Chapter 14 - Nico
896 Words
She doesn’t like the room.
That much is obvious.
Not because of what’s in it.
Because of where it is.
Because of me.
I can feel it in the way she stands just inside the doorway, like stepping any farther in means something she isn’t ready to accept. Like distance still exists if she refuses to cross it.
It doesn’t.
It hasn’t since the moment she walked through the bathroom.
I close the door behind her without a word.
The sound is quiet.
Final.
She turns immediately.
“You’re not serious.”
I don’t respond right away.
I move past her instead, crossing the room with the same steady pace I’ve kept all night, giving her just enough time to realize what this is before I say it.
“Get in.”
Her head snaps toward me.
“I’m not sleeping in here.”
“You are tonight.”
Simple.
Direct.
Done.
Her frustration spikes fast.
“I have a room.”
“The one with the broken window.”
Silence.
Her jaw tightens.
“You could fix it.”
“I will.”
I don’t look at her.
“Tomorrow.”
That lands.
She steps farther into the room now, not because she wants to—but because she needs space to argue, to push, to find something she can use.
“I’m not staying in your bed.”
I finally turn to face her.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor either.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I’ll take the couch.”
“There isn’t one.”
That one hits exactly how it should.
Good.
She lets out a sharp breath, pacing once like she needs movement just to keep from reacting too quickly.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No denial.
Because I am.
Her frustration shifts again, sharper now, more personal.
“Why?”
The question hangs there longer than it should.
Not because I don’t have an answer.
Because she won’t accept it.
“Because you don’t get to create distance where it doesn’t exist.”
Her expression falters for half a second.
The bond reacts to it.
So do I.
She pushes past it immediately.
“That doesn’t mean I have to share a bed with you.”
“It does tonight.”
Her laugh is short.
Disbelieving.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did.”
The repetition doesn’t weaken the words.
It reinforces them.
Her gaze locks onto mine, searching again, looking for hesitation, for doubt, for something she can use.
There isn’t anything.
“There are lines, Nico.”
“No.”
That stops her.
Completely.
“There were lines,” I continue, my voice even. “You crossed them.”
Her chest rises slightly, the words hitting exactly where they’re meant to.
I don’t push it further.
I don’t need to.
“This isn’t about what you want,” I add. “It’s about what is.”
Her hands curl slightly at her sides.
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
“That’s not my concern.”
The words land harder than anything else I’ve said.
Because they’re true.
Because I mean them.
And because she knows I’m not going to bend on it.
The silence stretches, heavier now.
She looks at the bed.
Then back at me.
Then away again.
Calculating.
Adjusting.
Choosing.
Good.
That’s what I want.
Not compliance.
Understanding.
I move to the opposite side of the bed, pulling back the covers with a single motion before stepping away again.
“Get in.”
Not louder.
Not harsher.
Just certain.
She doesn’t move immediately.
Of course she doesn’t.
But she’s already lost this argument.
We both know it.
“You’re not touching me,” she says finally.
I meet her gaze.
“Then don’t come near me.”
That lands.
She hesitates for half a second longer before moving, slower now, more controlled, like she’s choosing how she loses instead of fighting it outright.
She slides onto the far side of the bed, keeping as much distance as possible, her body rigid, her attention fixed anywhere but me.
Good.
I don’t move toward her.
I don’t close the distance.
I give her exactly what she asked for.
Space.
Within limits.
I kill the lights.
The room drops into darkness, quiet settling in around us again, thicker this time, heavier.
The bond shifts immediately.
Closer now.
Sharper.
More present in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
I feel it.
So does she.
Neither of us acknowledges it.
Not out loud.
Minutes pass.
Maybe more.
Her breathing doesn’t even out.
Doesn’t slow.
Still awake.
Still thinking.
Still fighting.
I let it happen.
Because eventually—
Her body will give in before her mind does.
It always does.
“You’re not going to sleep either, are you?” she says quietly into the dark.
I don’t answer right away.
Then—
“I don’t need to.”
That’s enough.
Silence settles again.
But it’s different now.
Not as sharp.
Not as chaotic.
Just… there.
Controlled.
Contained.
The way it should be.
Because this—
This is what she needs.
Structure.
Limits.
Something she can’t twist or avoid.
And tonight—
This is it.
She’s here.
In my bed.
On my floor.
Under my control.
Because there wasn’t another outcome.
And there won’t be.
Not this time.
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