Crossing Nicholas

Ava's pov

The smell of coffee hit before I even opened my eyes—rich, dark, unfairly inviting.

I rolled out of bed wearing the only thing I’d grabbed—his shirt. White, crisp, draped over a chair last night like it didn’t mean anything.

But it still smelled like him.

Expensive cologne. Leather. Quiet control.

In the hallway mirror, I caught my reflection: bare legs, wild hair, the shirt just brushing the tops of my thighs. I paused. Smirked.

Let him look.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen, humming to myself, pretending I didn’t feel like I’d just stepped onto a minefield.

He was at the stove. Rolled-up sleeves, loosened tie, the man who built empires now flipping eggs like he didn’t almost kiss me into ruin.

"Morning," I said, breezy. Lying.

He turned.

The spatula paused mid-air. His gaze dropped—once—to the shirt clinging to my skin. Then back to my face.

His expression shut down like a system overload.

"You should put on some pants," he said, voice flat.

I leaned against the counter, casual. "It’s your shirt. I thought it might be... nostalgic."

His jaw ticked. “Ava.”

"It’s not like I walked in naked."

Silence. Not amused—dangerous.

But that silence only made me bold. I picked up a slice of toast and took a bite, never looking away from him.

"I used to wear your clothes all the time," I said. "Remember? That old college hoodie I stole for sleepovers?"

"You were twelve," he said, voice low. “And flat-chested.”

My smile cracked.

The air thickened. Something sharp bloomed between us—heat, horror, hunger. I couldn’t name it, but I felt it, alive and watching.

He set the spatula down slowly.

> “Don’t wear my clothes unless you want to be stripped out of them.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a truth he hated himself for saying.

The toast slipped from my hand. Hit the counter. Crumbs everywhere.

I stared at him. He stared back. The air between us was a lit fuse.

What am I doing?

This is Nicholas. Uncle Nick. The man who tucked me in. Taught me to ride a bike. Held my mother’s hand while she died.

He turned away suddenly, muttering something I couldn’t catch. The plate he’d made—perfect, untouched—sat steaming on the counter. He didn’t even glance at it.

Then he was gone.

---

I stayed in the guesthouse all day, curled on the couch, replaying every second of the morning like a fever dream. Shame. Thrill. Confusion. It all mixed in my chest like a storm that wouldn’t settle.

Around 5, my phone buzzed.

Nicholas: Dinner. 7. Wear something appropriate.

I stared at the message.

Appropriate?

Was that a line being drawn? Or crossed?

---

At 7 sharp, I entered the dining room in a soft sundress—modest, clean. The safest version of myself I could find.

He was already seated. Alone. At the head of the long, glass table. Wine glass in hand. Suit jacket gone. Collar open. Everything about him screamed restraint.

"You’re late," he said without looking up.

"Two minutes."

"I expect punctuality."

I sat across from him. The space between us—four empty place settings—might as well have been miles.

We ate in silence.

Forks clinked. Wine breathed. The morning’s heat hadn’t faded—it had just grown still. Like something under ice, waiting to crack.

I couldn’t take it.

"Why did you kiss me?" I asked quietly.

His fork froze mid-air. Then set down, slow and precise.

"I didn’t plan to."

"But you did."

He looked at me, finally. "Do you regret it?"

"Do you?"

He didn’t answer.

I pushed back from the table, appetite gone. “This is insane.”

He didn’t stop me when I left.

---

Back in the guesthouse, I slammed the door, pressed my back to it, breathing hard. I didn’t know what I wanted more—to bury this, or go back and force him to finish what he started.

Then—a knock.

Soft. Measured.

I didn’t answer.

> “Ava,” his voice came through the wood, low and ragged. “Open the door.”

My hand hovered near the knob.

> “We can’t keep doing this,” he said. “But I need you to understand something.”

I opened the door.

He didn’t come in.

Just stood there. Hands in his pockets. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Eyes darker than I’d ever seen.

"There’s a reason I left this morning," he said.

"Because you were angry?"

He shook his head. "Because if I stayed... I would’ve forgotten who I’m supposed to be."

My chest tightened.

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a folded photo. Wordless, he handed it to me.

It was old. Worn. A snapshot I’d never seen.

My mother—laughing. Nicholas beside her, arm around her back. And between them: a baby.

Me.

I turned it over.

Scrawled on the back, in her handwriting:

> Family, no matter the form.

I looked up.

“She wrote that the day she asked me to raise you,” he said. “It was her idea. Not a request. A command. She knew what she was doing.”

My voice trembled. “You’ve raised me since I was six.”

He nodded. “And now you’re twenty-two. And I can’t look at you without seeing two things at once: the girl I promised to protect, and the woman I’m trying not to want.”

I couldn’t speak.

He stepped back, into the hallway. Not leaving. Not coming in.

> “This isn’t guilt, Ava. Guilt would’ve been easy.”

> “This is the only thing keeping me from pulling you closer.”

Then he turned and walked into the dark.

And for the first time since I came back, I didn’t feel like the girl who wore his shirt for attention.

I felt like the woman who might burn for it.

---