Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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(Christmas Eve)
The exhaustion hit me the moment I stepped inside the apartment. I was sick of posing like a stupid duck all day in front of blinding lights with about a hundred layers of product caked onto my face. No matter how much I loved my job- and by job, I meant the hefty paycheck that came with it- I had begun to feel absolutely drained each passing week.
"Hey!"
I jumped, an embarrassing yelp escaping my throat as I felt a pair of strong hands around me.
"Did I scare you?" He leaned backwards looking a little concerned.
"I mean, a 'hello' would've made my heart rate spike up a little less but it's alright," I mumbled, sliding my hands under his shirt and pressing my cold fingers against the small of his back. He winced slightly at the frigid contact but pulled me closer.
"Long day?"
"Ugh, the longest," I groaned, trying to mentally block out the fatigue.
"Mmm," he hummed, picking out some loose yarn from my sweater.
"Weren't you supposed to head to HQ today?"
"Yeah, I just got back."
That was when I noticed he was still in his undershirt and trousers, looking arguably more disheveled and exhausted than I felt. I studied his eyes for a few seconds, furrowing my brows in concern.
"Looks like you've been through it too."
He chucked softly, though his shoulders sagged.
"Nothing a warm shower and takeout can't fix."
"Yeah, sure. I'll order."
"I don't deserve you," he mumbled. He kissed my temple before loosening his tie and trudging towards the shower. I stared after him for a second, pondering whether to follow but decided against it. I collapsed onto the couch, scrolling through endless food options until I found something we both liked. I got up to put my duffel bag away and change into something comfy before returning to the couch with my phone.
After some time of mindless scrolling, the shower stopped and soon Marcel emerged in gray thermals and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp and curling at the ends. He looked visibly more relaxed and I breathed a sigh of contentment.
"Smells like you ordered something good," he said, sniffing the air dramatically.
"Well, we're about to find out," I stood up towards the door and as if on cue, the bell rang with our delivery. We carried the bags to the dining table, spreading everything out like a feast. I opened up the plastic containers while Marcel went to get the plates and cutlery from the kitchen.
We scarfed down the first serving like we'd been starved for days, slowing down only after our plates were almost empty to catch our breaths.
Marcel nudged me. "You look like you're finally coming back to life."
