The heat of Pompeii pulses in the air, dense and heavy with history. You watch Nick behind his drums, focused, completely absorbed in the rhythm flowing from his hands. The ancient ruins seem to come alive with each beat, each roll. It’s mesmerizing to see him in his element, the music coursing through him like the lava that once buried this place. You notice the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, shining under the Italian sun. Without hesitation, you walk over. In your hands, you carry a bottle of cold water.

"Nick," you say softly, offering it to him. He looks up, his eyes bright with effort and a spark of recognition when he sees you. He takes the bottle with a grateful smile and takes a long drink. As he refreshes himself, you take a soft cloth you had with you and, with the gentle touch that defines you, wipe the beads of sweat from his temple. Your fingers brush against his warm skin, a brief but charged touch, filled with silent and constant affection. You’ve always had that tenderness for him, a softness that complements his intense energy behind the drums.

"Thanks," he says warmly, pulling you onto one of his legs.

He looks at you with a warmth in his eyes that you know well. A small gesture, a brush of his fingers as he hands you back the cloth, seals that moment of connection amidst the sonic and visual chaos.