NICO DI ANGELO

The first lie is always the easiest.

“I’ll be at the campfire,” you’d said earlier, casual, effortless, like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t already planned exactly where you’d actually be. Like you didn’t already know you wouldn’t go anywhere near the flames, the noise, the laughter.

They had smiled, trusting. Of course they had. That’s the problem.

They always trust you.

Now you’re here instead.

Pressed against the outer wall of the Hermes cabin, the wood cool against your back as the evening air settles in. The sounds of camp drift faintly in the distance—laughter, clashing swords, someone shouting over a game—but it all feels far away, like it belongs to a different world.

A world you’ve stepped out of.

A world you’re avoiding.

Because right here, right now, none of that matters.

Nico stands close—too close, if you were being honest, if honesty still had any place in this situation. His presence is quiet but overwhelming, like a shadow that somehow feels warmer than sunlight. You can feel the tension in him, the way he always seems to hover between pulling away and staying exactly where he is.

Unlike you, he hesitates.

You don’t anymore.

“You said you wouldn’t take long,” he murmurs, voice low, almost blending into the night.

You shrug slightly, though the movement is restricted by how close he is. “I didn’t.”

“That was an hour ago.”

You smile faintly, unapologetic. “Time moves differently when you’re waiting.”

“That’s not how time works.”

“Feels like it.”

He exhales through his nose, something between amusement and disbelief, but it fades quickly. With Nico, it always does. There’s always something heavier underneath, something unspoken.

Something real.

That’s what makes this dangerous.

You tilt your head, studying him. “You could’ve left.”

“I thought about it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

The word settles between you, simple but loaded.

Of course he didn’t.

Just like you didn’t go to the campfire.

Just like you didn’t stay where you were supposed to be.

Just like you keep showing up here, again and again, like you’re stuck in a pattern you have no intention of breaking.

Because it’s easier this way.

Easier than thinking about what you’re doing.

Easier than thinking about who you’re lying to.

A sudden burst of laughter echoes from somewhere near the cabins, closer this time. Your heart stutters for a second, instinctively glancing toward the sound.

Too close.

Always too close.

You step in without thinking, closing whatever small space remained between you and Nico, like proximity alone can shield you from being seen. From being caught.

From being known.

He notices, of course he does. His gaze sharpens slightly. “You’re worried.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s no real bite to it. “I just don’t feel like explaining myself tonight.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

You don’t respond to that.

Because “explaining yourself” would require telling the truth.

And the truth—

The truth would ruin everything.

Instead, you deflect, like always. “You think too much.”

“And you don’t think enough.”

“Someone has to balance it out.”

“That’s not balance,” he says quietly. “That’s avoidance.”

The word lands harder than it should.

You don’t like how easily he sees through you. You don’t like how close he gets—not just physically, but like this, where it actually matters.

It makes things complicated.

And this is supposed to be simple.

Isn’t it?

You glance away, toward the cabin again.

Toward the place you’re supposed to be.

Right on the other side of that wall is a version of your life that still makes sense. A version where you’re doing the right thing. Where you’re not sneaking around, not making excuses, not constantly checking over your shoulder.

A version where they still look at you the same way.

You swallow.

“They don’t know,” you say, almost to yourself.

Nico goes still.

“What?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing.

It’s everything.

They don’t know you’re here.

They don’t know about the late-night excuses, the sudden disappearances, the way you’ve started drifting just slightly out of sync with them.

They don’t know that every “I’ll be right back” is a lie.

They don’t know that while they’re waiting, trusting, believing—

You’re here.

With someone else.

A door creaks somewhere nearby.

You freeze.

Nico’s head snaps toward the sound, body tensing instantly. The moment shifts, the air going sharp and electric.

Footsteps.

Close.

Too close.

Your heart slams against your ribs, panic flaring fast and hot. Without thinking, you grab Nico’s sleeve, pulling him further into the shadow cast by the cabin. The two of you press back, hidden just enough that anyone walking by might not notice—

Might.

The footsteps pass.

Voices, indistinct, drifting by with them.

And then—

Nothing.

Silence again.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, your grip loosening.

“That,” Nico says quietly, “is why this is a bad idea.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, though there’s no real humour in it. “Yeah.”

“And you’re still here.”

You meet his gaze again.

There’s something in it—something questioning, something uncertain. Like he’s waiting for you to finally come to your senses.

To step back.

To stop.

You don’t.

Instead, you shake your head slightly, a faint smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “So are you.”

That’s the problem.

Neither of you leaves.

Neither of you stops.

No matter how many close calls, no matter how many moments like this where everything almost falls apart—you keep coming back.

You glance at the cabin one more time.

At the life you’re quietly unraveling.

“They’re going to find out,” Nico says.

“Not if we’re careful.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It is if no one tells them.”

He studies you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “And what? We just keep doing this?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Because the answer should be no.

It should be obvious.

It should be easy to say.

But instead—

You shrug.

“Maybe.”

The word hangs there, reckless and uncertain and far too honest.

Somewhere in the distance, the campfire crackles louder, voices rising together in a song you can’t quite make out. It sounds warm. Normal. Safe.

Nothing like this.

Nothing like you.

Nico exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “This is going to end badly.”

“Probably.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

And for a moment, everything else fades again—the lies, the risk, the person waiting just on the other side of that wall.

All of it.

“I don’t care,” you admit quietly.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because you should.

You really should.

Another sound echoes nearby, and this time, you don’t pull away.

You don’t step back.

You don’t run.

Instead, you stay exactly where you are, right on the edge of being caught, right on the edge of everything falling apart.

Because they don’t know.

Not yet.

And as long as they don’t—

You’ll keep choosing this.

Even when a part of you knows—

They have to find out eventually.