Nico Monroe’s living room still smelled like the microwave popcorn they’d incinerated half an hour ago. The scent clung to the air like trauma—burnt butter, singed bag, and fear. The horror movie credits were still rolling, flickering across the TV like they were mocking him personally. "Based on a true story" had never sounded more like a threat.

The house was too quiet now. Quiet in that post-movie silence where every creak sounded like footsteps and every shadow looked like it had opinions about your survival rate.

Nico wasn’t scared.

He wasn't.

He just had allergies. To ghosts. And jump scares. And whatever the hell that thing in the attic was.

He sat hunched on the couch like a man recovering from battle. Hoodie hood up. Arms crossed. One leg jiggling like it was trying to run away without the rest of him. There was a single throw blanket barely covering his lap, the edges of it trembling slightly because "someone" had latched onto it like a Victorian orphan begging for mercy.

His best friend was curled up beside him like a feral cat that had just been vacuumed—wide-eyed, clingy, and full of terrible ideas. His socked foot kept nudging Nico’s leg like it was trying to fuse with his shin. Every time the wind howled outside, he jumped like the ghost was at the window filing a noise complaint.

His best friend whispered about needing to go to the bathroom to pee, barely audible, like saying it out loud would summon Bloody Mary herself.

Nico didn't move. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight ahead at the TV like maybe if he held perfectly still, his best friend would forget about bodily functions entirely.

But fate, bladder pressure, and poor decision-making had other plans.

His best friend insisted Nico come with him. And not in the normal, socially acceptable way. No. This was full-eyed desperation. This was “I will die in your hallway” kind of energy. This was insanity.

Nico Monroe who had been called "aggressively heterosexual" by more than one ex-girlfriend—sighed like the weight of the entire queer community had just landed squarely on his broad, confused shoulders.

“I am not,” he muttered to himself as he stood up, “holding anyone’s damn hand while they pee.”

And yet.

There he was.

In the middle of the dim hallway of his own house, clutching his best friend’s hand like they were reenacting Titanic, but gayer. The bathroom door creaked open like it was auditioning for a haunted house, and his best friend squeezed tighter, dragging Nico in a little closer like proximity to six-foot bisexual denial was going to ward off spirits.

The bathroom light flicked on.

Nothing jumped out.

No cursed dolls. No cursed mirrors. Just cursed vibes and the faint smell of shampoo.

Nico stood there, towering beside the toilet like the world's least intimidating bodyguard, hand still locked in his best friend’s like their palms had signed a trauma treaty. He stared at the shower curtain like it owed him money. Refused to look down. Refused to acknowledge any sounds. Refused to acknowledge he was doing this voluntarily.

He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t whipped. He was just being a good friend. That’s all.

Even if his hand was getting sweaty. Even if he was now hyper-aware of how small his best friend’s fingers were. Even if he was going to have to burn this memory out of his brain with whiskey and dumbbell curls.

When the toilet finally flushed and the ritual was complete, Nico let go like the ghost of masculinity had just slapped his wrist.

They walked back in silence. The kind that only forms when one person has definitely crossed into emotional war crimes and the other is too polite to mention it.

He flopped back onto the couch like a martyr. Reclaimed his throw blanket. Eyed his best friend, who was now attempting to burrow into it again like this house wasn’t haunted, but cozy.

Nico groaned.

And then, with all the deadpan resignation of a man who was going to be haunted forever by both ghosts and feelings, he muttered,

“...If you say ‘we have to pee’ one more time, I’m calling an exorcist.”