ALEKSANDER
The lights are on when I get home from the meeting, and I don't have to guess who turned them on. Nico.
I had to do damage control for his mouthing off a few days ago. The stink of vodka and cigar still clings to me.
The house is quiet, the way it used to be before Nico entered it. When I step into the living room, the silence fractures. Not with sound, with him.
He's sprawled across the sofa like he owns the place, one arm hanging off the edge, chest rising and falling in a lazy rhythm. His face looks softer, and I must admit, more handsome. It's almost unrecognisable from the sharp-tongued bastard I’ve been avoiding for days.
Yes, avoiding. I, Aleksander Mikhailov, am ignoring someone.
Unbelievable, I know.
Normally I wouldn't care. I'd let it slide off me, bury i
