34. Adrian
I ordered room service while he was in the bathroom cleaning up.
Cheeseburger and fries for me, chicken Cobb salad for Nicky with dressing on the side, no bacon, extra chicken.
I knew his order by now. Knew the way he ate during competition season—lean protein, measured portions, the careful fuel of an athlete who’d spent too many years being monitored.
When he came out, I tossed him a pair of sweats and a hoodie.
“Your clothes are somewhere on the floor,” I said. “But these are more comfortable.”
He caught them, raised an eyebrow. “You want me to wear your clothes?”
“I want you to be comfortable. The sweats are clean. Straight from the dryer and into my suitcase.”
He rolled his eyes but pulled them on anyway. The hoodie was too big on him, sleeves falling past his wrists and something possessive curled in my chest at the sight. Nicky in my clothes. In my room. In my bed.
Don’t get used to this, I told myself. Don’t make it into something it isn’t. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to fuck.
Room service arrived. We ate on the bed with the iPad playing and Nicky ate a few bites of his salad before stealing three of my fries.
“You really should eat better before a competition, Adrian.”
“I’m carb loading.”
“You’re not getting enough protein.”
“Oh trust me, I got plenty of meat today.” I smiled lasciviously before taking a bite of my burger.
He laughed—soft and unguarded in a way I rarely saw from him—and something in my chest ached.
We finished the episode. Started another one. Somewhere in the middle of Zuko’s confrontation with his father, Nicky’s head grew heavy against my shoulder. His breathing evened out. I looked down and found him asleep, dark golden lashes fanned against his cheeks, lips slightly parted.
Sleep didn't come easily for Nicky. I knew that now.
Knew that the insomnia wasn't just stress or competition nerves but something with roots that went deeper and darker than anything I'd initially understood.
Watching him actually sleep—deeply, peacefully, his body finally letting go of the tension it carried every waking moment—felt like a small victory.
I turned off the iPad and settled deeper into the pillows and let myself watch him.
He looked younger like this. The tension gone from his jaw, the careful composure dissolved. Just a 21 year old who'd been through too much and was still somehow sweet underneath all of it.
I thought about my parents.
My mother did not love my father. I was maybe seven when I started noticing—the way they occupied the same house like strangers, impeccably polite, careful not to intrude.
At nine, I'd stayed with Cam in Toronto for a week and he'd shown me a photo album on his bookshelf.
My mother in her twenties, laughing, leaning into a younger, happier version of Cam's dad.
Leather jacket. Smudged makeup. Hair loose and wild, nothing like the precise, elegant woman I knew.
I'd never seen her look like that with my dad. Not once.
The story assembled itself over years. A comment from my grandmother.
A silence that lasted a beat too long when Cam brought up his dad in front of her.
The way my mother's voice changed—just slightly—when she talked about Toronto.
She'd loved him. But he'd been a struggling musician and she'd grown up with nothing in Seoul and crossed an ocean to never feel that again.
So she'd left the man she loved for the man who could give her what she wanted.
And Cam's dad had never moved on. Never remarried. Just quietly carried the weight of what he'd lost. A man haunted by a ghost who was still alive and living in a West Bay mansion.
My father wanted a trophy wife. My mother wanted security. A transaction dressed up as a marriage.
So no—I didn't know what love was supposed to look like. I’d spent 23 years making sure nothing lasted long enough to hurt, cycling through hookups and situationships I ended before they could become anything real.
I'd watched my mom choose money over love.
I'd watched Cam's dad spend a lifetime paying the price for loving someone who left.
Both options looked like shit from where I was standing.
And now there was Nicky.
Nicky, who looked at me like I was worth something. Who was soft and damaged and brave in ways I was only beginning to understand. Who had fallen asleep on my shoulder like I was someone safe.
I didn't want to hurt him. But I didn't know how to do this—whatever this was—without eventually fucking it up. I'd never made it past a third date. Never wanted to.
Until him.
I fell asleep with his head on my shoulder and no answers to any of the questions that mattered.
◆◆◆
Morning light filtered through the curtains. I woke to an empty bed and the sound of Nicky moving quietly around the room, gathering his clothes from the night before.
“Hey,” I said, voice rough with sleep. “You’re leaving?”
“We have ice time in an hour.” He was dressed in my sweats still, his clothes bundled under his arm. “I need to shower and change.”
“You could shower here.”
“I need my stuff.” He paused at the door, looked back at me. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, looking uncertain. “Last night was…”
“Fucking amazing,” I supplied, since he was too shy to say it.
The tips of his ears went pink. “Yeah, it really was.”
“Will you come back tonight?”
“Only if you share those macarons with me.” He smiled and slipped out the door.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, cataloguing the ache in my muscles and the warmth still lingering in the sheets where he’d been.
I knew two things for certain.
I wanted more.
And I had no fucking clue what to do with that.