When you first met Nicholas, he was a dream come true. You were a production assistant on a small set where he was filming, and he'd swept you off your feet with his boyish charm and captivating presence. Nicholas Chavez wasn't just another pretty face; he was intelligent, thoughtful, and made you feel like the only person in the world.
"Are you free for dinner tonight?" he'd asked one late evening after a grueling day on set.
Your cheeks had burned as you nodded. "Sure. I'd love to."
That first date turned into many more, and before you knew it, he was yours, and you were his. You moved in together after six months, a whirlwind decision that made your friends raise their eyebrows. But you didn't care. Nicholas was everything.
The first few months were bliss. He made breakfast in the mornings, left notes for you to find during the day, and always texted to check in.
"I just want to make sure you're okay," he'd say, brushing your hair out of your face with that signature soft smile.
It felt like love—pure, devoted, all-consuming love.
But over time, Nicholas's attentiveness began to shift into something else.
It started subtly.
"Why do you have to work so late?" he'd ask one night as you packed your bag for another long shift.
"It's just part of the job," you replied with a shrug.
He frowned, crossing his arms. "Can't they get someone else to cover? It feels like you're never home anymore."
"I'll be back before you know it," you assured him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
But his response stayed with you.
Soon, Nicholas began showing up at your workplace unannounced. At first, it was sweet—a coffee here, a surprise lunch there. Your coworkers gushed about how lucky you were to have such a caring boyfriend.
But then it became more frequent.
"Nick," you whispered one day when he appeared in the middle of a team meeting. "You can't keep coming here like this."
"I just wanted to see you," he said, his voice soft but his eyes sharp. "Is that a problem?"
You sighed, shaking your head. "Of course not. Just... let me get back to work, okay?"
He smiled, but the tension lingered long after he left.
The turning point came during a girls' night out.
You'd told Nicholas about it weeks in advance, excited for a rare chance to unwind with your friends.
"That's fine," he'd said, his tone clipped. "Just don't stay out too late."
You brushed off his comment, chalking it up to his usual protectiveness. But when the night rolled around, things took a darker turn.
Around 9 p.m., your phone started buzzing.
Nicholas: When are you coming home?
Nicholas: It's late. Don't drink too much.
Nicholas: Call me.
Your stomach twisted as you stared at the string of messages. You'd only had two drinks, and the night was still young. But his words gnawed at you, making it hard to enjoy yourself.
When you finally got home—barely an hour later than usual—Nicholas was waiting in the living room.
"Did you have fun?" he asked, his voice tight.
