Nicolas’s POV
I used to think self-control was a switch.
Something you flipped on when things got inconvenient, when anger rose too fast, when temptation pressed too close, when instinct threatened to make a mess of everything you’d worked to keep contained.
Lately, I was learning it didn’t work like that.
Self-control wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t clean. It didn’t feel like strength.
It felt like holding your breath underwater and pretending you weren’t desperate for air.
I sat across from Lyon at our usual café table, my coffee untouched, my leg bouncing beneath the table like it had a mind of its own. The place smelled like roasted beans and burnt sugar, the low hum of conversation filling the space around us.
“You’re spiraling,” Lyon said flatly.
I looked up. “I’m thinking.”
“You’ve
