door bursts open with a bang like thunder through a cathedral.

Will nearly drops the tray of lemon bars.

He spins, heart doing something medically inadvisable, and there—backlit by the setting sun like some apocalyptic angel—is Nico di Angelo in full end-of-the-world disarray.

His hoodie is half-unzipped, revealing the edge of a threadbare black tank top and a constellation of ink that curves up the sharp line of his throat. His cheeks are flushed like he’s been running, eyes wide and storm-colored, hair a black halo gone slightly wild. There’s a smear of ink on one temple and a pair of black latex gloves shoved into his back pocket like a flag of surrender.

He looks, in short, like every dark academia fever dream Will has ever repressed. Beautiful in the kind of way that should be illegal in small businesses. Beautiful in the kind of way that derails thought entirely.

Will’s brain immediately shorts out. His hand flies to his hair, raking it back. He wipes his palms on his apron, straightens it, then immediately wonders why he did that. It’s not like Nico’s ever looked at him long enough to notice a wrinkle in his apron. But still— still! —he checks his reflection in the espresso machine. Horrifying. He has flour on his cheek. He swipes at it and tries to look composed, which only results in him standing bolt upright like a soldier awaiting execution.

Nico stalks up to the counter, barely out of breath but visibly tense.

“I need sugar,” he says. “Like, right now. Someone fainted in the chair, Jason and Percy ate the emergency lollipops like idiots, and I—do you have anything?”

Will opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Sugar?” Nico repeats, brows lifting. “Like… pastry sugar? Fast?”

And then—before Will can even begin to form a sentence—Cecil appears like a summoned demon.

“Oh, he’s got sugar,” Cecil says smoothly, leaning against the counter with a grin. “He’s got boxes of it. And Will’s the best one to help, too—he’s the bakery’s first aider.”

“Yeah!” Lou Ellen pipes up from the back, apparently having been eavesdropping the whole time. “Remember when Rachel sliced her thumb on the bread knife and Will swooped in with the emergency kit like a hot medical TV protagonist?”

“And the time Mark tried to fry donuts in the industrial oven and set his sleeve on fire?” Cecil adds. “Will literally put it out with his apron. It was hot. No pun intended.”

Will makes a strangled noise. His face is on fire.

“I—what—please stop talking,” he manages, voice cracking like a teenager in a coming-of-age movie.

But Nico is looking at him now. Really looking. And it’s not disinterested. It’s a kind of curious, slightly breathless attention that Will has never, ever earned from him before. He looks at Will like he’s just realized something important. Like Will is a solution.

“Will you?” Nico asks, quietly this time. “Help, I mean?”

Will opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. All higher-level brain functions have been dissolved in caffeine and Nico’s eyes.

“Yes,” he says finally. It comes out like a question.

He clears his throat. “I mean—yeah. I’ll help. I’ve got lemon bars and eclairs and some cinnamon rolls that didn’t sell. High sugar content. Rapid absorption. Good for fainting.”

Nico exhales, visibly relieved. It does something terrible to Will’s knees.

“Perfect,” Nico says. “Come quick. And bring, like… all of it.”

Will scrambles to grab a pastry box, Cecil is already shoving napkins inside, Lou Ellen offers a spoon “just in case,” and the pair of them practically shove him toward the door like fairy godmothers in matching aprons.

As Will stumbles outside with a box of sugar and a heartbeat he can hear in his teeth, he hears Lou Ellen call after him:

“Don’t forget—apply pressure to bleeding and flirt shamelessly!”

Will doesn’t look back. He’s not sure he’d survive it.

The air outside hits Will like a slap—cool and electric, the sky now melted into indigo. He stumbles across the sidewalk with a pastry box clutched to his chest like a life raft, trying not to think about the fact that he is about to enter Nico di Angelo’s world. And it is very much another world.

The glass front is tinted, etched with ivy and skulls and a crescent moon half-hidden behind clouds. Inside, everything gleams in shadow and silver. The lighting is low and moody, the walls are charcoal gray with mythological frescos stenciled in gold leaf—Achilles and Patroclus embracing in silhouette, Persephone crowned in pomegranates, Hades with ink bleeding down his forearms like shadows made flesh.

The air smells like antiseptic and clove and orange peel. Music pulses soft and low—something moody, reverberating through the black-tiled floor like it’s being piped up from the Underworld itself.

Will immediately feels like he’s wandered into someone else’s dream. He’s still wearing his flour-dusted apron, soft yellow shirt, and high-tops that squeak faintly against the polished floor. He looks like he’s here to deliver cookies to a biker funeral.

“I don’t belong here,” he mutters under his breath.

“I’m telling you, I only ate the blue ones!”

The voice comes from the end of the hall, and a moment later, Percy Jackson appears—tall, tanned, slightly smudged with ink and attitude. He’s wearing a muscle tank that says ‘WOMEN WANT ME BUT I AM SAD THAT FISH FEAR ME’, showing off arms covered in sea creature tattoos and faint bandages. There’s a pair of aviators perched in his curls and a half-eaten lollipop stick dangling from his mouth.

Nico glares. “You ate all of them.”

“No, Jason ate the red ones. And the green ones. And the weird sour mango one. I only took the blue because they match my whole vibe—”

“You don’t have a vibe,” Nico snaps, voice rising with rare, wild irritation. “You have a sugar addiction and no impulse control!”

“I’m literally the one who bought the lollipops,” Percy says, entirely unfazed. He turns to Will, grins like they’re old friends, and jerks a thumb down the hall. “Emergency’s this way, flour boy. Follow me.”

Will opens his mouth to introduce himself, maybe clarify he’s not actually made of carbs, but Nico’s already storming after them, jaw tight, muttering under his breath.

The tattoo room is dimly lit with a spotlight focused on the reclining chair in the center. There’s a girl stretched out across it, her limbs slack, her eyes fluttering like she’s barely conscious.

Jason is crouched beside her, radiating concerned golden retriever energy. He looks up when Will enters and gestures to the girl. “This is Katie—Katie Gardner. She passed out mid-session.”

“She just dropped like a tree,” he adds. “Nico caught her, but he was freaking out and waved me in. I didn’t know what else to do. Percy ate the sugar—”

“I’m not the problem,” Percy yells from the hallway. “The blue ones are medicinal!”

“I told you to call someone,” Nico snaps, pacing the edge of the room like a caged thing.

“I did! I called Percy!”

Will clears his throat. Loudly. “Can everyone just—shut up for one second?”

Silence. Blessed, startled silence.

Will kneels beside the girl—Katie—and gives her a once-over. She’s pale, but color’s starting to creep back into her cheeks. Her eyes flutter open as he checks her pulse, blinking at him like someone waking from a vivid dream.

“Hi,” Will says gently. “You fainted. I’m Will—I work at the bakery across the street. I’ve got some sugar here if you’re up for it?”

“Think I forgot to eat,” she mumbles, voice shaky. “Got lightheaded when he started the shading…”

Will smiles. “That’ll do it.”

He peels back the paper on a lemon bar and offers it to her. She takes it with trembling fingers.

He stays kneeling beside her, monitoring her pulse as she eats, noting the steadiness returning to her breathing. It’s not glamorous, his first-aid certification—something the bakery manager insisted on for insurance reasons—but it works. It’s enough.

What doesn’t feel manageable is Nico, pacing behind him like a storm on legs. His usual calm, almost bored exterior is gone. He looks wrecked—anxious, distracted, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His eyes are locked on Katie, but his attention flickers constantly, like he’s watching for lightning.

Will’s never seen him like this. Never imagined it.

And Gods help him, it just makes Will want to know him more.

Katie finishes the lemon bar in slow, reverent bites, like it’s the only thing tethering her to this plane of existence.

Will stays crouched beside her, keeping an eye on her pulse and trying very hard not to notice Nico still pacing. There’s a crease between his brows and tension in every line of his body—like he can’t decide if he wants to punch a wall or just curl up in the supply closet and disassociate.

“She’s okay,” Will says quietly, glancing up at him. “Really. It was just low blood sugar and probably some nerves. Nothing permanent.”

Nico exhales. Long and slow. “Good. Yeah. That’s—good.”

“You panicked,” Jason says, like he’s observing a rare lunar event. “I’ve never seen you panic.”

“I didn’t panic,” Nico mutters, shooting him a death glare. “I responded quickly.”

“You flung your gloves across the room and yelled at the stencil printer,” Percy adds helpfully from the doorway. “You were spiraling.”

Nico looks like he might spiral again, this time directly into Percy’s face.

“I’m okay,” Katie pipes up, cheeks slightly pink. “Also. Who’s your friend?”

Will blinks. “Me?”

Katie squints at him like she’s assessing his soul. “You’re very symmetrical. And gentle. Are you single?”

Will opens his mouth. Absolutely nothing comes out.

“Oh my gods,” Percy says, cackling. “She’s trying to matchmake herself while lying on the ink table. Respect.”

“I like a guy who shows up with pastries and a pulse,” Katie murmurs. “That’s rare these days.”

Will makes a strangled sound.

“I should probably get someone to pick me up,” Katie says, fumbling for her phone. “Can’t walk home with jelly legs. Or, well. I could, but it wouldn’t be dignified.”

Nico’s already pulling his own phone out. “Tell them to pull into the alley by the back entrance,” he says. “Percy. Jason. Help her to the car.”

Percy groans. “What am I, a chauffeur?”

“You’re the reason she fainted, sugar thief,” Nico snaps.

Jason’s already gently helping Katie sit up. “C’mon,” he says, grinning. “Let’s get you up before you proposition the bakery guy again.”

“No promises,” Katie whispers, eyes still on Will.

Jason and Percy get her upright, guiding her out with a mix of real care and exaggerated dramatics. Percy offers her his half-eaten lollipop. Jason threatens to throw it. Nico mutters something murderous under his breath and shoves the last cinnamon roll at Percy like a bribe to get him moving.

And just like that—they’re gone.

The door swings closed. The shop falls quiet.

Will turns and realizes he is now alone with Nico di Angelo in a dark, moody, myth-themed tattoo parlor. He is still holding the nearly empty pastry box. There is still powdered sugar on his shirt. And Nico is staring at him with a look that’s… complicated.

Not irritated. Not cold. Something else.

“Thanks,” Nico says, finally. “For helping. For showing up.”

Will shrugs, suddenly shy. “Didn’t really do much. Mostly just… sugar and vibes.”

“You did more than Percy,” Nico mutters. “And Jason’s not certified for anything other than bad decisions.”

Will laughs, and Nico actually—actually—smiles. It’s small. Crooked. But it’s real.

“I’ll finish her tattoo for free,” Nico says after a pause. “It’s the least I can do.”

Will nod. “That’s nice of you.”

They fall into silence. Not awkward, exactly. More like the kind of pause that feels like it could tip into something else if either of them moved too quickly. The air between them is thick with possibility and sugar and something warmer beneath it all—something slow and unspoken.

Will leans back against the counter, trying to steady his own pulse, when he notices it.

Nico’s hands are shaking.

It’s subtle—just the faintest tremble in his fingers as he presses them to his temples, like he’s trying to press the world back into shape. His breath hitches once, so soft it’s almost silent. Not panicked. Not overwhelmed. But… riding something close. The comedown, maybe, after the rush.

Will’s voice is gentle when he speaks. “You okay?”

Nico startles slightly, then glances down at his hands like he hadn’t noticed. “Yeah,” he says too quickly, then winces. “I mean. Not really. I don’t know. Still kind of… buzzing. Like my body hasn’t caught up to my brain yet.”

Adrenaline. Will recognizes it—he’s seen it enough in kitchen accidents, in burnt arms and knife slips and near-misses. But he never expected to see it in Nico. Not like this.

“You want something to eat?” Will offers. “To help level out?”

Nico hesitates. He always says no. Every morning. No sugar, no cream, no softness, no indulgence.

But now, after a beat, he says, “…Maybe.”

Will opens the pastry box and holds it out like a peace offering. “Last lemon bar. The others didn’t make it.”

Nico stares at it like it’s an unfamiliar artifact. Then, slowly, he takes it between inked fingers, careful not to smudge it. He looks down at the powdered sugar like he’s never seen anything so delicate. Will half expects him to change his mind, to put it down, to apologize for not being the kind of person who eats sweet things.

Instead, Nico takes the smallest bite.

And pauses.

Then, with a look of cautious betrayal: “This is good.”

Will grins. “I am a professional.”

Nico breathes out a shaky laugh. It’s short, startled, and real.

“I really thought she was gonna hit the floor hard,” he murmurs, more to the lemon bar than to Will. “And I—I don’t usually freeze like that. I know what to do. I’ve done hundreds of sessions. But she just crumpled, and I couldn’t—”

“You didn’t freeze,” Will says. “You came straight to get help.”

“I threw a whole drawer of gloves across the room.”

“You also got her the best emergency pastry response team in the neighborhood,” Will says lightly, then adds, softer, “You did the right thing.”

Nico chews in silence for a second. Then he looks up.

And the myth peels back just a little.

The shadows fall differently on his face here, where the lighting is softer and there’s sugar on his lips. His hair is still messy, his hoodie still wrinkled from where he kept tugging at it, but there’s something human and vulnerable settling in behind his eyes. A different kind of cool. Not untouchable. Not sharp.

Just… real.

“I hate not knowing what to do,” Nico says. “I’m not used to it.”

Will watches him for a moment. Then: “I think it’s kind of brave, honestly.”

Nico huffs. “Panicking?”

“No. Letting someone see it.”

He says it without thinking, and it hangs there—bare, tender, true.

Nico finishes the lemon bar slowly, almost reluctantly, like he’s only just realized he was hungry. Will watches the last bite disappear, still riding the warm buzz of connection and—Gods help him—hope. It feels like maybe, maybe, something just shifted between them. Like maybe Nico di Angelo sees him now. Not just as the guy behind the pastry case, but as someone who showed up. Who helped. Who mattered.

But then Nico clears his throat, looks away, and the wall comes back up like it was never gone.

“I should—uh,” he says, brushing sugar from his hands, suddenly all edge and deflection. “I have to fill out an incident report. For insurance. And… clean the station. And text Katie.”

Will’s heart sinks, just a little. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

Nico doesn’t look at him when he adds, “Thanks again. For coming. I’ll, um. See you around.”

And just like that, it’s over.

He slips past Will with barely a brush of air, the moment collapsing like meringue under pressure. The shadows in the room seem colder as soon as he’s gone.

Will lingers for a second longer than he should, staring at the empty space where Nico had been. Then he sighs, quietly, and gathers the now nearly empty pastry box.

What did you expect? he thinks bitterly, stepping back into the hall. That he’d ask for your number? That he’d suddenly decide he’s in love with the guy who makes his coffee just because you handed him a lemon bar and didn’t let someone die on the floor?

By the time he reaches the front desk, Will has thoroughly convinced himself he imagined the whole thing.

Jason and Percy are sprawled behind the counter, both looking suspiciously alert for people who allegedly hate closing shifts.

“Back from your heroics?” Jason grins, swinging around in his chair with a squeak.

“I’m not a hero,” Will mutters.

“Tell that to Katie Gardner,” Percy says with a lazy smirk. “She was still working on her proposal speech while we helped her into the car.”

“She was probably concussed,” Will says, beet red.

Jason chuckles. “Still. Not bad. Nico doesn’t usually let anyone that close when something goes sideways.”

Will blinks at that. “He just needed help.”

“Yeah,” Percy says, exchanging a look with Jason. “But he asked you.”

Will frowns. “I was the only one there. Well the only one there that could help.”

Jason shrugs. “Sure, man. But hey, if he ever faints in your bakery, let me know. I want to see who catches him.”

Will groans and waves them off, exiting into the cooling night air, mentally launching himself into the sun.

He returns to Delos Delights to find Cecil and Lou Ellen at the counter like twin gargoyles of chaos, arms crossed, grins wicked.

“Well well well,” Lou Ellen says, drawing it out like it’s a spell.

“He returns,” Cecil intones. “Our brave little croissant boy.”

“I am begging you to be normal,” Will mutters, dropping the pastry box with theatrical despair.

“What happened?” Lou Ellen demands. “How was it? Did he smile? Did he touch your hand? Did he ask you to marry him under the sacred light of the tattoo gun?”

Will sighs, grabs the mop bucket, and hauls it toward the back. “No. He thanked me. Then he left. Because he had paperwork.”

Cecil trails after him, clearly unsatisfied. “That is so Nico. Gods forbid he express a full emotion.”

“He was really stressed,” Will mutters. “Like, actually shaken up.”

Lou Ellen tilts her head. “He show it?”

“A little,” Will says. “He, uh… ate a lemon bar.”

Silence. A beat. Then chaos.

“He ate something?” Lou Ellen shrieks.

“You gave Nico di Angelo a lemon bar and he ate it?” Cecil gasps. “Like—on purpose?”

Will groans. “He was panicking, I offered, he took it. Can I please just mop the floor now?”

“No,” Cecil says cheerfully, handing him the mop like a sword. “You gave the Underworld’s most emotionally constipated man a sugar high. There’s no going back now.”

And Will, swiping sugar dust from the tile in slow, resigned circles, isn’t sure whether he’s just survived something—or if it’s the beginning of something much, much worse.

***

The shutters rattle down with a hollow clatter, locking the last of the warm bakery light behind them. Will turns the key and pockets it with a sigh that feels too big for his chest. The street is quiet now—summer-warm and hushed, lit only by the dim buzz of streetlamps and the fading gold of shop windows.

Cecil and Lou Ellen had offered to stay late, obviously. Lou Ellen had threatened to make hot chocolate and “talk it out,” and Cecil was moments away from queuing up his Crushes That Destroyed Me playlist on the Bluetooth speaker. But Will had waved them off. Told them he wanted to “finish cleaning alone.” Which was true.

Mostly.

He just couldn’t take their faces right now. Couldn’t take the sympathy and teasing and hope. Hope was the worst part. Hope was what made it hurt.

He tugs his hoodie over his head, hands stuffed deep in the pockets, and starts the slow walk home. His boots scuff against the sidewalk. The pastry box he brought back is long emptied and dumped, and he still smells like cinnamon and humiliation.

Gods, he thinks. This is pathetic.

He should be used to this by now. Liking people who don’t like him back. Reading too much into a smile, a glance, a bite of lemon bar that—let’s be real—meant nothing. Nico di Angelo was stressed. He needed sugar. That’s all it was. And Will had stood there like an idiot, thinking it meant something. That it mattered.

He huffs and kicks at a pebble in the gutter. “What is wrong with me.”

And then—footsteps.

Quick. Unmistakable. Coming up behind him at a run.

Will turns instinctively, startled, heart jumping into his throat.

Nico.

Out of breath, hoodie sleeves pushed up, the faint glow of the tattoo shop still catching in the silver ring at his eyebrow. He slows to a walk as he catches up, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths.

Will blinks. “…Nico?”

Nico exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “You walk fast.”

Will just stares at him, caught somewhere between shock and awe. “Did you… follow me?”

“No,” Nico says, too fast. Then, after a beat: “Yes. Maybe. Look—can we talk?”

Will opens his mouth. Closes it again. The street is empty except for them, quiet except for the hum of power lines and the faint sound of someone practicing trumpet terribly in an apartment above the laundromat.

“Okay,” Will says, cautiously. “What’s going on?”

Nico looks at him. Really looks at him, the way he had in the tattoo room earlier—like Will is something important, and he’s only just figured out how to say it.

“I was weird,” Nico says. “Back there. With you. I didn’t… mean to just walk off. I was trying to get myself back under control, but—” He breaks off, frustrated. “I felt like if I didn’t leave right then, I was going to say something stupid.”

Will swallows. “Like what?”

Nico hesitates. Then: “Like that I liked having you there. Like that I’m not used to people showing up when I need them. And you did. Without question. With lemon bars.”

Will’s mouth goes dry. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Nico kicks at the sidewalk. “I know it’s late. I just didn’t want to leave it like that. You… helped today. Not just Katie—me too.”

The words land like thunder. Soft but heavy. Real.

Will’s voice is small. “You came running just to tell me that?”

Nico shrugs, trying to look indifferent, but he’s out of breath and pink in the cheeks and absolutely terrible at pretending right now. “I didn’t want to wait till morning.”

There’s a beat. Then another. And then—

Will smiles.

Not his usual bakery grin, not the one he gives customers. A real one. Stupid and small and a little bit in love.

“You want to walk me home?” he asks, gently.

Nico blinks. Then nods, quick and certain. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

They walk in silence at first, the city around them quiet in that in-between hour where most people are either winding down or already asleep. The streets are scattered with soft pools of lamplight, the occasional rustle of wind through leaves, the faint hum of a subway beneath their feet.

Will doesn’t say anything, too stunned by the fact that Nico is here, walking with him, like it’s something they’ve always done.

Then Nico clears his throat. “So… what’s bakery life like?”

Will glances sideways. “What, like in general?”

“Yeah.” Nico shrugs. “You’re always in there. I figured you must like it.”

Will blinks. For a second, he thinks Nico’s teasing him—because who asks that seriously? Who wants to talk about baking after dark, after panic, after everything?

But when he glances over, Nico’s actually looking at him, genuinely curious, not a trace of mockery in sight.

“It’s… good,” Will says slowly, surprised by how warm the answer feels. “Early mornings. A lot of prep. It’s kind of relentless, honestly, but I like the rhythm of it. You get into this flow—kneading dough, rotating batches, frosting pastries—it’s repetitive, but in a way that makes sense. The ovens are always too hot. There’s always flour in your hair. But sometimes, when you get it just right—when a batch comes out golden and perfect, and the shop smells like sugar and butter and cinnamon—it’s like…”

He trails off, suddenly aware he’s rambling.

“It’s like what?” Nico prompts, quietly.

Will exhales a laugh. “It’s like a win. A small one. But real.”

Nico nods. “I get that.”

And somehow, Will believes him. Even if their worlds are completely different—ink and espresso, tattoos and tarts—there’s a shared understanding in the quiet work of making things with your hands. In precision. In presence.

“I’ve never actually baked anything,” Nico admits. “I mean, besides those microwave mug cakes. Which always turn out disgusting.”

Will snorts. “You’re banned from saying you bake if you use a microwave.”

“Fair. But I do know a thing or two about burning things.”

“Okay, no, you’re banned from the kitchen entirely.”

They laugh, soft and surprised, and it echoes down the block like something secret.

When they reach Will’s building, it’s quiet and dark, the porch light casting a yellow haze over the steps. Will hesitates by the railing, unsure if this is where things end or something else begins.

Nico stops beside him. Glances up at the modest walk-up. Then glances back at Will.

“You know,” he says, tone light but eyes warm, “you make the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

Will blinks. Blushes. “It’s just espresso.”

Nico shrugs, stepping just a little closer. “Still. You do it best.”

Will’s heart stutters in his chest. For once, he doesn’t scramble to fill the silence. He just looks at Nico, and lets it sit there—sweet and quiet and dizzying.

And then Nico steps closer.

Not a lot. Just a half-step. But it’s enough to tilt the air around them, enough that Will can feel it—him—like a shift in gravity, subtle and enormous all at once.

“You know,” Nico says, voice low and even, like he’s thinking aloud, “I don’t usually eat that stuff.”

Will’s brain stutters. “What—stuff?”

“Pastries,” Nico says. Another step. “Sugar. Anything sweet. It’s not my thing.”

“Right,” Will says, already breathless, already overwhelmed. “Yeah. I know.”

“But I ate what you gave me,” Nico adds, soft like a secret. “Didn’t even think twice.”

Will tries to laugh, but it catches somewhere in his throat. Nico is still moving toward him, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing each inch of space between them before he claims it. Will backs up instinctively—reflex, not retreat—and his spine meets brick. Cool and solid. Unforgiving.

Nico stops a breath away.

“I notice things,” he says, voice dropping into something warmer, rougher. “About you.”

Will’s pulse is a drumline in his ears.

“Like how you look when you’re plating croissants. Super focused. Messy hair. That little line between your brows.”

Will wants to die. “Don’t say that.”

“You also had strawberry tart filling on your forehead once,” Nico continues, unfazed. “Didn’t say anything at the time. But it was… kind of cute.”

Will covers his face with one hand. “Okay, no. Nope. I refuse to believe you’ve been silently judging me for months—”

“I wasn’t judging,” Nico says. “I liked it. You looked… I don’t know. Real. Warm. Like a person who makes soft things on purpose.”

Will drops his hand and stares at him.

He has no idea what to do with this. Nico’s always been shadow and sharpness and silence—an aesthetic, a crush, a fixed point he could safely orbit from a distance. But now he’s right here, breathing the same air, and Will is suddenly, irrevocably aware of how touchable he looks up close. The glint of silver at his brow. The curl of his hair, just slightly damp at the ends from running. The ink trailing like vines across the back of his hand as he lifts it.

Nico reaches out.

Brushes a single curl from Will’s forehead. His fingers graze skin.

Will stops breathing altogether.

The touch is soft. Intentional. Barely there. But it roots him to the spot like a nail through the sole of his shoe. He wants to close his eyes. He wants to bolt. He wants to stay right here, pinned between Nico’s voice and the brick wall and the way everything has narrowed to just this.

Nico’s hand lingers, warm against his temple.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, so quietly it barely exists.

And Will—freaking out, wide-eyed, trying not to combust—manages to whisper, “Yes.”

Nico doesn’t wait.

The second Will says yes—quiet and stunned like he can’t believe he’s said it—Nico surges forward and kisses him like gravity demanded it.

Will’s back hits the brick with a quiet thud, but he doesn’t feel it. All he feels is Nico—hands cupping his face like he’s something fragile and rare, mouth hot and insistent, kissing him like he’s been holding it in for weeks, months, forever.

And Will—Gods, Will—he just melts. Into it, into him, into every stupid fantasy he’s ever had at 8:17 a.m. while pretending not to stare at the tattooed boy who never smiles.

Nico tastes like coffee and lemon—sharp, bitter, sweet. He kisses like someone trying to drink from a glass that’s too full. Like he’s afraid to waste a drop. Will lets out a helpless sound against his mouth, fisting his hands in Nico’s hoodie like he needs something solid to anchor him to earth.

When Nico finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. His forehead brushes Will’s, his thumb strokes absently over the curve of Will’s jaw, and his voice is ragged and wrecked when he says:

“You taste like sugar.”

Will is already flushed, already half-delirious, but that makes him laugh—shaky, breathless, dazed. “I thought you didn’t like sugar.”

Nico’s lips brush his again, lighter this time. “It’s growing on me.”

Then he kisses him again.

Slower, this time. Fuller. Still desperate, still hungry, but laced now with something more dangerous: affection. Like he’s learning the shape of Will’s mouth. Like he wants to remember it.

And Will kisses him back like he’s starved for this kind of softness. Like he might never get another chance. Like if he lets go now, he’ll wake up and realize this whole thing was some sugar-fueled hallucination, a cruel trick of moonlight and memory.

Nico groans into his mouth—low, rough, barely restrained—and pulls back again, breath heaving, hands still framing Will’s face like he can’t quite bring himself to let go entirely.

“Okay,” he says, voice hoarse, eyes dark. “I have to stop kissing you now or I’m going to do something that’ll get me arrested for public indecency.”

Will makes a noise that is ninety percent mortification and ten percent high-pitched wheeze. “Oh my Gods.”

Nico lets his head fall forward, forehead pressed to Will’s shoulder as he exhales a laugh. “Sorry. I just—Jesus, you’re dangerous.”

Will’s brain short-circuits entirely. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Nico says without looking up. “You and your stupid lemon bars and your stupid beautiful face and your stupid—” he lifts his head again, eyes glittering—“apron.”

Will is going to pass away. He’s going to collapse right here, on the sidewalk, in front of his building, and die of compliments.

“Okay, okay,” he stammers, flustered beyond repair. “You can’t say stuff like that. That’s unfair. I’m not built for this.”

“Yeah?” Nico says, tilting his head, grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Better get used to it.”

Will sways, nearly combusts, and then Nico, as if remembering something critical, pulls a phone from the pocket of his hoodie.

“Give me your number.”

Will blinks. “Wait. Like—actually?”

“No, I meant metaphorically,” Nico deadpans, though his mouth is still soft around the edges. “Yes, actually. You think I ran out here to dramatically kiss you and not text you tomorrow morning?”

Will fumbles for his phone so fast he nearly drops it.

They exchange numbers—simple, practical, hands brushing awkwardly as they tap. Will saves the contact as Nico (because he’s normal ). Nico saves Will as Croissant Boy, and Will threatens to walk directly into traffic.

But then Nico just tucks his phone away, gives Will one last, smirking once-over, and murmurs, “Sleep well, Will.”

Will stands there on the sidewalk for a full thirty seconds after Nico disappears into the night.

Then he makes a sound. A noise. High-pitched, breathy, vaguely dolphin-adjacent. It escapes him before he can stop it, and he slaps both hands over his face like that’ll somehow contain the ridiculous joy tearing through his chest.

He kissed me , Will thinks, practically vibrating. Nico di Angelo kissed me. 

He fumbles his key into the building door, misses the lock twice, and finally stumbles into the dimly lit stairwell like someone fleeing the scene of a crime. His legs are jelly. His lungs are useless. His heart is a firework finale.

By the time he reaches the second floor landing, he’s laughing. Actually laughing. Giddy and breathless and a little delirious, like someone just spiked the air with serotonin. He clutches the banister, wheels around dramatically, and mimes screaming into the void.

“He kissed me.”

It echoes faintly off the peeling hallway paint.

He reaches his apartment, unlocks the door with shaky fingers, and kicks it closed behind him before immediately collapsing onto the couch like a Victorian heroine. One hand over his heart. The other flung across his eyes.

“I am going to die,” he whispers to the ceiling. “I’m going to die and be buried in my apron and he’s going to draw a stupid skull on my tombstone and I’m fine with it.”

He pulls out his phone. Opens his contacts. Stares at Nico and immediately changes it to Nico with three hearts and then deletes two, because that’s unhinged. Then re-adds one. Then sets a lemon emoji next to it.

Then he flops back again, arms splayed out, kicking one foot into the air.

Like a teenager. Like an idiot. Like someone who just got kissed by his crush in the middle of the street and got called beautiful and dangerous and didn’t spontaneously combust, which is honestly a miracle.

Will Solace is so unbelievably screwed.

And he’s never been happier in his life.

***

The next morning, the bakery opens like always: the scent of cinnamon and rising dough, the quiet whir of the espresso machine, the morning light slanting through the windows in soft golden beams.

Will is already behind the counter, pretending to be composed.

He is not composed.

He barely slept. He spent most of the night reliving every second of Nico’s mouth on his, every breathless murmur, every graze of fingers against skin. He’s cleaned the espresso machine three times. He changed his shirt twice. He is currently questioning if his apron is tied too tight or not tight enough.

And then the door chimes.

Nico di Angelo walks in like he didn’t ruin Will’s entire existence less than twelve hours ago.

All black again. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, collarbones sharp under his shirt. His hair’s still damp from a shower, and he’s got sunglasses hooked in his collar, even though it’s cloudy. He’s all sleepy smirk and effortless chaos. His lip ring catches the light as he grins.

Will’s knees betray him on sight.

But he swallows it. Puts on his best cashier face. “Morning.”

Nico leans casually on the counter. “Hey.”

Will doesn’t ask what he wants. He’s already making the espresso.

“Double, no room,” Will says, trying to sound professional and not like he’s thinking about Nico’s mouth.

But then Nico adds, “And a lemon bar.”

Will freezes mid-pour.

“You want—?”

“A lemon bar,” Nico repeats, slow and deliberate. “One of yours.”

Will barely manages to slide the espresso over without dropping it. His hands tremble as he bags the lemon bar, which is freshly made and still warm. Nico watches every motion with lazy interest and a smile that’s edging toward criminal.

Will hands him the bag.

Their fingers brush.

Nico holds the bag like it’s something scandalous. “Thanks, dolcezza . See you later.”

Will dies. Just a little.

Nico, clearly satisfied with the effect, turns and strolls toward the door like he didn’t just drop a weaponized goodbye. The bell chimes as he exits.

Will stands there for a moment, staring at the door long after it closes, the scent of citrus and espresso still curling in the air like smoke. His heart is a mess in his chest—overcaffeinated, under-armoured, and hopelessly, stupidly full. He exhales, slow and shaky, and presses a hand to his face like it might cool the blush still blooming there. 

Outside, the clouds shift. Light spills through the window in soft gold, catching the counter, the lemon bar tray, the coffee steam still rising. 

He grins to himself, helpless and glowing. Then he ties his apron tighter, because someone just called him dolcezza , and he has an entire day ahead of pretending that didn’t absolutely ruin him.

And maybe—just maybe—this is the beginning of something warm and slow and golden, like sugar melting into dough, like something rising soft and steady in the heat of it all.

Something sweet enough to stay.