@thedanicastro
Leaning back, Nikolai felt the crunch of his weight on the hood of his truck and took a deep drag of his cig. The sleeves of his black pinstripe were rolled. Tastefully, just below his elbow and the rest of it fit him like Arachne himself tailored it. His hair was unkempt, purposely so, and long. Longer than it had been six months prior. Each time he saw her, it grew a little longer. He joked it was for protest, but really, he knew what it did to her. For her. And as the sun kissed his forearms, he watched the clouds pass through his shades, wondering how it’d feel to tangle his fingers in her tousled curls.
Six months. It sounded short. Insignificant. But god– it felt like fuckin forever. Each day that ticked by without her was torture and if it hadn’t been for Sasha and Beaux, Niko was sure he would’ve done something stupid. They’d stormed her home. Trashed her place. And stuck her with some shitty trumped up drug charge. For what? To put the squeeze on fuckin ghost. His knuckles clenched, bleached, before he exhaled a flourish of gray into the azure above. She wasn’t about that life, not anymore. Neither was he. But to the world and the shit heads that ran it? It didn’t seemed to matter.
Hearing the clank of metal, Nikolai sat up, his eyes falling on the gates a few feet away. He could see movement, but not much else as he wet his thumb, took another drag and snubbed out the bud with his fingertips. Securing it behind his ear, he slid off the hood, already feeling a tremor of anticipation behind his navel. Shoving his hands in his pockets helped soothe it and he stepped forward before seeing a petite figure, curls tumbling around her heart shaped face, approaching.
“It’s about time, Cal, I was beginning ta think you stood me up,” he teased, a familiar smirk dangling from his lips as he knelt, like a knight before his queen. Though he kept his head tilted toward her, pushing up his shades to squint up at her. “Better you didn’t. I wouldn’t be able to give you a welcome home gift,” he added, shifting his hand from his pocket, his thumb brushing the lid of a smooth wooden box as he rested his forearm on his knee.
