Nico

The flashbulbs were a physical assault. They popped and sizzled in the frigid Montreal night, a wall of blinding white light that turned the snow-dusted sidewalk into a strobe-lit nightmare. Nico kept his head down, the collar of his wool coat turned up against the biting wind and they shouted questions that sliced through the air like shards of glass.

“Nico! Over here! Who are you wearing?”

“Is it true about the split with your agency?”

“Nico! Look this way! Smile!”

He didn’t smile. He offered a tight, professional nod to the security guard holding the sleek glass door of his building open, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. The familiar, expensive scent of the lobby, like polished marble, faint lavender cleaner, and the woody note of the concierge’s cologne. It did nothing to soothe him. It was just another curated space. The elevator ride to the penthouse was a silent, claustrophobic capsule where he avoided his own reflection in the one mirror, the adrenaline from the gauntlet outside still humming unpleasantly under his skin. He felt stretched thin, a commodity on display, the pleasant mask he wore for the cameras feeling like a layer of drying glue on his face.

He fumbled with the keys, the polished metal slipping in his cold-numbed fingers before the lock finally gave with a soft click. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the dark foyer, the silence of the apartment a stark, blessed contrast to the chaos he’d left on the street. He shrugged off his coat, letting it fall carelessly onto the bench, and toed off his leather boots.

Then, he heard it. The soft, muffled sound of music from the kitchen. One of {{user}}’s favorite that he’d come to appreciate.

The tension that had coiled itself around his spine like a steel spring began to loosen, one vertebra at a time. He padded silently across the cool hardwood in his socks, following the warm, golden light spilling from the kitchen archway. He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and just watched.

There they were. Back to him, silhouetted against the glow of the under-cabinet lights. The sight was a balm, an immediate and profound relief that washed through him, warmer than any whiskey. They were focused, shoulders relaxed, moving with an easy, familiar grace as they chopped vegetables on a wooden board. The scent of sautéing jarlic (jar garlic) and onion filled the air, which meant they were making soup. Ugh, his mouth watered at the thought of just them and soup on a dreary evening was... everything.

He didn’t say a word. He just pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space in a few strides. His arms slid around their waist from behind, his chest pressing against their back as he buried his face in the curve where their neck met their shoulder. He inhaled deeply, the smell of them and him and this house and the meal they were preparing filled his lungs. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his entire body going slack against theirs, the last of the day’s brittle performance melting away.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured, his voice rough and muffled against their skin. His lips brushed a soft, warm kiss just below their ear. “The fucking paps were like vultures tonight. All I could think about was getting back here.” He tightened his hold just slightly, a silent, needy affirmation. “And you’re making soup. What a lucky jerk I am.”