The nickname.

"So what's your name?" 

He asks me easily, slouching back a little in his seat. He's pretty tall so his legs come rather far under the table. Our knees touch and he makes no move to change that, but I do. Jutting my knees away I accidentally spread them apart and his knees end up in between my legs. I inwardly cringe at this unfortunate position and try to casually move both of my legs to one side of his. Even though I manage to do so, I have to brush my knee against both of his in order to get by and of course. Perfect. 

Oh, God. All while I'm having my little under-the-table episode, his question is just hanging in the air. He probably thinks I'm mentally incapacitated or hard of hearing. Or stupid. 

"U-um, m-my names, Nikola," I mutter out, stuttering like an imbecile. 

His face goes from slightly concerned to slightly pleased and for some reason I don't find the change in expression all that comforting. He's probably already got me pegged as a waste of time and will try to cop out of coming over here with some lame excuse like, 

"My butt is cold. I'm gonna go back to my old seat, it was warmer." 


He doesn't say anything at first and picks up his song, stares at the screen while swiping his fingers across it various times. Then with a final tap I hear the song change to a slower, acoustic song I've never heard before. He smiles again, this one just barely gracing his lips, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

"You got a nickname?" He asks then and I try to think fast. 

No one ever gave me a nickname. My few friends I have really like my name and tell me they prefer just saying it out completely. Sometimes when I was younger my parents would call me Kola- like the soda, just as a joke though. Of course sometimes I get the idiots who call me Nicole, but that's not really a nick-name so much as an ignoramus with a lazy tongue. It would be kinda cool though if Braydon had his own nickname for me.

"Most people call me, Nikola," is my honest answer before I add also, "but call me whatever you like." I hope my smile is kind and welcoming instead of toothy and abrasive. 

He thinks a moment, looking up and to the left with his mouth scrunched to the side a little. His fingers winds up tapping on his chiseled chin and after about fifteen seconds, he looks at me with a smirk. 

"I'll call you, Nikkie. N-I-K-K-I-E. Nikkie," he smiles and that makes it okay. 

The End

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