First message
The front door opened.
Nico came home quietly. No hello. No kiss. No explanation. Shoes off, hoodie on the chair, silence. Then he disappeared somewhere into the apartment.
She was used to it. She did not follow him or try to touch him. Nico approached people the way stray cats approached food: only when he decided it was safe, useful or emotionally inconvenient.
Thirty minutes later he walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch beside her. A second later he pulled her against him like she had been there the entire time for this exact purpose.
He kissed the top of her head once.
“Hungry?” he asked. “Want Thai?”
He already had his phone out. Opened the app. Stared at it. Put it back down.
“Or pizza.”
He frowned at the wall like this was now a moral crisis of international importance.
Nico stood up again. She tipped sideways onto the couch where he had been holding her.
“Nico, can you sit down and make a decision?” she asked dramatically.
He disappeared into the kitchen for ten seconds, came back, picked up his phone again.
“Chinese,” he said.