Warning: Explicit content may be used in this roleplay.
(1x1 between April & Nikolas)
(1x1 between April & Nikolas)
April stepped into The Black Anchor, and the early evening hum of conversation barely dimmed the confident click of her heels against the polished wood floor. The air inside was cooler than the humid Florida dusk outside, a welcome relief that sent a shiver down her spine, both from the shift in temperature, but also from anticipation. She knew exactly where she was going, but that didn’t stop her from making an entrance. Shoulders back, chin up, she moved with the kind of deliberate grace that commanded attention, her black silk dress hugging her form, the fabric whispering around her thighs with each step.
She caught a few glances as she strode past, and good. That was exactly what she wanted. If things went south, she needed witnesses. It wasn’t paranoia; it was preparation. She wasn’t the type to leave things to chance, never had been.
Sliding onto a barstool, she crossed her legs and deliberately swung herself around to face the barback, straightening her back and chin lifted slightly to catch a bartender. Her presence was noted and within seconds, one of the bartenders was in front of her, the black t-shirt with the bar's logo on the front and the word STAFF on the back. The hope for the drinks here being of adequate quality were practically non-existent. There was a reason she never usually visited dive bars, no matter how much renovation they slapped over their history, but tonight she had to make an exception, for this place had just seemed too good to not use.
“Martini with a twist,” she ordered, her voice as smooth as the smile she sent the bartender away with. She didn’t trust the olives in a place like this. The choice seemed safe enough, because every bar worth its salt should be able to manage a martini.
The bartender nodded and moved away, and she pulled open her sleek black designer bag with a gold chain strap and retrieved an old Nokia flip phone. An obvious burner. Basic, unassuming, and more importantly, untraceable. Flipping it open with a practiced flick of her thumb and typed out a message.
Text from: Unknown number
I’m at The Black Anchor bar at 219 East Bay Street.
Come settle old debts
Come settle old debts
Attached image
There was no need to say more. If he didn’t show within the hour, she was gone. He knew her well enough to understand she wouldn’t wait all night. He should remember just how impatient she could get.
And the picture? Well, the picture was just for fun and as a little reminder to him of who he was dealing with; someone who he would never forget seeing naked.
With the message sent, she closed the burner and tucked it away before retrieving her own phone; a sleek, modern smartphone encased in pale green cover. Her fingers hovered over the screen, scrolling aimlessly. Distraction. It wasn’t like her to get jittery, but tonight? Tonight, anticipation felt heavy. Perhaps it was the setting. Maybe it was him.
Her drink arrived, and the chill of the glass against her fingertips drew her back into the moment. A small flick of her eyebrows told onlookers just how surprised she was to find the glass to have actually been chilled. Lifting it to her lips, she took a careful sip. The sharp bite of gin, the whisper of vermouth, the perfect citrus twist. It was actually good. Really good and much better than expected. Her brows lifted slightly in surprise as she met the bartender’s gaze. They already knew. A slow shake of their head, a smirk barely contained.
Touché.
She didn’t smile, but she acknowledged the unexpected quality with the smallest nod before turning her attention back to her phone, only to put it away into the bag again. Drink in hand, she slowly turned around on the stool, to look over the patrons of the bar and, more importantly, to watch the main entrance. The Black Anchor might have changed its face, but the undercurrent of something raw still lingered beneath the surface. People didn’t really change, and neither did places like this. They just learned to wear better disguises.
Nik sat at his kitchen table, a Glock 19 disassembled before him, the pieces laid out in meticulous order. The scent of gun oil lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of bourbon from the half-finished glass beside him. Cleaning his weapons had always been a ritual—one of control, of focus, of making sure the tools of his trade were always in perfect working condition. It was muscle memory at this point, a habit ingrained over years of necessity, both in the military and in the life that followed.
The buzz of his personal phone broke the silence. He exhaled slowly, setting down the brush he’d been using to clean the barrel. His brow furrowed as he reached for then unlocked it. The moment his eyes landed on the message, his jaw tightened.
I’m at The Black Anchor bar at 219 East Bay Street.
Come settle old debts.
April.
He stared at the words for a second longer than necessary, feeling the weight of the past settle around his shoulders. He should’ve deleted the message right then and there, thrown the damn phone into the sink and let the garbage disposal take care of it. But then there was the picture she had attached.
His breath left him in a slow, measured exhale. A semi-nude shot. Nothing explicit—April never needed to be. Just enough skin, just the right angles, just enough to remind him of what she once was to him, of how easily she could still get under his skin. His grip on the phone tightened.
That smug, manipulative—
He tossed the phone onto the table, rubbing a hand down his face. His first instinct was to ignore it, let her sit there and stew in her own anticipation. But she knew better. She knew him. Knew he’d come, if only to tell her to her face that she was out of her goddamn mind for reaching out to him after all these years. She should be dead. The only reason she was breathing was because he’d made a choice he never should have. A choice that could’ve cost him his life if Vince had ever found out the truth.
And now she was back, clawing her way into his world once again.
Nik leaned back in his chair, rolling his neck until it popped. He took his time finishing his drink, took his time reassembling the Glock with slow, deliberate precision, locking the slide into place before setting it down with a quiet click.
Let her wait.
She hated waiting.
The Black Anchor hadn’t changed much. Sure, there were some new coats of paint, some attempts at rebranding it into something classier, but Nik saw through the facade the moment he walked through the door. It was still the same dive beneath all the polish—cheap booze, shifty clientele, and an undercurrent of something unspoken humming beneath the surface.
He stepped inside, scanning the room with the kind of quiet, predatory ease that never really left him. His outfit was simple, an army green shirt, perfectly tailored to accentuate his lean build, paired with dark jeans hanging just right over well-worn, steel-toed black boots. Nothing about him screamed trouble, but those who knew what to look for would recognize it anyway.
And then he saw her.
April was exactly as he remembered—stunning, poised, well-dressed and exuding the same untouchable confidence she always had. Her posture was relaxed but intentional, one leg crossed over the other as she nursed a martini. Her presence was deliberate, every inch of her curated for maximum effect. To his frustration, it worked. And he hated her for it.
Taking his first step toward the bar—toward her—Nik approached with the same cadenced confidence he always moved with.
"You've got an awful lot of nerve, you know that?" he confronted her, his tone anything but amicable. Instead, it was laced with the venom of a man scorned.
The buzz of his personal phone broke the silence. He exhaled slowly, setting down the brush he’d been using to clean the barrel. His brow furrowed as he reached for then unlocked it. The moment his eyes landed on the message, his jaw tightened.
I’m at The Black Anchor bar at 219 East Bay Street.
Come settle old debts.
April.
He stared at the words for a second longer than necessary, feeling the weight of the past settle around his shoulders. He should’ve deleted the message right then and there, thrown the damn phone into the sink and let the garbage disposal take care of it. But then there was the picture she had attached.
His breath left him in a slow, measured exhale. A semi-nude shot. Nothing explicit—April never needed to be. Just enough skin, just the right angles, just enough to remind him of what she once was to him, of how easily she could still get under his skin. His grip on the phone tightened.
That smug, manipulative—
He tossed the phone onto the table, rubbing a hand down his face. His first instinct was to ignore it, let her sit there and stew in her own anticipation. But she knew better. She knew him. Knew he’d come, if only to tell her to her face that she was out of her goddamn mind for reaching out to him after all these years. She should be dead. The only reason she was breathing was because he’d made a choice he never should have. A choice that could’ve cost him his life if Vince had ever found out the truth.
And now she was back, clawing her way into his world once again.
Nik leaned back in his chair, rolling his neck until it popped. He took his time finishing his drink, took his time reassembling the Glock with slow, deliberate precision, locking the slide into place before setting it down with a quiet click.
Let her wait.
She hated waiting.
The Black Anchor hadn’t changed much. Sure, there were some new coats of paint, some attempts at rebranding it into something classier, but Nik saw through the facade the moment he walked through the door. It was still the same dive beneath all the polish—cheap booze, shifty clientele, and an undercurrent of something unspoken humming beneath the surface.
He stepped inside, scanning the room with the kind of quiet, predatory ease that never really left him. His outfit was simple, an army green shirt, perfectly tailored to accentuate his lean build, paired with dark jeans hanging just right over well-worn, steel-toed black boots. Nothing about him screamed trouble, but those who knew what to look for would recognize it anyway.
And then he saw her.
April was exactly as he remembered—stunning, poised, well-dressed and exuding the same untouchable confidence she always had. Her posture was relaxed but intentional, one leg crossed over the other as she nursed a martini. Her presence was deliberate, every inch of her curated for maximum effect. To his frustration, it worked. And he hated her for it.
Taking his first step toward the bar—toward her—Nik approached with the same cadenced confidence he always moved with.
"You've got an awful lot of nerve, you know that?" he confronted her, his tone anything but amicable. Instead, it was laced with the venom of a man scorned.
April sat there, her fingers drumming impatiently against the bar top, the condensation from her martini glass pooling beneath them. Time passed by agonizingly slowly, giving her time to start questioning her plan, but some things she was certain of. Certain she had texted the right number. Certain she knew exactly where he was right now and most importantly, certain that he was in Florida of all places. She knew exactly what Nik was doing; making her wait, making her stew, making sure she felt every second tick by. It was deliberate. Of course, it was.
For a brief moment, her mind wandered back to another time, when Florida had been something else entirely, something simpler. She and Nik had been here once before, long ago. Back then, it had been laughter, sun-kissed skin, and stolen moments in a room that smelled of salt and rum. Things had been so different then. It felt like a lifetime ago and April knew nostalgia was a dangerous thing. She wasn’t in the habit of indulging in ghosts of the past.
A voice slurred in her direction, yanking her back into the present.
“Hey gorgeous… y’look lonely. Wanna- wanna drink?” April turned her head just enough to acknowledge the man. A drunk, his shirt wrinkled, the scent of whiskey rolling off of him in waves. His attempt at a smirk was sluggish, uncoordinated. She barely glanced at him before giving a rapid flick of her wrist, waving him off with harsh and unimpressed words.
“Ew. As if.” The rejection was meant to be as cruel as it was dismissive. A clear, sharp contrast to the way she had been waiting, the way she had sat here for far longer than she would have liked. The man muttered something under his breath, but he got the message. He shuffled away, and April exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. The second martini had just arrived and she reminded herself: No more. No more pre-drinks. Not tonight. Despite knowing how to hold her liquor, she needed her head clear, cause she wasn’t here to get tipsy, she was here for him.
And then, finally, he arrived.
She knew the moment he stepped inside. It was exactly like she had imagined it would be. That slow, quiet shift in the atmosphere. That familiar hum of energy she could feel in her bones. The moment her eyes found him, her breath hitched and her heart fluttered, just for a fraction of a second. A reaction she tried to hold down as quickly as it came. Calming herself with the fact that no one would be able to see it. It was internal, suppressed beneath layers of careful composure. Placing her martini back on the counter, she slipped down from the barstool as he approached, her movements fluid, deliberate. Her lips curved into the sweetest, most innocent smile, a picture of casual warmth.
“Nik,” she greeted, her voice light, effortless, like she was running into any old friend.
But the look in her eyes? That was something else entirely. A knowing, calculated gleam as she locked onto his gaze, reminding him that here, he couldn’t cause a scene. Something, she would take full advantage of.
Her composed performance didn’t falter as she lifted a hand, fingers grazing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her touch, his jawline as sharp as ever. She kept her eyes on his as she leaned up onto her toes, brushing a kiss against his cheek, just above the jawline. Sweet, possessive, claiming. She pulled the hand back slowly, sliding it across his cheek as she settled back onto her heels.
“I know,” she murmured, answering his rhetorical question with a teasing lilt. Call it nerve, call it audacity; April had plenty. Her expression didn’t waver as she tilted her head, letting a smirk ghost across her lips.
“But you came.” A little jab, a little dig, ignoring the fact that she had wanted him to come. Ignoring the part of her that had been waiting for this moment. April tilted her head toward the bartender.
“What’ll you have? I swear the booze isn’t as cheap as last time,” she said, her voice carrying a playful edge.
“I hear they’ve got a new local supplier now.” They both knew better. Things still lurked beneath the surface. The Black Anchor could slap on all the fresh paint it wanted, but at the end of the day, a wolf in sheep’s clothing was still a wolf. And April? She would never trust a newly polished bar. Or a man who had every reason to hate her.
For a brief moment, her mind wandered back to another time, when Florida had been something else entirely, something simpler. She and Nik had been here once before, long ago. Back then, it had been laughter, sun-kissed skin, and stolen moments in a room that smelled of salt and rum. Things had been so different then. It felt like a lifetime ago and April knew nostalgia was a dangerous thing. She wasn’t in the habit of indulging in ghosts of the past.
A voice slurred in her direction, yanking her back into the present.
“Hey gorgeous… y’look lonely. Wanna- wanna drink?” April turned her head just enough to acknowledge the man. A drunk, his shirt wrinkled, the scent of whiskey rolling off of him in waves. His attempt at a smirk was sluggish, uncoordinated. She barely glanced at him before giving a rapid flick of her wrist, waving him off with harsh and unimpressed words.
“Ew. As if.” The rejection was meant to be as cruel as it was dismissive. A clear, sharp contrast to the way she had been waiting, the way she had sat here for far longer than she would have liked. The man muttered something under his breath, but he got the message. He shuffled away, and April exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. The second martini had just arrived and she reminded herself: No more. No more pre-drinks. Not tonight. Despite knowing how to hold her liquor, she needed her head clear, cause she wasn’t here to get tipsy, she was here for him.
And then, finally, he arrived.
She knew the moment he stepped inside. It was exactly like she had imagined it would be. That slow, quiet shift in the atmosphere. That familiar hum of energy she could feel in her bones. The moment her eyes found him, her breath hitched and her heart fluttered, just for a fraction of a second. A reaction she tried to hold down as quickly as it came. Calming herself with the fact that no one would be able to see it. It was internal, suppressed beneath layers of careful composure. Placing her martini back on the counter, she slipped down from the barstool as he approached, her movements fluid, deliberate. Her lips curved into the sweetest, most innocent smile, a picture of casual warmth.
“Nik,” she greeted, her voice light, effortless, like she was running into any old friend.
But the look in her eyes? That was something else entirely. A knowing, calculated gleam as she locked onto his gaze, reminding him that here, he couldn’t cause a scene. Something, she would take full advantage of.
Her composed performance didn’t falter as she lifted a hand, fingers grazing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her touch, his jawline as sharp as ever. She kept her eyes on his as she leaned up onto her toes, brushing a kiss against his cheek, just above the jawline. Sweet, possessive, claiming. She pulled the hand back slowly, sliding it across his cheek as she settled back onto her heels.
“I know,” she murmured, answering his rhetorical question with a teasing lilt. Call it nerve, call it audacity; April had plenty. Her expression didn’t waver as she tilted her head, letting a smirk ghost across her lips.
“But you came.” A little jab, a little dig, ignoring the fact that she had wanted him to come. Ignoring the part of her that had been waiting for this moment. April tilted her head toward the bartender.
“What’ll you have? I swear the booze isn’t as cheap as last time,” she said, her voice carrying a playful edge.
“I hear they’ve got a new local supplier now.” They both knew better. Things still lurked beneath the surface. The Black Anchor could slap on all the fresh paint it wanted, but at the end of the day, a wolf in sheep’s clothing was still a wolf. And April? She would never trust a newly polished bar. Or a man who had every reason to hate her.
Nik didn’t flinch. Not when her fingers brushed against his jaw, not when her lips skimmed his cheek, and certainly not when her hand lingered a second too long. His pulse quickened, his blood stirring to a boil beneath his skin. Every move was designed to test his patience. Nonetheless, he forced his expression to remain neutral, refusing to give her the satisfaction she sought. Everything about her screamed control, moves meant to disarm, to remind him of what once was and to make him forget what she’d nearly cost him.
When her hand slid back down to her side, Nik leaned in, closing the distance between them so effortlessly, that to any casual observer it might’ve looked intimate—like he was about to kiss her cheek in return. But at the last second, he redirected, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear instead. “Don’t push it,” he warned her, his voice low and lethal, a dangerous edge woven into every syllable. At the same time, his hand seized her wrist—smooth, controlled, and completely unnoticed by anyone watching. His grip tightened, a hard, unyielding squeeze—just enough pressure to make his point clear. A reminder that he wasn’t here to play her games.
He hadn’t forgotten what she’d done. What her betrayal almost cost him. If Vince had ever found out the truth—that Nik had let her walk instead of putting a bullet between her eyes—he’d be buried six feet under by now. Yet here she was, acting like none of that mattered. Like they could simply pick up where they left off.
When she called him out for showing up, his blood pressure spiked. He released her wrist and pulled back, his shoulder deliberately brushing against hers as he moved past her, claiming the empty barstool beside where she had been sitting. He ignored her question, proceeding to order his drink. "Whiskey. Neat." His voice was steady, calm. Deceptively so.
"Let's cut the bullshit, April. You wanna settle an old debt? Fine. Which one?" he asked her while the bartender was busy fixing his drink.
But beneath that, an ember still burned, and it had everything to do with their past. That, despite his better judgment...
She still had a hold on him.
And he fucking hated it.
When her hand slid back down to her side, Nik leaned in, closing the distance between them so effortlessly, that to any casual observer it might’ve looked intimate—like he was about to kiss her cheek in return. But at the last second, he redirected, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear instead. “Don’t push it,” he warned her, his voice low and lethal, a dangerous edge woven into every syllable. At the same time, his hand seized her wrist—smooth, controlled, and completely unnoticed by anyone watching. His grip tightened, a hard, unyielding squeeze—just enough pressure to make his point clear. A reminder that he wasn’t here to play her games.
He hadn’t forgotten what she’d done. What her betrayal almost cost him. If Vince had ever found out the truth—that Nik had let her walk instead of putting a bullet between her eyes—he’d be buried six feet under by now. Yet here she was, acting like none of that mattered. Like they could simply pick up where they left off.
When she called him out for showing up, his blood pressure spiked. He released her wrist and pulled back, his shoulder deliberately brushing against hers as he moved past her, claiming the empty barstool beside where she had been sitting. He ignored her question, proceeding to order his drink. "Whiskey. Neat." His voice was steady, calm. Deceptively so.
"Let's cut the bullshit, April. You wanna settle an old debt? Fine. Which one?" he asked her while the bartender was busy fixing his drink.
But beneath that, an ember still burned, and it had everything to do with their past. That, despite his better judgment...
She still had a hold on him.
And he fucking hated it.
April wasn’t surprised when Nik’s expression remained unreadable. Disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. He had always been like this, stoic, controlled, refusing to give anything away. Still, it annoyed her. She knew he felt it, the unspoken challenge in the way she touched him, but he didn’t crack. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
Then, he leaned in. Logically, she knew he wasn’t going to kiss her in any form, but that didn’t stop her body from reacting if he was doing so. Her pulse spiked, drumming against her ribs, and the background noise of the bar faded into a dull hum. She wasn’t as still as he was, no one could be, but it was only when his breath ghosted against her ear, his lips so close that they nearly brushed against her skin, that she faltered. Her expression softened, her lips parting ever so slightly as a breath escaped, heavier than before.
It lasted only a second. The moment he pulled back, her walls snapped back into place. She hardened her face and steeled her spine. The warning in his tone, the lethal edge laced in those three words; Don’t push it, stayed with her. It settled in her stomach like a slow-burning ember.
And then came the shift. His fingers closed around her wrist before she had the chance to react, a controlled, quiet act of force that no one else in the bar would even notice. There was nothing outwardly violent about it, nothing that would warrant alarm, but she felt the pressure in her bones, a warning that was as clear as his words. Even after he let go, an ache remained, phantom bruises blooming beneath her skin despite knowing he hadn’t actually left a mark. That was the thing about Nik. He was all precision. Even when pissed, even when livid, he knew exactly how much to give, how much to take away.
As she settled back onto her barstool, she took the moment to compose herself. A slow inhale, a shift of her shoulders to release the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. When she finally spoke, her voice was even, though it carried a distinct note of irritation.
“Fine,” she muttered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, but her tone alone made it clear; she thought he was no fun.Crossing her legs again, slipping back into her usual posture of control. With a casual push of her foot, she adjusted the stool so she was facing him fully, eyes locked onto his with cool detachment.
“You’re what’s left of the Moretti family,” she began, her voice smooth, yet the volume low. a Breezy conversation. She let the weight of that settle for a beat before continuing.
“So give me an interest percentage and an account, and I’ll have what I owe, plus those interests, transferred by tomorrow.” Her tone remained level, as if this was just another business transaction. Another problem to be handled. It wasn't, far from it, but nothing in her posture told anyone of that.
Then, as if she had already moved on, she turned slightly, picking up her drink with deliberate ease. The cool rim of the glass met her lips and she took a slow, measured sip, allowing herself the moment to savor it. Before she could stop herself, before she even thought about it, the words slipped out.
“I am really sorry about Vince.” It hadn’t been part of the plan. It wasn’t something she had intended to say, but the moment the words left her lips, she regretted them. Because it hurt more than she wanted to admit, because of what he had meant to Nik.
Then, he leaned in. Logically, she knew he wasn’t going to kiss her in any form, but that didn’t stop her body from reacting if he was doing so. Her pulse spiked, drumming against her ribs, and the background noise of the bar faded into a dull hum. She wasn’t as still as he was, no one could be, but it was only when his breath ghosted against her ear, his lips so close that they nearly brushed against her skin, that she faltered. Her expression softened, her lips parting ever so slightly as a breath escaped, heavier than before.
It lasted only a second. The moment he pulled back, her walls snapped back into place. She hardened her face and steeled her spine. The warning in his tone, the lethal edge laced in those three words; Don’t push it, stayed with her. It settled in her stomach like a slow-burning ember.
And then came the shift. His fingers closed around her wrist before she had the chance to react, a controlled, quiet act of force that no one else in the bar would even notice. There was nothing outwardly violent about it, nothing that would warrant alarm, but she felt the pressure in her bones, a warning that was as clear as his words. Even after he let go, an ache remained, phantom bruises blooming beneath her skin despite knowing he hadn’t actually left a mark. That was the thing about Nik. He was all precision. Even when pissed, even when livid, he knew exactly how much to give, how much to take away.
As she settled back onto her barstool, she took the moment to compose herself. A slow inhale, a shift of her shoulders to release the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. When she finally spoke, her voice was even, though it carried a distinct note of irritation.
“Fine,” she muttered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, but her tone alone made it clear; she thought he was no fun.Crossing her legs again, slipping back into her usual posture of control. With a casual push of her foot, she adjusted the stool so she was facing him fully, eyes locked onto his with cool detachment.
“You’re what’s left of the Moretti family,” she began, her voice smooth, yet the volume low. a Breezy conversation. She let the weight of that settle for a beat before continuing.
“So give me an interest percentage and an account, and I’ll have what I owe, plus those interests, transferred by tomorrow.” Her tone remained level, as if this was just another business transaction. Another problem to be handled. It wasn't, far from it, but nothing in her posture told anyone of that.
Then, as if she had already moved on, she turned slightly, picking up her drink with deliberate ease. The cool rim of the glass met her lips and she took a slow, measured sip, allowing herself the moment to savor it. Before she could stop herself, before she even thought about it, the words slipped out.
“I am really sorry about Vince.” It hadn’t been part of the plan. It wasn’t something she had intended to say, but the moment the words left her lips, she regretted them. Because it hurt more than she wanted to admit, because of what he had meant to Nik.
Nik’s jaw tightened the moment the words left her lips.
“You’re what’s left of the Moretti family.”
The reminder struck a nerve, a subtle shift in the air between them. His expression remained unreadable, but for a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—something darker, heavier. He didn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping briefly to the glass in front of him. His thumb traced the edge, as if grounding himself in the present. The very mention brought it back like a punch to the gut, and no amount of whiskey could drown that out.
Still, he tried.
Nik’s fingers curled around the glass. He didn’t even glance at the amber liquid, didn’t savor it the way he normally would. Instead, he downed it in one smooth, practiced motion. The burn was familiar, a welcome distraction that dulled the ache simmering beneath his skin.
“I’m well aware, thanks." The words were barely above a mutter, but they carried enough weight to make her pause. There was no anger in his tone, no bite. Just a quiet acknowledgment of a truth he couldn’t escape. But Nik didn’t let the moment linger. He shoved it aside, burying it beneath layers of control as he shifted gears.
“Twelve percent.” His voice was steady, but there was a new edge to it—harder now, sharper. He set the glass back on the bar with a soft clink, his gaze shifting back to her. “Cash.”
No negotiation. No wiggle room. Just business.
Then she said it.
“I’m really sorry about Vince.”
The words hit him harder than he expected. Nik’s grip on the glass tightened for a brief second before he released it, his fingers flexing as if trying to shake off the sudden heaviness settling over him. His expression stayed cold, detached, but his eyes gave him away. For a moment, the weight of it all pressed down on him—the loss, the guilt, the memories he’d tried so damn hard to bury.
“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Me too.”
He didn’t know what else to say. What was there to say? Vince was gone, and nothing could change that. Which was why, after a beat of silence, he shifted again. Back to the reason they were sitting here in the first place.
“Why’d you do it, April?”
Nik’s voice was quieter now, but no less intense. His gaze locked onto hers, searching for answers—desperate to understand. He hadn’t asked that night. The night he was ordered to put a bullet between her eyes but didn't have the heart to pull the trigger. How could he when she had it, his heart? And now, sitting here across from her, with Vince’s watch snug around his wrist—the very same heirloom she had attempted to steal, that he had reclaimed the night he pointed a gun point-blank to her head—he needed to know.
For years, he’d told himself it didn’t matter. That she was just another thief who had crossed the wrong family. But deep down, he’d never bought that. April wasn’t careless. She wasn’t reckless. And she wasn’t stupid enough to think she could rob Vince Moretti and get away with it. She had known exactly what she was doing.
“You’re what’s left of the Moretti family.”
The reminder struck a nerve, a subtle shift in the air between them. His expression remained unreadable, but for a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—something darker, heavier. He didn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping briefly to the glass in front of him. His thumb traced the edge, as if grounding himself in the present. The very mention brought it back like a punch to the gut, and no amount of whiskey could drown that out.
Still, he tried.
Nik’s fingers curled around the glass. He didn’t even glance at the amber liquid, didn’t savor it the way he normally would. Instead, he downed it in one smooth, practiced motion. The burn was familiar, a welcome distraction that dulled the ache simmering beneath his skin.
“I’m well aware, thanks." The words were barely above a mutter, but they carried enough weight to make her pause. There was no anger in his tone, no bite. Just a quiet acknowledgment of a truth he couldn’t escape. But Nik didn’t let the moment linger. He shoved it aside, burying it beneath layers of control as he shifted gears.
“Twelve percent.” His voice was steady, but there was a new edge to it—harder now, sharper. He set the glass back on the bar with a soft clink, his gaze shifting back to her. “Cash.”
No negotiation. No wiggle room. Just business.
Then she said it.
“I’m really sorry about Vince.”
The words hit him harder than he expected. Nik’s grip on the glass tightened for a brief second before he released it, his fingers flexing as if trying to shake off the sudden heaviness settling over him. His expression stayed cold, detached, but his eyes gave him away. For a moment, the weight of it all pressed down on him—the loss, the guilt, the memories he’d tried so damn hard to bury.
“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Me too.”
He didn’t know what else to say. What was there to say? Vince was gone, and nothing could change that. Which was why, after a beat of silence, he shifted again. Back to the reason they were sitting here in the first place.
“Why’d you do it, April?”
Nik’s voice was quieter now, but no less intense. His gaze locked onto hers, searching for answers—desperate to understand. He hadn’t asked that night. The night he was ordered to put a bullet between her eyes but didn't have the heart to pull the trigger. How could he when she had it, his heart? And now, sitting here across from her, with Vince’s watch snug around his wrist—the very same heirloom she had attempted to steal, that he had reclaimed the night he pointed a gun point-blank to her head—he needed to know.
For years, he’d told himself it didn’t matter. That she was just another thief who had crossed the wrong family. But deep down, he’d never bought that. April wasn’t careless. She wasn’t reckless. And she wasn’t stupid enough to think she could rob Vince Moretti and get away with it. She had known exactly what she was doing.
"I need a week if you require cash," she said, her tone shifting into something colder, more professional to match his own. Business. That was what this was supposed to be. Just business, but then she had to go and say Vince’s name. The reaction was immediate, though restrained. She watched his knuckles whiten against the empty glass, his fingers flexing like he was physically restraining himself from crushing it between his grip. Of course, it hurt. She knew it would. He had lost more than a mentor, more than a boss. Vince had been a pillar in his life. A force that had shaped him and even after all these years, it was evident that grief still ran its cold fingers down his spine, sinking its claws into every unspoken word he refused to let out.
Her gaze dropped to his wrist, to the watch that sat there like a goddamn brand on his skin. That same watch. That damn watch. Her throat tightened. She tore her eyes away, blinking hard, forcing herself to focus on something else, anything else. Even the burn of gin down her throat as she took another sip of her martini did nothing to clear the sudden lump there. She shifted, turning slightly away from him, resting her elbows against the counter, arching her back just enough to stretch out the tension in her spine.
“Why’d you do it, April?”
It was the way he said it that made her freeze. Not sharp, not accusatory, but something worse. Quiet. Searching. She hadn’t expected that. Her body jolted, her head snapping to face him, her expression betraying her for just a second before she smoothed it over again, but it would be too late. His eyes had already locked onto hers, dark and unreadable, holding her in place like a force she couldn’t break free from. She searched his gaze just as desperately as he searched hers, darting over his features, looking for something, anything, that would tell her he already knew. That she didn’t have to say it.
But he didn’t. Or maybe he did, but he wanted to hear it from her. Her chest tightened.
“Don’t,” she warned, her voice low. A slight shake of her head, a flicker of something raw in her expression before she buried it deep again.
“Don’t pretend to be so clueless.” Because he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. She shouldn’t say it. She knew better. They were here for business, for debts to be settled, not to wade through the wreckage of what they had once been, but for them, the past was inseparable from the present. Every move, every decision, every calculated breath between them was a direct result of what had happened between them. Twirling the stem of her martini glass between two fingers, she watched the last remnants of clear liquid swirl up the edges. A distraction. A pause to keep herself from saying what was already burning at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t hold it in.
“I wanted you to pick me.” The words slipped out softly, her gaze still averted. The quiet confession cracked something in her. Her exhale was sharp, shaky, betraying the sheer weight of those words. A moment of vulnerability, fleeting but real, before she inhaled again, straightened her spine and buried it all beneath layers of control once more. Slowly and deliberately, she turned her body back toward him, letting her eyes roam over his face, watching for the reaction her words might stir.
“I wanted you to see that I was more important than some damn watch from a past that wasn’t even yours.” Her voice was steady, but her gaze flickered downward to the object in question, still strapped around his wrist like a permanent ghost of everything he had chosen over her. She let out a bitter breath. “As if I would have ever kept it.”
It was never about the watch. It never had been. It had been about what it represented. About the choice he had made. Her lips pressed together for a moment before she continued, her voice quieter now.
“I wanted you to chase me… And you did, but not because you chose to follow me… but because he told you to.”
That was the truth. The truth that now sat between them like an open wound. For all her audacity, for all the nerve she had, April had always been at a disadvantage when it came to him. Because when it came down to it, she should be dead. He had the shot. He had the order and he hadn’t taken it. So, now she owed him her life.
Her gaze dropped to his wrist, to the watch that sat there like a goddamn brand on his skin. That same watch. That damn watch. Her throat tightened. She tore her eyes away, blinking hard, forcing herself to focus on something else, anything else. Even the burn of gin down her throat as she took another sip of her martini did nothing to clear the sudden lump there. She shifted, turning slightly away from him, resting her elbows against the counter, arching her back just enough to stretch out the tension in her spine.
“Why’d you do it, April?”
It was the way he said it that made her freeze. Not sharp, not accusatory, but something worse. Quiet. Searching. She hadn’t expected that. Her body jolted, her head snapping to face him, her expression betraying her for just a second before she smoothed it over again, but it would be too late. His eyes had already locked onto hers, dark and unreadable, holding her in place like a force she couldn’t break free from. She searched his gaze just as desperately as he searched hers, darting over his features, looking for something, anything, that would tell her he already knew. That she didn’t have to say it.
But he didn’t. Or maybe he did, but he wanted to hear it from her. Her chest tightened.
“Don’t,” she warned, her voice low. A slight shake of her head, a flicker of something raw in her expression before she buried it deep again.
“Don’t pretend to be so clueless.” Because he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. She shouldn’t say it. She knew better. They were here for business, for debts to be settled, not to wade through the wreckage of what they had once been, but for them, the past was inseparable from the present. Every move, every decision, every calculated breath between them was a direct result of what had happened between them. Twirling the stem of her martini glass between two fingers, she watched the last remnants of clear liquid swirl up the edges. A distraction. A pause to keep herself from saying what was already burning at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t hold it in.
“I wanted you to pick me.” The words slipped out softly, her gaze still averted. The quiet confession cracked something in her. Her exhale was sharp, shaky, betraying the sheer weight of those words. A moment of vulnerability, fleeting but real, before she inhaled again, straightened her spine and buried it all beneath layers of control once more. Slowly and deliberately, she turned her body back toward him, letting her eyes roam over his face, watching for the reaction her words might stir.
“I wanted you to see that I was more important than some damn watch from a past that wasn’t even yours.” Her voice was steady, but her gaze flickered downward to the object in question, still strapped around his wrist like a permanent ghost of everything he had chosen over her. She let out a bitter breath. “As if I would have ever kept it.”
It was never about the watch. It never had been. It had been about what it represented. About the choice he had made. Her lips pressed together for a moment before she continued, her voice quieter now.
“I wanted you to chase me… And you did, but not because you chose to follow me… but because he told you to.”
That was the truth. The truth that now sat between them like an open wound. For all her audacity, for all the nerve she had, April had always been at a disadvantage when it came to him. Because when it came down to it, she should be dead. He had the shot. He had the order and he hadn’t taken it. So, now she owed him her life.
Nik didn’t speak right away. He should’ve known better than to ask. Because now, the answer was clawing through him with a quiet, unrelenting force that triggered a deep ache within his chest. He could feel it now—every beat of his heart like a reminder of what he’d lost. Not just Vince. Not just the family. But her.
I wanted you to pick me.
The revelation cracked something he hadn’t realized was still intact. Because deep down, he'd always believed she’d chosen the job. The score. The betrayal. But what if she hadn't? What if the heist had been a question she’d never dared ask out loud, and he’d answered it the only way he knew how—with a gun that never fired?
He almost laughed, not out of humor, but because it was so damn tragic. Like they’d been playing the same game for years without knowing the rules. And now here they were—older, more damaged, sitting across from each other with too much history between them and too little left to salvage. He leaned back slightly, the bar stool creaking beneath his weight. His hand went instinctively to the watch, fingers brushing the face of it like it might offer him some clarity. It didn’t.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. A minute? A lifetime? The ache in his chest had settled into something quieter, colder. Grief layered over guilt. Regret soaked in silence. His jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tensed like he was holding something back. He looked down, a dry laugh catching in his throat. "You're wrong," The words slipped out unapologetically, raw with the truth behind them.
"I was going to ask him, April. For his blessing." To marry her. As a Made Man, he wasn't allowed to propose to her without Vince's permission, but the intention was there. He had a plan. And if only she had waited just a little while longer she would have been his fiancée, not his target. "But then shit happened and I did the next best thing. There was no future for us after that, April. Not as long as he lived. So I protected you the only way I knew how. I had to let you go and give you every reason not to look back." The only reason he pointed the gun at her in the first place, to deter her from ever returning.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He hadn’t meant to go there. He wasn’t built for this, for reopening old wounds just to make someone understand. It made him feel vulnerable. Weak. Pathetic. He leaned forward, elbows bracing against the counter, hands spread open like he needed to ground himself against the bar’s surface while his foot tapped restlessly against the floor.
I wanted you to pick me.
The revelation cracked something he hadn’t realized was still intact. Because deep down, he'd always believed she’d chosen the job. The score. The betrayal. But what if she hadn't? What if the heist had been a question she’d never dared ask out loud, and he’d answered it the only way he knew how—with a gun that never fired?
He almost laughed, not out of humor, but because it was so damn tragic. Like they’d been playing the same game for years without knowing the rules. And now here they were—older, more damaged, sitting across from each other with too much history between them and too little left to salvage. He leaned back slightly, the bar stool creaking beneath his weight. His hand went instinctively to the watch, fingers brushing the face of it like it might offer him some clarity. It didn’t.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. A minute? A lifetime? The ache in his chest had settled into something quieter, colder. Grief layered over guilt. Regret soaked in silence. His jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tensed like he was holding something back. He looked down, a dry laugh catching in his throat. "You're wrong," The words slipped out unapologetically, raw with the truth behind them.
"I was going to ask him, April. For his blessing." To marry her. As a Made Man, he wasn't allowed to propose to her without Vince's permission, but the intention was there. He had a plan. And if only she had waited just a little while longer she would have been his fiancée, not his target. "But then shit happened and I did the next best thing. There was no future for us after that, April. Not as long as he lived. So I protected you the only way I knew how. I had to let you go and give you every reason not to look back." The only reason he pointed the gun at her in the first place, to deter her from ever returning.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He hadn’t meant to go there. He wasn’t built for this, for reopening old wounds just to make someone understand. It made him feel vulnerable. Weak. Pathetic. He leaned forward, elbows bracing against the counter, hands spread open like he needed to ground himself against the bar’s surface while his foot tapped restlessly against the floor.
A rush of hot anger flared through April the moment she saw it. His fingers, once so familiar and intimate, now strangers to her, fidgeting with the face of that fucking watch. That hideous, gaudy relic. It wasn’t even the object itself that ignited her rage, it was the meaning behind it. That he still wore it. That he still found comfort in it. Here, in a moment like this, when the air between them was raw and laced with everything they’d never said, he was seeking solace in that thing. The urge to rip it off him surged through her. Not to run away with it, but to smash it under her heel or hurl it into the dark waters that lurked outside the bar. Let the ocean swallow it.
Her daydream shattered the moment he spoke, his laugh catching her off guard. If it could be called a laugh. It wasn’t the warm, unguarded sound she used to coax out of him when they were alone. No, this one was dry and bitter. She couldn’t place what it meant until he went on, and when he did, his words hit her like a freight train. Her breath hitched. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just froze. Paralyzed under the weight of what he’d just said. The words twisted in her like a blade. Her chest ached so violently it could’ve been a heart attack, a full collapse from the inside out. Her body forgot how to breathe until sheer instinct forced a shallow inhale past her lips. She turned away sharply, desperate to pull her eyes from his, to find something to anchor herself with and landed instead on an unassuming bottle of gin among the other liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Staring at it to avoid seeing him in that moment.
She could’ve been his fiancée. His wife by now.
Her expression contorted, caught in a frozen grimace of horror as adrenaline surged through her veins. It wasn’t just heartbreak, it was fury. Fury at herself, at him, at the universe. Fury that he even told her right now. That she hadn’t waited while simultaneously waiting too long. They had been something for years and never had he hinted of his intentions. He had never chosen her just because she was her. Always the Morettis. Always Vince. Always that family.
An impulse to run screamed through her. It’s what she did, run. Disappear. Get out before things could hurt any more, but somehow she stayed seated. She grabbed her martini glass and drained what was left in a single, graceless motion. It was barely enough to coat her throat, let alone drown the regret now clawing up from her gut. Without thinking, she reached across the bar and took Nik’s whiskey glass. Her fingers curled around it and then the glass tilted and emptied down her throat in one quick, burning swallow.
April hated whiskey.
“What a fucking tragedy,” she said, her voice dry and low, each syllable soaked in bitterness. Because that was what they were; a fucking tragedy. Two people who’d wanted each other but never had the courage to say it in time. Two cowards, coping in the only ways they knew how. April by running, Nik by burying himself in loyalty. The empty glass was put down as she inhaled slowly, slipping on a coat of stoicism like armor. Her walls went up, brick by brick. Her face hardened. She had already let him see far too much, cracked open parts of herself she hadn’t shown in years. Her emotions were weapons when in the wrong hands and she no longer trusted his to hold them. Even as she locked herself down, she saw the cracks in him, too. The clenched jaw. The brace of his hands on the bar. The restless bounce of his foot against the floor. He was unraveling just like her.
“It doesn’t change a thing,” she said, but it did. It changed everything.
“As you say, there’s no future for us. Because when I look at you, I look down the barrel of a gun in your hand. Pointed at me.” She turned to look at him again to demonstrate, blue eyes locking onto his face, searching for the man she used to know but now seeing only the one who pointed a gun at her once. There it was again, etched into her memory, as vivid as the day it happened.
“And I can never forget that… And I’ll never forgive it.” Her voice dropped low and firm.
Her daydream shattered the moment he spoke, his laugh catching her off guard. If it could be called a laugh. It wasn’t the warm, unguarded sound she used to coax out of him when they were alone. No, this one was dry and bitter. She couldn’t place what it meant until he went on, and when he did, his words hit her like a freight train. Her breath hitched. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just froze. Paralyzed under the weight of what he’d just said. The words twisted in her like a blade. Her chest ached so violently it could’ve been a heart attack, a full collapse from the inside out. Her body forgot how to breathe until sheer instinct forced a shallow inhale past her lips. She turned away sharply, desperate to pull her eyes from his, to find something to anchor herself with and landed instead on an unassuming bottle of gin among the other liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Staring at it to avoid seeing him in that moment.
She could’ve been his fiancée. His wife by now.
Her expression contorted, caught in a frozen grimace of horror as adrenaline surged through her veins. It wasn’t just heartbreak, it was fury. Fury at herself, at him, at the universe. Fury that he even told her right now. That she hadn’t waited while simultaneously waiting too long. They had been something for years and never had he hinted of his intentions. He had never chosen her just because she was her. Always the Morettis. Always Vince. Always that family.
An impulse to run screamed through her. It’s what she did, run. Disappear. Get out before things could hurt any more, but somehow she stayed seated. She grabbed her martini glass and drained what was left in a single, graceless motion. It was barely enough to coat her throat, let alone drown the regret now clawing up from her gut. Without thinking, she reached across the bar and took Nik’s whiskey glass. Her fingers curled around it and then the glass tilted and emptied down her throat in one quick, burning swallow.
April hated whiskey.
“What a fucking tragedy,” she said, her voice dry and low, each syllable soaked in bitterness. Because that was what they were; a fucking tragedy. Two people who’d wanted each other but never had the courage to say it in time. Two cowards, coping in the only ways they knew how. April by running, Nik by burying himself in loyalty. The empty glass was put down as she inhaled slowly, slipping on a coat of stoicism like armor. Her walls went up, brick by brick. Her face hardened. She had already let him see far too much, cracked open parts of herself she hadn’t shown in years. Her emotions were weapons when in the wrong hands and she no longer trusted his to hold them. Even as she locked herself down, she saw the cracks in him, too. The clenched jaw. The brace of his hands on the bar. The restless bounce of his foot against the floor. He was unraveling just like her.
“It doesn’t change a thing,” she said, but it did. It changed everything.
“As you say, there’s no future for us. Because when I look at you, I look down the barrel of a gun in your hand. Pointed at me.” She turned to look at him again to demonstrate, blue eyes locking onto his face, searching for the man she used to know but now seeing only the one who pointed a gun at her once. There it was again, etched into her memory, as vivid as the day it happened.
“And I can never forget that… And I’ll never forgive it.” Her voice dropped low and firm.
Nik watched in silence as April grabbed his glass and drained it in one swallow. No hesitation. No flinch. Just a clean, punishing gulp of something she hated. He didn’t say anything, but watching her hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs. She hated whiskey. Always had. Her reaction wasn’t about the taste. It was about swallowing down something bitter just to survive the moment. And that spoke louder than anything she could’ve screamed.
He didn’t move. Just stared at the empty glass like it held every regret and unspoken truth between them. The echo of her words still rang in his ears: "And I can never forget that…And I’ll never forgive it." They sliced through him with unforgiving precision, because he knew that she meant it.
Nik's jaw tightened. His throat worked to swallow past the sting that rose there, dry and sharp like sandpaper. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t expect it. But he had never let go of the dream. They could have conquered the world together. And now, watching her armor lock into place—those painfully familiar, yet guarded eyes staring clear through him the same way his did through hers that night—he realized that hope was little more than a ghost. Just something he kept on life support in the dark, too afraid to let it die.
"That was the point," he spoke finally, voice low, rough around the edges and heavy with something between guilt and regret. He had known the risk, what it would cost him, but he had been willing to accept the consequences. "And I'd do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe," he added, reinforcing the conviction.
The admission cost him something. It showed in the way his shoulders slightly slumped, like saying it out loud stripped him of whatever armor he had left. His gaze didn’t leave hers now, even though he could see the steel in her eyes, the finality of her pain. His hand curled into a fist against the countertop, not out of anger or frustration, but to subdue the instinct to reach out and touch her cheek, as if doing so could magically make it all go away. It wouldn't, of course. He knew this. Not when he had been the cause.
Yet, despite his better judgment and effort to hold back, Nik found himself raising his hand between them to brush a few loose strands of hair from April's face, tucking them behind her ear. "Guess I did a hell of a job, huh?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he cursed himself for it.
He didn’t move. Just stared at the empty glass like it held every regret and unspoken truth between them. The echo of her words still rang in his ears: "And I can never forget that…And I’ll never forgive it." They sliced through him with unforgiving precision, because he knew that she meant it.
Nik's jaw tightened. His throat worked to swallow past the sting that rose there, dry and sharp like sandpaper. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t expect it. But he had never let go of the dream. They could have conquered the world together. And now, watching her armor lock into place—those painfully familiar, yet guarded eyes staring clear through him the same way his did through hers that night—he realized that hope was little more than a ghost. Just something he kept on life support in the dark, too afraid to let it die.
"That was the point," he spoke finally, voice low, rough around the edges and heavy with something between guilt and regret. He had known the risk, what it would cost him, but he had been willing to accept the consequences. "And I'd do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe," he added, reinforcing the conviction.
The admission cost him something. It showed in the way his shoulders slightly slumped, like saying it out loud stripped him of whatever armor he had left. His gaze didn’t leave hers now, even though he could see the steel in her eyes, the finality of her pain. His hand curled into a fist against the countertop, not out of anger or frustration, but to subdue the instinct to reach out and touch her cheek, as if doing so could magically make it all go away. It wouldn't, of course. He knew this. Not when he had been the cause.
Yet, despite his better judgment and effort to hold back, Nik found himself raising his hand between them to brush a few loose strands of hair from April's face, tucking them behind her ear. "Guess I did a hell of a job, huh?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he cursed himself for it.
Saying he'd do it all over again just to protect her; there was something noble in it, something infuriating too. It hurt in a way only he could hurt her, but underneath that ache was reluctant understanding. Of course he would do it again. Because that’s who he was. Because, despite everything, she understood him. Always had. That connection between them, no matter how fractured, hadn’t broken entirely. Still, no matter how much her chest ached to say it, she didn’t. She wouldn’t offer him that relief of knowing that she could understand. Not all of it, but that part was loud and clear.
Her eyes hadn’t left him since she turned back to look, so she saw his hand curled into a fist against the countertop. The movement didn't escape her. It was a controlled tension, the kind that built up just before something snapped or before something softened. She just didn’t know which way this would tip. He lifted his hand and she saw it coming. Reflexes sharp as ever, quick enough to intercept if she’d wanted. He knew that, but she let it happen. Let the hand come closer, hovering in that fragile space where everything between them seemed to still.
His fingers touched her hair first, sweeping back the strands that had fallen loose around her face. They grazed her ear, cooling. Her body betrayed her then, leaning her head toward the contact, seeking more of it like a magnet drawn toward a familiar current. Not to flinch away. Not to pull back. A quiet breath escaped her lips as her hand came up to meet his, fingers wrapping gently around the back of his hand, holding it there. To ensure his palm laid against her cheek. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it, to let herself feel it. His skin was cold, but perhaps it was because her cheeks were burning. The alcohol had an effect, but she could not deny it was also brought on by him just being here, seeing him again. The sadness burned behind in her gaze now, no longer masked. Because this was what they could’ve had. What they were, once. It had been flawed and bruised, but they had been together.
“You did,” she whispered, voice barely audible, more breath than sound. A confirmation to his question.
“We both did.” The smallest shard of blame placed at her own feet, an acknowledgment. A truth she couldn’t deny. There was guilt there too, not just for what she took but for how it ended, for her impatience, for so many things.
The moment lingered too long. It was too fragile, too bare for the both of them. They weren’t that kind of people, they had walls and covers and lies to keep the vulnerability at bay. Her fingers tightened slightly, not to keep his hand there now but to encourage its removal. Not because she didn’t want it, but because she couldn’t afford to want it. Vulnerability like this could be lethal between them. Was lethal. Instead of pushing it away completely, she guided his hand down with care, letting it rest on the counter between them. Her own hand lingered, still cradling his for a second longer.
A long inhale steadied her and only then did her gaze finally pull from his face, her spine shifting as she scooted back slightly on the barstool. She hadn’t realized she’d leaned so close. There was a noticeable distance now between them, even if just by inches. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, fighting to hold her composure. And then, quietly, slowly, her hand slipped back from his. The armor slid into place once more, locking tight around her ribs and throat.
Her eyes hadn’t left him since she turned back to look, so she saw his hand curled into a fist against the countertop. The movement didn't escape her. It was a controlled tension, the kind that built up just before something snapped or before something softened. She just didn’t know which way this would tip. He lifted his hand and she saw it coming. Reflexes sharp as ever, quick enough to intercept if she’d wanted. He knew that, but she let it happen. Let the hand come closer, hovering in that fragile space where everything between them seemed to still.
His fingers touched her hair first, sweeping back the strands that had fallen loose around her face. They grazed her ear, cooling. Her body betrayed her then, leaning her head toward the contact, seeking more of it like a magnet drawn toward a familiar current. Not to flinch away. Not to pull back. A quiet breath escaped her lips as her hand came up to meet his, fingers wrapping gently around the back of his hand, holding it there. To ensure his palm laid against her cheek. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it, to let herself feel it. His skin was cold, but perhaps it was because her cheeks were burning. The alcohol had an effect, but she could not deny it was also brought on by him just being here, seeing him again. The sadness burned behind in her gaze now, no longer masked. Because this was what they could’ve had. What they were, once. It had been flawed and bruised, but they had been together.
“You did,” she whispered, voice barely audible, more breath than sound. A confirmation to his question.
“We both did.” The smallest shard of blame placed at her own feet, an acknowledgment. A truth she couldn’t deny. There was guilt there too, not just for what she took but for how it ended, for her impatience, for so many things.
The moment lingered too long. It was too fragile, too bare for the both of them. They weren’t that kind of people, they had walls and covers and lies to keep the vulnerability at bay. Her fingers tightened slightly, not to keep his hand there now but to encourage its removal. Not because she didn’t want it, but because she couldn’t afford to want it. Vulnerability like this could be lethal between them. Was lethal. Instead of pushing it away completely, she guided his hand down with care, letting it rest on the counter between them. Her own hand lingered, still cradling his for a second longer.
A long inhale steadied her and only then did her gaze finally pull from his face, her spine shifting as she scooted back slightly on the barstool. She hadn’t realized she’d leaned so close. There was a noticeable distance now between them, even if just by inches. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, fighting to hold her composure. And then, quietly, slowly, her hand slipped back from his. The armor slid into place once more, locking tight around her ribs and throat.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Nik remained still, his hand cradled against the soft heat of her cheek, her fingers wrapped around his like she was holding on to something too fragile to keep and too precious to let go. The softening of his expression let her know the feeling was mutual. His pulse thrummed beneath her touch, and it wasn’t adrenaline or whiskey—it was her. Always her.
April didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. The way her head leaned into his palm, the way her breath hitched soft and slow, it spoke volumes in a language only they knew—one they'd buried beneath silence and distance and years of pretending like it never happened. Like they never happened.
And then, gently, she guided his hand down. Not abrupt, not cold—just final. Like closing a chapter with trembling fingers. Like laying a rose on a grave.
Nik let it happen. Didn’t fight her. But his hand lingered where she placed it on the counter, open and still warm from her skin, as if afraid moving would erase the shape of her face from his memory. His chest tightened. There was something unspeakably cruel about the kindness in her retreat. Not a shove, not a slap, not even anger. Just the kind of softness that came when someone remembered how to love you—but knew they shouldn’t anymore.
His eyes stayed on her even as she looked away, tracking every inch of distance she created between them like it physically hurt to let her go. And it did. Not in a way that made him want to lash out or chase after her, but in that slow-burning ache that coils in the bones—regret with teeth.
He watched her withdraw back into herself like he’d seen her do a thousand times before, slipping into that emotional armor that kept the world out and kept her breathing. But he saw it. That flicker of vulnerability before the door slammed shut. The part of her that still felt something. Still wanted something, even if she wouldn’t name it. Why couldn't he tell her he wanted it, too?
Nik swallowed hard, eyes dragging from her figure to their hands—his resting, hers slipping away. A quiet surrender. No promises, no second chances. Just the echo of what almost was. He flexed his fingers once, as if trying to hold on to the warmth a little longer before it faded completely.
Maybe it was too late. Maybe the damage had been done. But in that brief flicker of contact, something buried deep in him stirred—a soft, impossible hope that refused to die no matter how many times it was beaten down. It wasn’t gone. Neither was she.
But maybe love, in their world, wasn’t enough.
Still, for a heartbeat longer, he let himself look at her like it was.
Nik didn't say anything when he finally looked away from her. He simply pulled out a few crisp twenties from his wallet and slid them into the countertop with practiced ease. Enough to cover both drinks twice over. The bartender wouldn’t complain. He didn’t even glance toward the guy—just pushed the folded bills forward and stood, the legs of his stool scraping softly against the floor. There was a reluctance in the movement, like his body wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of leaving, but his mind knew better. Knew when to walk away, even if every instinct told him to stay.
He looked at April one last time. Not with longing or regret this time, but something quieter. Something that sat beneath the surface like the undertow of a current that never stopped pulling. He held her gaze longer than he meant to, eyes softer now, less guarded. No heat. No bitterness. Just the ache of unfinished things. Of almosts and maybes and what-ifs.
“Keep the money,” he said.
His voice was even, calm—almost indifferent. But the words hung in the air heavier than they should’ve. Because it wasn’t about the debt. It never had been. And maybe she knew that. Maybe he did too, it just took him until now to realize it. That was just the excuse, the armor they both wore to walk back into each other's lives, protecting them from the lethality of their past.
But Nik's armor was cracked, and it showed in the way his eyes sought April out as he readied himself to leave. “One night,” he requested, offering her his hand. "That's all I want." A smile, albeit a small one, crossed his features. He didn't want her money, he realized. He wanted her.
Nik remained still, his hand cradled against the soft heat of her cheek, her fingers wrapped around his like she was holding on to something too fragile to keep and too precious to let go. The softening of his expression let her know the feeling was mutual. His pulse thrummed beneath her touch, and it wasn’t adrenaline or whiskey—it was her. Always her.
April didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. The way her head leaned into his palm, the way her breath hitched soft and slow, it spoke volumes in a language only they knew—one they'd buried beneath silence and distance and years of pretending like it never happened. Like they never happened.
And then, gently, she guided his hand down. Not abrupt, not cold—just final. Like closing a chapter with trembling fingers. Like laying a rose on a grave.
Nik let it happen. Didn’t fight her. But his hand lingered where she placed it on the counter, open and still warm from her skin, as if afraid moving would erase the shape of her face from his memory. His chest tightened. There was something unspeakably cruel about the kindness in her retreat. Not a shove, not a slap, not even anger. Just the kind of softness that came when someone remembered how to love you—but knew they shouldn’t anymore.
His eyes stayed on her even as she looked away, tracking every inch of distance she created between them like it physically hurt to let her go. And it did. Not in a way that made him want to lash out or chase after her, but in that slow-burning ache that coils in the bones—regret with teeth.
He watched her withdraw back into herself like he’d seen her do a thousand times before, slipping into that emotional armor that kept the world out and kept her breathing. But he saw it. That flicker of vulnerability before the door slammed shut. The part of her that still felt something. Still wanted something, even if she wouldn’t name it. Why couldn't he tell her he wanted it, too?
Nik swallowed hard, eyes dragging from her figure to their hands—his resting, hers slipping away. A quiet surrender. No promises, no second chances. Just the echo of what almost was. He flexed his fingers once, as if trying to hold on to the warmth a little longer before it faded completely.
Maybe it was too late. Maybe the damage had been done. But in that brief flicker of contact, something buried deep in him stirred—a soft, impossible hope that refused to die no matter how many times it was beaten down. It wasn’t gone. Neither was she.
But maybe love, in their world, wasn’t enough.
Still, for a heartbeat longer, he let himself look at her like it was.
Nik didn't say anything when he finally looked away from her. He simply pulled out a few crisp twenties from his wallet and slid them into the countertop with practiced ease. Enough to cover both drinks twice over. The bartender wouldn’t complain. He didn’t even glance toward the guy—just pushed the folded bills forward and stood, the legs of his stool scraping softly against the floor. There was a reluctance in the movement, like his body wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of leaving, but his mind knew better. Knew when to walk away, even if every instinct told him to stay.
He looked at April one last time. Not with longing or regret this time, but something quieter. Something that sat beneath the surface like the undertow of a current that never stopped pulling. He held her gaze longer than he meant to, eyes softer now, less guarded. No heat. No bitterness. Just the ache of unfinished things. Of almosts and maybes and what-ifs.
“Keep the money,” he said.
His voice was even, calm—almost indifferent. But the words hung in the air heavier than they should’ve. Because it wasn’t about the debt. It never had been. And maybe she knew that. Maybe he did too, it just took him until now to realize it. That was just the excuse, the armor they both wore to walk back into each other's lives, protecting them from the lethality of their past.
But Nik's armor was cracked, and it showed in the way his eyes sought April out as he readied himself to leave. “One night,” he requested, offering her his hand. "That's all I want." A smile, albeit a small one, crossed his features. He didn't want her money, he realized. He wanted her.
April’s gaze dropped to the cash he’d slid across the bar, crisp bills stacked neatly, to pay their bill. Money, it was just a reminder of the debt, of the many, many bundles of cash they had moved together and exchanged between each other's hands. Then he stood up and was about to leave. For forever?
The words he spoke now weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. Just quiet enough to reach her. Keep the money, he told her, but immediately it ached in her chest. Like she hadn’t crossed lines and a moral threshold just to pay it back. The words dug deeper than intended, pressing right into that old wound she kept stitched shut. A part of her wanted to laugh, because wasn’t it just so him? Throwing the debt aside like it had never really mattered. Like he was saving her again by offering to forget the money she took. But she couldn’t accept that. Her jaw tightened as her hand came to rest lightly on the bar, to steady herself as she slid down from the barstool.
“I want to pay it back,” she said, without hesitation. “Cash. Twelve percent interest. I’ll have it in a week.”
She didn’t want to explain or elaborate. He should just accept it. Burn it for all she cared, as long as it was out of her hands. It wasn’t about numbers, or balances, or even honor. It was about control. If she didn’t pay, the debt would linger like a shadow, a quiet leash between them, one she’d always feel around her throat. More than that, it would be a reminder. That she owed him her life. That no matter how far she ran, he let her go and she didn’t want that hanging over her anymore.
Then he looked at her. Just looked. The kind of look she used to feel on her skin long after he walked out of a room. April froze at his words. It was so simple. So soft. Too soft, from a man like him. Her gaze lowered, not to avoid him but to focus on the hand he now held out to her. Steady. Infuriatingly familiar, yet foreign, like it had no right to still feel like home. She stared at it. He offered it like they hadn’t just reopened old wounds. Like one night could erase the silence that had been between them for years now.
But this, this moment, it wasn’t right.
“This isn’t the time to decide anything,” she murmured, her voice tight, almost breaking around the edges. “We’re bleeding from truth. You know we are.” So many confessions had come out in the past few minutes and it had left them both exposed, they knew each other well enough to know that. He was making a hasty offer.
“We don’t make decisions like this.” She said and felt a need to look away from him, yet her eyes stayed on him, searching. The idea of one night with him, one final night as a last goodbye sounded… heavenly, but if she had to force herself to think past that, beyond the moment and onto the consequences… It again, felt wrong. Still, the want was there. The longing. And the fear.
“I can’t do just one night, Nik.” The words came out low, pulled from somewhere buried deep. Her throat ached with them and her gaze remind steadfast on his. It took restraint and effort to press out the words between reluctant lips. It felt impossible to say more out loud, to admit anymore in front of him. She looked at his hand again, so tempting, but she didn’t take it. Cause he was offering just one night and she wanted more.
Would it even work? The question rose unbidden, rummaging inside her like a pulsing wound she couldn’t press. Everything between them had been born in shadow; half-truths, illegality, lying, sharp edges that always cut too deep. Nik didn’t belong to anyone but himself and neither did she. Not really. Not in any way that lasted. The idea of them working felt impossible. Yet… things change. They changed and that fact led to a glimmer of hope that was impossible for her to extinguish in the moment.
“Don’t ask me for something you don’t mean,” she whispered. “Because I’ll take it. And it’ll ruin me.” Letting her gaze linger a moment, a second before dragging it away from him. She felt the weight of decision pressing in from all sides and that felt like her que to leave. If he said anything regarding it now, she would deem it too rushed and not trust it, no matter the outcome, so it was better to remove herself from the situation, like she always did. But she took her time this time and didn’t start running immediately. The designer bag was pulled onto her shoulder to insinuate the need to leave.
The words he spoke now weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. Just quiet enough to reach her. Keep the money, he told her, but immediately it ached in her chest. Like she hadn’t crossed lines and a moral threshold just to pay it back. The words dug deeper than intended, pressing right into that old wound she kept stitched shut. A part of her wanted to laugh, because wasn’t it just so him? Throwing the debt aside like it had never really mattered. Like he was saving her again by offering to forget the money she took. But she couldn’t accept that. Her jaw tightened as her hand came to rest lightly on the bar, to steady herself as she slid down from the barstool.
“I want to pay it back,” she said, without hesitation. “Cash. Twelve percent interest. I’ll have it in a week.”
She didn’t want to explain or elaborate. He should just accept it. Burn it for all she cared, as long as it was out of her hands. It wasn’t about numbers, or balances, or even honor. It was about control. If she didn’t pay, the debt would linger like a shadow, a quiet leash between them, one she’d always feel around her throat. More than that, it would be a reminder. That she owed him her life. That no matter how far she ran, he let her go and she didn’t want that hanging over her anymore.
Then he looked at her. Just looked. The kind of look she used to feel on her skin long after he walked out of a room. April froze at his words. It was so simple. So soft. Too soft, from a man like him. Her gaze lowered, not to avoid him but to focus on the hand he now held out to her. Steady. Infuriatingly familiar, yet foreign, like it had no right to still feel like home. She stared at it. He offered it like they hadn’t just reopened old wounds. Like one night could erase the silence that had been between them for years now.
But this, this moment, it wasn’t right.
“This isn’t the time to decide anything,” she murmured, her voice tight, almost breaking around the edges. “We’re bleeding from truth. You know we are.” So many confessions had come out in the past few minutes and it had left them both exposed, they knew each other well enough to know that. He was making a hasty offer.
“We don’t make decisions like this.” She said and felt a need to look away from him, yet her eyes stayed on him, searching. The idea of one night with him, one final night as a last goodbye sounded… heavenly, but if she had to force herself to think past that, beyond the moment and onto the consequences… It again, felt wrong. Still, the want was there. The longing. And the fear.
“I can’t do just one night, Nik.” The words came out low, pulled from somewhere buried deep. Her throat ached with them and her gaze remind steadfast on his. It took restraint and effort to press out the words between reluctant lips. It felt impossible to say more out loud, to admit anymore in front of him. She looked at his hand again, so tempting, but she didn’t take it. Cause he was offering just one night and she wanted more.
Would it even work? The question rose unbidden, rummaging inside her like a pulsing wound she couldn’t press. Everything between them had been born in shadow; half-truths, illegality, lying, sharp edges that always cut too deep. Nik didn’t belong to anyone but himself and neither did she. Not really. Not in any way that lasted. The idea of them working felt impossible. Yet… things change. They changed and that fact led to a glimmer of hope that was impossible for her to extinguish in the moment.
“Don’t ask me for something you don’t mean,” she whispered. “Because I’ll take it. And it’ll ruin me.” Letting her gaze linger a moment, a second before dragging it away from him. She felt the weight of decision pressing in from all sides and that felt like her que to leave. If he said anything regarding it now, she would deem it too rushed and not trust it, no matter the outcome, so it was better to remove herself from the situation, like she always did. But she took her time this time and didn’t start running immediately. The designer bag was pulled onto her shoulder to insinuate the need to leave.
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