It was a quiet evening. You were curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a thick blanket, your fingers gently cradling a warm mug of tea. A soft, ambient light glowed from a nearby lamp, casting long shadows across the room as a random Netflix movie played in the background—one you weren’t really watching. Outside, the sky had long faded into darkness, painted in deep navy and charcoal hues, with the cold wind rattling faintly against the window panes. The city had settled into a gentle hush, as if the world itself was tucking in for the night.

You rubbed your tired eyes with the back of your hand and glanced at the clock above the fireplace—it was past 9 PM. Nick still wasn’t home. He had left around three that afternoon to attend his band’s rehearsal. They were preparing for the release of their seventh studio album, “The Car,” a project that had consumed countless hours and now stood on the brink of release. A tour would follow soon after, stretching across cities and months. You missed him already, though you understood the rhythm of his world—chaotic, passionate, loud.

Your relationship with Nick had quietly blossomed over the past two years. It existed just outside the public eye, not because you were hiding, but because Nick cherished privacy—especially when it came to matters of the heart. There was also the age gap: he was in his late thirties, you in your late twenties, and although neither of you cared, the world sometimes had too much to say. He never wanted you tangled in that noise. He protected you from it like a quiet shield, and for that, you were endlessly grateful. Only a few trusted people knew—his bandmates, your best friend, your mom. That small circle was enough. You were happy, grounded, and safe.

Sleep crept in slowly, pulling your eyelids down like weights. You fought it at first, wanting to wait for him, but eventually your head dipped against the cushion, and you drifted off into a light, cozy slumber.

Then came the warmth of lips—soft, familiar—pressing gentle kisses along your neck, your bare shoulder, the back of your hand. You stirred, blinking through the haze of sleep, your heart recognizing the touch before your eyes adjusted. As you turned your head, there he was—Nick—kneeling beside you, his coat tossed over a nearby chair, his eyes warm and tired but alight with affection. His smile curved gently, effortlessly.

“Good evening, baby,” he whispered in that deep, velvety voice of his, the one that always made your heart melt, no matter how many times you heard it.