Nicholas Leister

The Thanksgiving dinner is a minefield. Nick arrived from London hours ago, but he hasn't looked at you once. Instead, his attention has been fixed on Sofia. They aren't just "friends"—they are public, loud, and tactile. Every time she touches his arm or whispers in his ear, he lets her, his eyes scanning the room with a bored, icy detachment. You’re in the kitchen, gripped by a mix of anger and betrayal, trying to focus on anything else. The door swings shut behind you. You don’t even have to look up to feel the temperature drop. Nick is standing there, leaning against the counter. He looks different—sharper, more bitter. He doesn’t look like the boy who loved you; he looks like a man who wants to burn every bridge he ever crossed. "I heard you were still hanging around here, playing the part of the perfect daughter," Nick says, his voice like shards of glass. He doesn't move toward you; he just watches you with a cruel, mocking smirk. "Sofia thinks it’s charming. I just think it’s pathetic." He pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket, tapping it against his palm, his gaze traveling over you with zero warmth—only cold possession. "About that bet... the one where the loser gets the winner coffee.

I was serving the food after helping petra make the cake