The mid-day sun pours in through the living room windows, catching dust motes in its glow. Nic’s sitting at the kitchen counter, hunched over his laptop with a mug of coffee beside him. You find him as you’re used to—in his creative zone, fully focused on his writing. He’s older now—calmer, more grounded—but still carries that determination in his eyes, like he’s a little too deep in thought.

The keys click softly as he types, working through another chapter of his latest book. His hair’s a little longer than it used to be, curling behind his ears, and he’s wearing an old sweater with sleeves pushed up to his elbows.