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Nessa- Two Years Later

T wo years ago, if you’d told me I’d willingly share an office with Bradley Mitchell—the same little smart-mouthed felon who once ghosted a lube sponsor and accidentally sexted our company group chat—I would’ve laughed so hard I’d have needed a medic and a panty change.

And yet… here we were.

Our shared office at Boys On Film wasn’t big.

Hell, “cozy” was the Realtor word for it.

“Cramped” was the honest one, but we’d made it work.

His side had a desk, a tiny fake ficus, and color-coded folders labeled things like “Talent Contracts” and “Prospective Partnerships.” My side had a mini fridge full of Chardonnay, a unicorn stress ball I’d stolen from Dimitri, and a framed photo of me flipping the bird at Moira. Balance.

Bradley was hunched over his laptop, chewing on a pen cap while he drafted a contract for one of our newest signings, Chase Granger.

Stage name: Chase Magnum. Yeah, that Chase Magnum.

Blond, bouncy, built like a lifeguard in a porn parody of Baywatch, and somehow convinced that lube counted as sunscreen. We loved him.

“Does this sound exploitative or just standard?” Bradley asked without looking up, fingers flying over the keys.

I didn’t even read it. “Baby, it’s porn. Both.”

He chuckled under his breath, that sweet little Bradley laugh that used to sound like a nervous tic and now sounded like confidence with just a splash of anxiety.

He’d gotten good at this. Like really good.

Kid could draft a contract that protected the talent and the company, negotiate a rate hike, and still remember to Venmo Moira for her oat milk.

The studio respected him. The performers loved him.

And me? I’d grown... weirdly fond of the little fucker.

Like, if anyone ever messed with him, I’d rip out their jugular with my acrylics and ask questions later.

Especially now that Nico wasn’t around the studio anymore.

Not since he’d gone full time with his comedy career.

No more sneaking off to “talk in private” with Bradley during lunch breaks.

No more lingering eye contact in the editing bay that made me feel like I needed to go scrub my brain with a Brillo pad.

Now Bradley worked. Hard. Focused. Grounded. Happy.

Not that I’d ever say that out loud. I had a reputation to protect.

“You’re leavin’ early, right?” I asked, spinning in my chair until it hit the file cabinet with a satisfying thunk. “Nico’s show’s tonight. Tickets gonna be at the door?”

Bradley looked up, lips parting to answer—but before he could say a word, we both heard it:

A polite, deliberate throat being cleared.

We turned in unison.

There, in the doorway, stood Nico Steele. Smiling like a devil in love. Hair a little messy, tight black T-shirt doing God’s work, and in his hand? A thick stack of glossy tickets.

“I’ve got them right here,” he said, walking in like he owned the place. “Figured I’d deliver them myself.”

Bradley stood so fast he knocked his chair into the wall behind him.

Nico held up the envelope like it was a bouquet of roses. “And also…” he added, voice turning soft, “I was wondering if you had time later to go check out a condo with me. It’s uptown. Two bedrooms. Enormous windows. The listing said, and I quote, ‘ideal for couples.’”

Bradley blinked at him. Not shocked, exactly—just that kind of dumbstruck joy you only see in rom-coms right before the last kiss. Then he smiled, all shy and crooked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m at a good stopping place.”

He slipped Chase Magnum’s contract into a folder, clicked his briefcase shut (yes, he carried a damn briefcase now like he was someone’s gay attorney), and walked around the desk.

Nico took the folder out of his hand and set it down on the corner of the desk.

Then they left together.

I stared at the door long after it closed, still hearing the sound of their voices echoing down the hall. I shook my head and grinned.

It was disgusting how cute they were.

Just then, Moira strolled in like a storm in heels, sunglasses on indoors, wearing lip liner like she was going to war.

“Tell me Bradley and Nico are breaking up,” she sighed, collapsing into the guest chair with a huff. “And that Bradley has suddenly become straight with a thing for thirty-something women with perfect hair.”

I raised an eyebrow. “No, girl, and try forty-something. You jealous?”

“Not of the condo,” she said, pulling her sunglasses off with a dramatic flourish. “But if I could find a man who was half as loyal, hot, or emotionally fluent as Bradley Mitchell, I’d legally change my name to Mrs. Bottomswell and never look back.”

I cackled. “You? Monogamous? Girl, please. You’d chew through a diamond ring like it was a candy peach ring from a gumball dispenser.”

She gasped. “I have depth!”

“You have kinks, Moira. That’s different.”

We laughed. Loud and messy and way too long. But it felt good.

It felt like home.

Looking around the office, I felt something I rarely admitted to myself: gratitude. For Nico, for Bradley, for the idiots and beauties and chaotic queers that made up this bizarre empire we’d built. We were family now. Loud, dysfunctional, occasionally sticky—but family all the same.

I tilted back in my chair, smiling at the ceiling.

“You know,” I said, glancing at Moira, “sometimes I forget how lucky we are.”

“To have each other?” She asked, blinking sweetly.

“No, bitch. To work in porn. Where the outfits are better and nobody gives a shit if you scream in public.”

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