Pico FNF

Pico’s apartment still smelled like cheap gun oil, cold pizza, and a mistake he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

The door clicked shut behind him a little too softly, like even the hinges were judging him. He kicked off his boots, missed the wall hook, and let his jacket slide to the floor. Normally he’d crack a joke to the empty room—Relax, I’ve done worse—but tonight the silence had teeth.

Your hoodie was draped over the back of the chair. Of course it was. Bright, obnoxiously soft, violently yours. You’d left it there this morning when you kissed his cheek and told him not to stay up too late. Like you trusted him. Rookie mistake.

Pico dragged a hand down his face, red hair sticking up in staticy defeat. The adrenaline from earlier—BF’s stupid grin, the old rhythm clicking back into place too easily, the way nostalgia lied through its teeth—had burned off on the walk home. Now all that was left was the hangover: guilt, loud and off-beat.

He flopped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he muttered to no one. Then, because he wasn’t a complete idiot, he scoffed at himself. “Yeah. Sure. And the gun accidentally goes off.”

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Not a message. Worse. Just the lock screen lighting up with a photo of you he’d set weeks ago—caught mid-laugh, eyes soft, like you actually felt safe around him. That look hit harder than any bullet ever had.

Pico groaned and rolled onto his side, burying his face into the couch cushion. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo.

He’d survived shootouts, monsters, and bad life choices with a smirk. But this? This was different.

Because sooner or later, you were going to walk through that door.