Page 34 of About to Fall

Nicky could deliver a flawless PR answer in his sleep. But hearing the weariness underneath, the frustration he couldn't quite swallow, the honesty that slipped out before he could catch it—that was what brought him to life. That was the version of him I wanted to hear again.

I finished the ice cream and wheeled the whole cart out into the hallway so it wouldn't stink up the room overnight. When I came back, Nicky had a bookmark in one hand, easing it carefully between the pages.

“You can keep the light on if you want,” I said, dropping back onto my bed. “I can sleep through anything.”

“I'm done for the night.” He set the book on the nightstand, perfectly squared to the edge. Neurotic much?

The light clicked off.

17. Nico

“Good night, Nicky.”

“Good night, Adrian.”

I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come but replaying our earlier conversation instead. I kept circling back to the moment I'd complained about the attention, the endorsements, the pressure—and how it must have sounded. Spoiled. Ungrateful. Poor me, the generational talent, so burdened by everyone's admiration. Adrian had asked if I was okay and I'd shut him down, but not before I'd already said too much. Revealed too much.

After a few minutes, I heard him set his phone down. The dim glow of the city lights through the curtains was the only illumination left and my body was tired enough that sleep came up fast, soft at the edges. I was starting to slip under when I heard it.

So quiet I could have imagined it.

An exhale. Strained at the edges. Bitten off just before it could become something more. Then the faintest shift of sheets.

I went very still. Ears straining against my will.

It wasn't my first time sharing a room with another skater. Most of my teenage years had been exactly this—two beds an arm's length apart, a roommate, shared early mornings. You learned to sleep through things. Especially during puberty. You developed a kind of practised obliviousness that worked like an unspoken deal: I don't notice, you don't acknowledge, we go to breakfast tomorrow like nothing happened.

That was how it was supposed to work.

Another exhale. Followed by something dangerously close to a whimper. Louder this time—or maybe I was just dialled in now, every nerve in my body suddenly wide awake. Maybe he thought I was asleep. Maybe he'd decided it didn't matter either way.

So aggressively Adrian that something hot flickered at the base of my spine.

This guy. This absolute—he couldn't even do this in the shower like a normal person. Like a considerate human being who shared spaces and occasionally thought about what those other people might prefer. No. Adrian Zhao did exactly what he wanted exactly when he wanted and apparently that extended to—

Another sound. Unmistakably pleasure. The sheets rustling in earnest now.

I was angry. His behaviour was outrageous. Inconsiderate. I held onto that for approximately ten seconds before my body betrayed me completely.

Because the thing about lying in the dark listening to Adrian touch himself in the bed next to me was that my brain, unhelpfully, supplied an image of Adrian in only a towel. Skin glistening. Water tracking down his throat. The serpent tattoo curling around his hipbone. The slide of terry cloth over the jut of his thigh. I could almost imagine his expression right now. The lip rings caught between his teeth. Those dark eyes watching me like I was something interesting to play with.

My face was burning. The back of my neck was burning. There was an inferno building low in my stomach and I hated it—hated that my body was responding, hated that I couldn't control this, hated that he was doing this and I was letting it affect me.

I was still facing the wall. One hand tucked under the pillow. The other resting over my waist.

For another 30 seconds I was very committed to staying that way.

Then—quietly, carefully, barely breathing—I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of my pajama pants.

I hated myself for it. That made it worse. The shame coiling tight with the arousal until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

Two beds. An arm's length apart.

His whimpers were growing more desperate. Like he really couldn't help how good it felt. The breathlessness unmistakable now, the rhythm of the sheets shifting in a way that left nothing to interpretation.

I pressed my face harder into the pillow. My hand moved and I told myself it had nothing to do with the sounds coming from the other bed. Nothing to do with the way his breathing had roughened.

I was not thinking about the way he looked shirtless in the gym. Pull-up after pull-up, sweat glistening on his back muscles. The way his ring clad fingers had felt digging into my cramping muscle.