ONE TO WATCH

DELYAN: PEACHY

Name: Delyan Nikolov

D.O.B: 12/11/1999

Height: 6 ft 0 in (1.83 m)

Weight: 88kg

Sign of the Zodiac: Scorpio

Eye colour: Black

Nationality: Australian – Bulgarian

Occupation: Model

The week before fashion week.

Delyan stood on the rooftop of the loft apartment his girlfriend Violet had booked for him, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. The gothic spires of Milan Cathedral pierced a mauve blanket of clouds, transforming it into blobs of pale orange fluff over the city skyline.

Europe. Thank God!

If there was a silver lining to being without Vi, it was laid out before him. It hadn't been a month since he'd arrived in Italy, but already his memory of Sydney felt distant. He drew a peach vape to his lips; his other arm wrapped tightly around his chest. The sweet hit of nicotine jolted him awake. Tilting his head back, he exhaled and watched his breath turn to vapor.

Get going, Delyan, he told himself, bouncing on his toes to keep warm.

The morning air carried the scent of last night's rain mixed with something sweet and yeasty. Stepping back through the glass trap door into the cozy apartment, he left a trail of clothes scattered across the lush carpet on his way to the bathroom. The image of the girl he'd interviewed the night before lingered in his mind. From the moment he saw her, Delyan knew she'd be moving into the apartment. Charlene–her name was–stunning, green-eyed, Anglo. He stepped into the shower and began a swift masturbation. The heat from the boiling water seeped into his frozen limbs and he came fast, imagining her lips on his cock, her wet blonde hair tangled between his fingers. As he dried off, he inspected his porcelain veneers in the vanity mirror. The symmetry of his new smile still surprised him. He swished a harsh mint-flavored rinse around his mouth and spat into the sink. Vi had always nagged him about taking care of his teeth. He missed her. Reaching into his toiletry bag, he took out a blister pack of antidepressants. The silver strip made a popping sound as he pressed a pill into his hand.

Wrestling a bathrobe across his lean, damp frame, he heard something. Someone was up. The sound of a pot clanging against a counter signaled the kitchen. "Bibiana," he muttered. She was the only person in the household to rise this early, and Delyan knew why.

Damn that woman!

Bibiana, a Venezuelan ex-pageant queen as beautiful as she was self-loathing, had been the first model Delyan accepted into the house. Since moving in, she had done nothing but complain. Fortunately, he could avoid her most days, as his bedroom was on a different floor. Today, however, he decided to confront her, and it couldn't wait.

The apartment was still in shadows as Delyan moved through the pristine space. The polished concrete floor felt icy cold beneath his lightweight ankle socks, and goosebumps popped up on his skin. As he suspected, Bibiana was standing at the stove when he entered the kitchen. She made brief eye contact, greeting him under her breath. "Dobro utro."

"Utro," Delyan nodded.

She was already dressed for the day, her long dark hair pulled tight in a glossy high ponytail, her makeup immaculate.

Delyan opened the fridge and took out a bottle of pulp-free orange juice. Over the sink, he poured a glass, took a sip, and returned the bottle to the fridge. The countertop was strewn with food: eggs, bacon, milk, and a buttery croissant on a side plate.