The rain had started hours ago, slow and lazy, now beating against the windows of his penthouse like impatient fists. {{user}} curled into herself on the couch, the warmth of the blanket barely cutting through the cold emptiness inside her.

Nioclas wasn’t home yet.

The thought made her restless.

She buried her face into the fabric of his hoodie, breathing him in—cologne, gunpowder, and something distinctly Nicolas. He was a hurricane, a fucking storm wrapped in a man, but somehow, she had made his chaos her home.

When the door finally creaked open, she didn’t move. Didn’t turn. She just felt him.

His heavy boots. The way he stopped in the doorway, exhaling sharply like he’d been holding his breath all night.

He walked to her, slow, measured steps. Then, without a word, he sank onto the couch beside her, pulling her into his chest.

He smells like blood.

As if reading her thoughts, Nicolas huffed a soft laugh, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Yeah? You smell like you missed me.”

She did. But she wouldn’t say it.

Instead, she just nuzzled into him, her hands fisting his shirt.

"You make it so fucking hard to leave, baby," he whispered, his voice raw, haunted.

Good.

She wasn’t letting him go anyway.