Time Itself Wouldn’t Move

Time Itself Wouldn’t Move
Nico

The kitchen smelled like garlic and olive oil—comfort, the kind of scent that promised a meal worth waiting for even if the cook was winging it.

Nico leaned against the counter, flicking a wooden spoon through the sauce like he had some ancestral right to it. Truth was, he’d learned to cook out of necessity. Dom burned water, Gino treated food like fuel, and Enzo… well, Enzo didn’t cook. The man could order a Michelin-star feast without blinking, but chopping onions? Forget it.

So here Nico was, sleeves rolled up, apron hanging crooked, pretending the sizzling pan meant he had everything under control.

The truth? He was nervous.

Not the kind of nervous that made his hands shake—he’d been in enough shootouts for that. This was quieter. Sharper. The awareness that he was about to sit across from Lola, just the two of them, no Enzo, no crew, no buffer.

The door creaked open.

“Smells good in here,” she called, voice warm, teasing.

Nico turned, and there she was—barefoot, hair pulled into a messy braid over one shoulder, hoodie swallowing her frame. No armor, no sparkly distractions. Just Lola. And fuck if that didn’t hit harder than anything.

“You’re early,” he said, trying for casual.

She hopped onto the counter, swinging her legs like a kid who’d gotten away with something. “You said dinner, I heard dinner. Didn’t say fashionably late was required.”

Nico smirked. “That’s a first. Thought you were genetically incapable of being on time.”

“Ha-ha.” She stole a piece of bread from the counter, tearing it in half. “What are we having? And don’t say burnt pasta, because I can smell that’s not true.”

He wagged the spoon at her. “It’s not burnt. It’s rustic.”

She grinned around her bite of bread. “Rustic, huh? Fancy word for edible chaos?”

“You’d know.”

Her laugh bubbled out, easy and real, and Nico felt the knot in his chest loosen.

They ate at the small table by the window, city lights spilling in like a backdrop meant for this exact moment. A cracked candle flickered between them—Lola had insisted on lighting it, saying it made dinner taste more “official.”

She twirled her pasta, pointing her fork at him. “Okay, confession. I didn’t think you could cook. I thought you were more of a… protein-shake-and-chicken-breast kind of guy.”

He chuckled. “What, like a gym bro?”

“Exactly. The kind that meal preps in plastic containers and yells about macros.”

“Do I look like a guy who yells about macros?”

She tilted her head, pretending to study him. “Hmm. No. But you do look like the kind of guy who owns a cast-iron skillet and won’t shut up about it.”

He pointed his fork right back at her. “Guilty. Cast iron’s a lifestyle.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, tucking another bite in. “Of course it is.”

Conversation flowed. She told him about her worst tattoo clients, reenacting their requests with hand gestures that nearly knocked over her glass. He told her about a fight he’d gotten into as a kid for stealing cannoli from a bakery. She teased him for being predictable. He teased her for being impossible. Every laugh, every quick glance—it stitched something in place inside him that had been loose for years.

He realized halfway through the meal that he wasn’t really eating—just watching her, soaking in the way she talked with her hands, the curve of her mouth, the way the city lights caught in her eyes.

“You’re staring,” she said suddenly, fork frozen midair.

Nico blinked, caught. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Nothing. Just… you’re easy to talk to.”

Her smile softened. “That’s what happens when you have things in common.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm, like something settling into place.

After dinner, they drifted to the couch with mismatched mugs of tea. She pulled her legs up, tucking them under her, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The city hummed outside, but in here it felt like the world had shrunk to just them.

“So,” she said, blowing on her tea. “Vacation.”

Nico raised a brow. “Yeah?”

She grinned. “We’re going shopping. Bathing suits. You’re coming with me.”

He nearly choked on his drink. “Why the hell would I come with you?”

“Because Enzo won’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I need a second opinion. Someone to tell me if the bikini screams ‘island goddess’ or ‘please arrest me.’”

He groaned. “Lola…”

“You love it,” she sing-songed.

He gave her a flat look, but his chest betrayed him with the truth. “Yeah. I do.”

Her grin faltered, softened. She set her mug down and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

Nico froze for a second, then let himself exhale. He rested his cheek against the crown of her head, her braid tickling his jaw. She smelled like soap and sugar, like home.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured.

“Me?” She lifted her head, mock-offended.

“Yeah. You walk in, wreck all my defenses, and then act like it’s nothing.”

She laughed softly, eyes shining. “Guess I’m good at demolition.”

“Guess you are.”

Time blurred. They talked for hours—her curled into the corner of the couch, him half-turned toward her, their knees brushing when the conversation got animated.

She told him about the book she was reading, how she hated the main character but loved the world anyway, because sometimes stories weren’t about liking the people in them—they were about what those people revealed in you. He’d never thought about it like that. He found himself asking questions, not because he cared about the book, but because he cared about the way her eyes lit when she explained it.

Music came next, and that was when she really unraveled. She leaned forward, hands carving shapes in the air, hoodie sleeve sliding back to her elbow. “It’s not just sound,” she insisted, eyes bright. “Every instrument hits somewhere different in your body. Like—the cello? God. It has this way of tearing you apart only to remake you again. Almost like an ego death, but less drama, more… raw feeling. The strings sit in this perfect range that drag everything out of you. All the deepest shit you thought you buried? Gone. No option. It just rips it up and makes you feel it.”

Nico just stared. He’d never thought about music like that—never thought about anything like that. He liked what he liked, didn’t pick it apart. But now? Now he couldn’t stop imagining the cello the way she described it: something brutal and beautiful, a blade that cut so you could remember you still bled.

And it hit him—he loved the cello. Not because he’d ever cared about it before, but because she made it sound like the most important thing in the world.

He realized he was smiling, not at the words, but at her—animated, alive, making him see the world in ways he’d never considered. It felt like a trick, like she’d slipped something into his veins and now he was seeing everything sharper, brighter.

The hours folded in on themselves. She ranted about shows he had to watch; he swore half her taste was garbage, which made her throw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed and tossed it back. She stuck her tongue out, grinning like she’d just won something.

At some point, she slid sideways until her head was in his lap, scrolling through her phone, occasionally showing him something she deemed funny. All the while he absentmindedly played with the end of her braid. She hummed something under her breath—maybe a song she’d mentioned earlier, maybe just a thread of thought turned sound—and Nico thought he could live forever in this moment.

When she yawned, Nico tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over her. She curled into his side, asleep almost instantly, her breath warm against him, the ghost of her words still echoing in his chest.

Nico sat there, staring at the ceiling, heart tight.

This is it. This is the piece I didn’t know I was missing. Her laughter in my kitchen. Her head on my shoulder. The way she makes all the ugly shit feel less loud.

He didn’t need to say it again. She already knew. But still, he whispered it into the quiet, too soft for her to stir.

“I love you, Lola.”

Her breathing stayed even, steady, safe.

And Nico sat there in the half-dark, holding her like maybe if he stayed still enough, time itself wouldn’t move.