Micah
The unsettled feeling hits me before Nick even opens the door.
Usually, his apartment just smells like home. Clean laundry, that sandalwood soap he uses, maybe whatever he's cooking for dinner. Tonight, though, it's like someone has cranked up the volume on everything. I pause on his doorstep, groceries weighing down my arms, trying to shake off the weird swooping in my stomach.
"I brought the stuff for carbonara," I announce as Nick swings the door open, his smile making my chest flutter the way it always does. "And that fancy parmesan you like that costs more than what I make in an hour."
Nick's laugh rumbles through me, and I have to look away. "The sacrifices you make for me." He takes the bag, his fingers brushing mine, and my breath stutters.
Okay, what the hell?
I've been Nick Keller's best friend forever. I've gotten pretty good at ignoring the way my heart kicks up when he grins at me, at pretending the heat that climbs my neck when he casually slings an arm around my shoulders is totally normal friend stuff. But this—this jolt from a simple touch—is new.
"You okay?" Nick's brow furrows as he studies my face. "You look flushed."
"Long shift," I lie, shrugging off my jacket too quickly. "Had a four-year-old with a broken arm who thought the best way to process his trauma was to kick me in the shin. Repeatedly."
Nick winces. "Jesus, kids are brutal."
"I love my job," I protest automatically, following him to the kitchen. It's true, I do love being a pediatric nurse. Kids are honest in their fear and pain in ways adults never are. They don't hide behind politeness or pretend they're fine when they're not.
Unlike me, apparently.
Nick's already unpacking the groceries, moving with the easy confidence that seems hardwired into his alpha DNA. At 6'2" with broad shoulders and those ridiculous blue eyes, he's the walking definition of alpha male, but without the posturing bullshit I see in so many others. Nick's strength has always felt like shelter, not intimidation.
Which is probably why I've been half in love with him since we were seventeen.
"Wine?" he asks, already reaching for glasses because he knows my answer.
"God, yes."
He pours us each a glass of the red we both like, and I take a grateful sip, hoping it might cool whatever's making me feel so overheated. When Nick turns to the stove, I find myself tracking the movement of his shoulders under his t-shirt, the way his jeans sit on his hips.
Stop it.
"So," he says, "how was your week? Besides being assaulted by tiny humans?"
I lean against the counter, trying to focus. "The usual chaos. You know how it is right before the weekend. Every parent suddenly notices their kid's had a fever for three days and decides Friday afternoon is the perfect time to bring them in."
Nick chuckles, and the sound does something warm and dangerous to my insides. "Sounds like my students' parents discovering their kid's failing right before report cards."
We fall into our comfortable rhythm, preparing dinner together in the kitchen that's become as familiar to me as my own apartment. Nick's place isn't large, but the kitchen has always been my favorite part; warm lighting, enough counter space for us both, and a window that catches the evening light. I measure pasta while Nick dices pancetta, moving around each other with the practiced choreography of people who know each other's habits by heart.
Except tonight, every time he passes behind me, my skin prickles with awareness. His scent seems stronger too: warm and masculine and making my mouth water in a way that has nothing to do with the carbonara.
"You sure you're feeling okay?" Nick asks again, pausing with the knife in his hand. "You keep zoning out."
"Just tired." I force what I hope looks like a normal smile. "Nothing a good meal and bad movie won't fix."
He studies me for a moment longer, probably seeing more than I want him to, before nodding. "Pasta cures all ills. It's science."
"Is that what you teach your P.E. students? The healing power of pasta?"
"Among other vital life lessons," he says solemnly, returning to his chopping.
I try to focus on whisking eggs and cheese together, but my hands are shaky. My body temperature feels like it's all over the place. One minute I'm perfectly fine, the next I'm fighting the urge to open a window despite the November chill outside. Maybe I'm coming down with something. Great timing, immune system.
By the time we sit down to eat, I've convinced myself it's just a combination of exhaustion and the glass of wine on an empty stomach. The pasta is perfect, creamy and rich without being heavy, and Nick looks so pleased with himself that I can't help but smile.