Virgin Baby

The night was alive with the pulse of the city, a sprawling labyrinth of glass towers and glittering lights that stretched endlessly into the darkness. From Nixon’s penthouse, perched high above the urban maze, the world below appeared distant, fragmented into patterns of silver and gold. The cool breeze slipped past the open windows, carrying with it the faint scent of rain yet to come and the indistinct murmur of nightlife—taxis weaving through streets, laughter echoing from distant rooftops, and the low hum of a city that never truly slept. Inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was starkly different—elegant yet heavy with an unspoken tension. The spacious living area exuded minimalist sophistication: smooth marble floors reflected the warm glow of strategically placed amber-red lights, creating pools of softness amid the modern austerity. A massive abstract painting dominated the main wall, splashed with strokes of deep crimson and stormy greys that seemed to echo the turmoil simmering beneath the surface. Nearby, a charcoal leather sofa stood neatly aligned, its clean lines interrupted by a scatter of cushions in muted tones. Amid this carefully curated space, Nixon sat hunched slightly in a high-backed leather chair, positioned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the cityscape like a living painting. He wore a black tuxedo, each thread impeccably tailored to contour his lean yet muscular frame. The satin lapels caught the light with a subtle sheen. Despite the formality, the tuxedo clung to a figure wearied by invisible battles fought in dimly lit rooms of the mind. His hair, once the image of deliberate refinement, now lay tousled and disarrayed, as if caught mid-conflict between order and chaos. Nixon’s bluish-grey eyes, sharp and penetrating, bore into the city below, reflecting both the sparkle of distant lights and the storm within. There was an unsettling stillness about him—an edge of sadness wrapped tightly beneath his cool exterior. The soft click of a key turning in the doorframe broke the silence. James entered with an unmistakable swagger. Towering and confident, James cut a striking figure in his tailored navy suit. The fabric clung to his athletic form naturally, sharp creases framing broad shoulders, and his dark hair gleamed under the soft lighting. The shades of his deep olive skin contrasted vividly against the pristine white shirt visible beneath his jacket, and a subtle smirk played on his lips. Behind him came Nina, a radiant contrast—her slender figure swathed in an emerald-green satin dress that shimmered as she moved. The fabric hugged her curves, dipping elegantly around her neckline and trailing down to the floor with graceful fluidity. Her chestnut waves spilled loosely over her delicate shoulders, moving with a natural ease that softened her poised demeanor. Nina’s eyes sparkled with a teasing light as she glanced toward Nixon, sensing the weight that his silence carried. “Oh, look who’s back,” James said, his voice laced with a combination of amusement and provocation, as he stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him. He took a careful scan of the room, his gaze finally settling on Nixon with the unmistakable glint of challenge. Nixon slowly lifted his head, his gaze meeting James’s with a mixture of guarded wariness and quiet defiance. The tension in the room thickened, an invisible thread pulled taut between them like a coil threatening to snap. James’s eyes flicked momentarily to Nina, who stepped forward with a softer approach. “James, don’t talk like this,” she said with a disarming smile, her voice lilting with playful concern. “He must have his personal reasons for disappearing so long, right, Nix?” Nina’s emerald eyes locked with Nixon’s, a spark of warmth breaking through her teasing. A flicker of emotion passed through Nixon’s eyes, something raw and fragile, before he pulled the walls back up. “Shut up,” he muttered, his tone clipped, hiding an ache that spoke louder than words. “Neither of you knows the mess my life has become in these months I was gone.” He raised his hand slowly, the crystal glass catching the low light, fingers delicately cradling the deep red wine. Nixon lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip. The wine’s warmth spread faintly through him, a slight comfort amid the storm of memories that refused to fade. James let out a soft chuckle, though his tone remained teasing. “Well, seeing you like this—sharp in that tuxedo, hair all wild—it looks like you just stepped out of a wedding venue or something.” Nixon flinched at the mention of the word “wedding.” The word hung in the room like a shadow, clinging tightly around the edges of his mind. “Marriage,” he said quietly, his voice laden with bitterness. “Don’t even say that word around me. Just that one word… it’s changed everything. It’s turned my world upside down these past few months.” The room seemed to shrink in the silence that followed, the weight of unspoken stories pressing into every corner. Outside, the city’s relentless buzz seemed distant, the vibrant energy dissipated by the gravity pulling at Nixon’s soul. James and Nina exchanged a look, a mixture of concern and helplessness. They sensed the fortress around Nixon’s heart but couldn’t find a way to breach it. Nixon’s jaw tightened, and faint lines of exhaustion crept across his otherwise sharp features. The soft light from the windows cast long shadows that stretched across his cheekbones, carving out an image of quiet struggle. His tuxedo, a symbol of celebration and formality, now felt less like armor and more like a shroud—a reminder of promises made, vows broken, and dreams that had crumbled. The black fabric clashed sharply with his pale skin, emphasizing the fatigue behind his penetrating eyes. James softened his tone, stepping forward with measured care. “Nix, you can’t hold all of this inside. Whatever it is that’s got you trapped—whatever’s tearing you apart—you need to let someone in. You don’t have to carry this alone.” For a long moment, Nixon’s eyes hardened, then flickered with a flicker of vulnerability and pain. “It’s not that simple, James,” he said quietly, voice shaking with a fragile honesty. “Sometimes, broken pieces refuse to fit back together, no matter how much you want them to.” Nina reached out, her hand resting gently on Nixon’s arm. Her touch was steady and reassuring, conveying a quiet strength. “Sometimes, the pieces only need someone to hold them,” she said softly, “even if they don’t fit perfectly. You don’t have to be whole for us to stand by you.” Nixon’s gaze shifted toward her hand, then back to her eyes—full of warmth and promise. The tension in his posture began to ease, a flicker of hope cutting through the shadows for the first time in months. Outside, the city lights shimmered like distant stars, a constellation of promises and possibilities. The night stretched forward, endless and uncertain, but somewhere between the cold steel of the penthouse and the warm human connection, a fragile new beginning was stirring. The penthouse, with its sleek surfaces and carefully curated luxury, stood as a silent witness to this turning moment—a place where the past’s ghosts whispered softly in dark corners, but where the future’s faint light still held the promise of redemption. James poured himself another glass of wine, the crystal clinking softly in the quiet. After a moment, he set the glass down and exchanged a rare, genuine smile with Nina. Together, they stood quietly, a brief but meaningful support behind the man who had returned from shadows. Nixon sat back in the chair, the wine glass resting lightly in his hand. His gaze returned to the city beyond—the lights flickering with life, mirroring his own flickering spirit. The journey ahead was uncertain, and the scars invisible, but for now, in this room bathed in warm light and quiet understanding, there was the smallest spark of peace.