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Summary: After too many emotions, after one night alone together, the pair of you cannot keep lying to yourselves. [WC] [AO3]
Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, a smidge of fluff, confessions, a drunk hook up is mentioned
Request: saiyanprincessswanie asked: Sorry I have another request. Nick Fowler x Reader. Enemies to lovers. With prompts “You Belong to Me and No One Else.” & Drunken Hook Up Leads to Feelings. I got both prompts off your Prompt Lists.
The first time you meet Nick, you try to kill him. In your defense—he tries first. It’s fast. Brutal. Efficient. A fight that leaves your shoulder screaming and his lip split open, blood trailing down his chin like something feral. You remember the way he smiled through it—like he liked it. Like you were interesting. That was your first mistake.
The second time you meet him, you’re both on the same side. Technically. No one says it out loud. No one trusts it. You definitely don’t trust him—not with the way his eyes linger too long, like he’s cataloging every weakness, every breath, every shift of your stance.
“You’re slower than last time,” he murmurs one night, leaning against the wall like he owns it.
You don’t look at him. “You’re still talking. That’s unfortunate.”
That crooked smirk again. “Careful. I might start thinking you missed me.”
You scoff. But you don’t tell him he’s wrong.
It happens after a mission. Of course it does. Adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Music too loud. Drinks stronger than they should be. The kind of night where everything feels slightly tilted—like gravity isn’t holding things in place the way it should.
You don’t even remember who started it.
Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours at the bar. Maybe it was the look he gave you, darker than usual, something unspoken simmering underneath. Or maybe you were just tired of pretending you didn’t want to know what it would feel like.
“Bad idea,” you mutter, even as you pull him into a dark hallway.
Nick laughs softly, breath warm against your ear. “You say that like it’s going to stop you.”
It doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t.
The next morning is quiet. Too quiet. You wake up before him, tangled in sheets that smell like smoke and him—clean but sharp, something dangerous underneath. Your head throbs, but not as much as the realization settling in your chest.
You slept with Nick Fowler. Your enemy. Your… something.
“Thinking too loud again.” His voice is rough with sleep.
You freeze.
He’s watching you—already awake, already aware. Of course he is.
You pull away first. “Don’t read into it.”
His gaze sharpens. “Wasn’t planning to.”
A beat. Then, softer—too soft for someone like him, “But I’m not pretending it didn’t happen either.”
You try to go back to normal. You really do. But something’s shifted. He stands closer now. Touches you more—small things, barely noticeable to anyone else. A hand at your back. Fingers brushing yours when passing something. Always brief. Always deliberate.
And the way he looks at you? That’s the worst part. Because it’s not just amusement anymore. It’s possession.
The breaking point comes faster than you expect. Another mission. Another crowded room. Another man getting too close to you—too friendly, too familiar. You can handle it. You are handling it.
Until Nick steps in. His hand wraps around your wrist—firm, unyielding—as he pulls you back. “Back off,” he says to the guy, voice low and dangerous.
The man scoffs. “Relax. Didn’t know she was taken.”
Nick’s grip tightens.
“You heard him,” you cut in sharply. “Walk away.”
The guy leaves.
But Nick doesn’t let go.
You yank your wrist free, anger flaring. “What the hell was that?”
His jaw ticks. “He was all over you.”
“I had it handled.”
“I know.” His voice drops, quieter now—but more intense. “Didn’t like it.”
You stare at him. “You don’t get a say.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Dark. Possessive. Unsteady.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “That’s the problem.”
You should walk away. You should shut it down, draw the line, remind him—and yourself—that this was a mistake. Instead, you step closer. “Say it,” you challenge.
His gaze locks onto yours. “Say what?”
“Whatever that was.”
For a second, he hesitates. And that’s new. Nick Fowler doesn’t hesitate. Then his hand comes up—cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, not gentle but not rough either. Controlled. Like he’s holding himself back from something worse.
“You want honesty?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
His eyes darken. “You belong to me,” he says. Your breath catches. “And I don’t share.”
The words should make you angry. They do make you angry. But underneath that? Something else coils tight in your chest. Dangerous. “You don’t own me,” you snap, even as you don’t pull away.
His grip tightens just slightly. “No,” he agrees. A pause. Then, quieter—almost reluctant: “But I don’t think I’d let you go either.”
And that’s the real problem. Because you’re starting to realize— You don’t want him to.