10. Nicholas
TEN
NICHOLAS
Avoiding Markus was harder than I’d imagined.
The Hollow wasn’t big enough to hide in, not with our overlapping schedules.
Every shift at the senior living facility turned into a game of cat and mouse—except I wasn’t entirely sure who was chasing whom.
I thought keeping my distance would quiet my mind, but even when Markus wasn’t around, his presence lingered.
It was there in the way Mrs. Powell, a seventy-seven-year-old resident, lit up when she recounted how “that nice new doctor” had taken extra time to explain her medications.
It was there in the memory of his voice—steady and calm—when he told me to let go on Cedar Hill.
And it was there in the faint scent of his aftershave clinging to the hoodie I couldn’t seem to take off, even though it made me feel ridiculous.
Why had I left his house so abruptly that morning? It wasn’t as simple as waking up before he did. It wasn’t even about the hoodie I couldn’t bring myself to return.
I’d felt too exposed, too seen.
Markus had looked at me like I mattered. Not because of some obligation, but just... because. It was unsettling, and terrifying, and exactly what I hadn’t realized I was craving. And that scared me more than I could admit.
The hoodie was a problem. It still smelled like him—a mix of pine and a spicy scent I couldn’t place. Every time I pulled it on, I felt wrapped in something I didn’t deserve. So I told myself I wasn’t avoiding him because I was afraid. I just needed space. Distance. A chance to clear my head.
But space was hard to come by.
Tuesday, I thought I’d managed it until I caught sight of him entering the senior home lobby. My heart jackknifed, and before I knew it, I was crouched behind the front desk, gripping a clipboard as if my life depended on it.
Terri peered over the counter, her lips twitching. “You okay down there, hon?”
“Fine!” I waved her off, my voice just a little too bright. “Dropped a pen.”
Markus’s voice drifted closer, low and casual as he exchanged pleasantries with Beverly. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out their words. The second his footsteps receded, I bolted for the side door, feeling Terri’s amused gaze burning into my back.
By Thursday, I was convinced the universe had it out for me.
I was wheeling Mr. Gaines, another resident, back to his room when I spotted Markus across the lounge. He was laughing at something Mrs. Thompson said, his smile doing things to my chest I didn’t want to analyze. I turned sharply, angling the wheelchair like a shield, praying he wouldn’t notice me.
“Nicholas?”
I froze, my stomach lurching.
Not Markus. Just Terri, clipboard in hand, her brows raised in a way that made me want to crawl under the floor. She followed my line of sight, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.
“Everything okay?”
“Perfect.” I forced a smile, gripping the handles of the wheelchair. “Mr. Gaines and I have places to be.”
By Friday, I was exhausted. Not from work, but from constantly looking over my shoulder, half hoping and half dreading I’d see him again.
I was dropping off paperwork in the admin office, thinking I’d managed an entire shift without a Markus sighting.
I rounded the corner and froze. Markus was there, leaning casually against a doorframe, his sleeves rolled up, laughing with one of the nurses.
She reached out to touch his arm, her laugh soft and melodic.
Jealousy twisted in my gut, sharp and unrelenting. It was stupid, irrational, and completely uncalled for, but it clawed at me anyway. I turned on my heel, heading for the back exit before he could notice me.
I told myself I was being ridiculous. I had no claim on Markus. No reason to care who he talked to or how he smiled at them.
But none of that stopped the ache in my chest or the heat prickling behind my eyes.
It wasn’t just that I missed him.
I missed how I’d felt when I was with him. Like maybe I didn’t have to hold everything together on my own. Like maybe, for one night, I could let someone else see me—the real me—and they wouldn’t run away.
Which, of course, was why I had to be the one to leave.
I’d spent the whole week doing everything short of installing a Markus-detection system, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
About how natural it had felt to sit in his living room, sipping hot chocolate like I belonged there.
About the way his hands had brushed against mine when he tucked the blanket around me.
About the way he’d seen me—really seen me—and hadn’t run in the other direction.
I shook my head, forcing the thoughts down. I didn’t need anything from Markus. I didn’t need him. Period. I’d learned a long time ago not to lean on anyone, not to expect someone to stay.
But knowing it didn’t stop me from wanting it.
The call from Kyle came just as I was about to give up on the day and crawl into bed.
I’d spent the evening in my living room, the TV playing something I wasn’t watching, my mind looping back to Markus no matter how hard I tried to distract myself.
His voice, his steady presence, his everything—it was maddening.
When my phone buzzed, I almost ignored it, but Kyle’s name flashing on the screen tugged me out of my haze.
He was my BFF from high school, along with the rest of the gang: Brianna, Faith, Wyatt and Parker.
They’d left the state to attend college, and now they were all successful, living in different parts of the country, but every year they spent the holiday season at the Hollow.
I usually hung out with them a couple of times when they were here since we were super busy at work this time of the year.
“Nick!” His voice came through loud and clear, full of energy and that easy charm that had always been his hallmark. “You’re not bailing on me tonight. Everyone’s at The Copper Kettle. You’re coming.”
“I don’t know, Kyle…”
“Don’t start. Get dressed. Put on something that doesn’t scream ‘responsible older brother’ and let’s go. You need this.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The Copper Kettle had always been a Juniper Hollow institution, and the name itself was part of the town’s quirky charm.
According to local lore, the great-great-grandfather of the current owner of the pub, Mrs. Roberts, , , had been a prospector who had struck it rich during the Klondike Gold Rush—or at least that’s how the story went after a few rounds of whiskey.
Supposedly, the only treasure he brought back was an old copper kettle, which had somehow become a family heirloom.
That same kettle sat proudly behind the bar, dented and tarnished, its story exaggerated with each telling.
And over the years, the Copper Kettle had become the only queer-friendly pub in our small town.
Inside, the typical Friday night crowd hadn’t reached its peak yet, but it was buzzing, a mix of locals and visitors home for the holidays.
The air was thick with the smell of pine, spilled beer, roasted nuts, and the faint sweetness of spiked cider.
Strings of fairy lights lined the bar, and sprigs of holly adorned every free surface—a perfect mix of festive and familiar.
The laughter and chatter blended with the low hum of classic rock playing over the speakers.
Kyle spotted me as soon as I walked in, waving me over to a booth near the back where the gang was already assembled.
The greetings were boisterous. It had been a year since we’d seen each other.
Brianna and Faith’s attention turned to their phones, probably looking at photos.
They were already laughing about something, their voices rising above the music.
Wyatt and Parker were at the bar to get our drinks.
For a moment, I let myself relax. These were my people, my lifeline back to a time when life felt simpler.
Kyle nudged me. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Nicholas. You’ve been dodging my calls.”
I snorted, despite myself. “It’s nothing, Kyle. Just… busy with work.”
“Busy with work,” he mocked, leaning closer. “Or busy–”
Kyle didn’t finish because at that very moment Wyatt and Parker returned to the booth with drinks. Wyatt had his signature mischievous grin, while Parker balanced our drinks with the precision of a surgeon, his expression as calm and serious as if he were diffusing a bomb. Classic Parker.
“Alright, people,” Wyatt announced while Parker plunked the tray onto the table.
“We’ve got the goods including an eggnog martini, a gingerbread Old Fashioned, and—wait for it—a peppermint hot chocolate spiked with Bailey’s for Mr. Holiday Cheer over here.
” Wyatt did the honors and slid the last drink toward Kyle with a smirk.
Kyle held up the mug and sniffed it. “Okay, okay, I see you,” he said, grinning. “This is actually pretty thoughtful. Maybe there’s a heart in that sarcastic little chest of yours after all.”
Wyatt just laughed, taking his seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Parker slid into the seat next to Faith, cradling his own cranberry Moscow mule in its frosty copper mug. “I don’t know how you drink that syrupy mess,” he said, eyeing Wyatt’s candy cane margarita with theatrical disdain.
Wyatt raised the drink, red and white swirls catching the light. “This, my dear Parker, is holiday spirit in a glass. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
Brianna rolled her eyes but leaned in to snag a sip anyway. “Tastes like a candy cane threw up.” She shuddered but laughed, her golden hoop earrings catching the light.
I clutched my own gingerbread stout, the spicy warmth of cinnamon and nutmeg rising with the foam. It was my usual choice this time of year; something about the holiday vibe in the Copper Kettle made it feel right.
“All right, all right,” Brianna said, raising her glass of mulled wine. “Enough of this bickering. I think it’s time for a toast.”
We all groaned good-naturedly, but Wyatt raised his drink in solidarity. “Go on, Bri.”